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Molly MacRae spent twenty years in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Upper East Tennessee. She was the curator of the history museum in Jonesborugh, Tennessee’s oldest town, and later managed The Book Place, an independent bookstore; may it rest in peace. Her stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Mysterical-E, and Hardluck Stories. She is a winner of the Sherwood Anderson Award for Short Fiction. Her first novel, Wilder Rumors, was published by Five Star Mysteries in May 2007. “Cookies,” a story co-written with S.F. Johnston, will appear in the June 2008 issue of Hitchcock. MacRae is vice president of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and a member of Mystery Writers of America. These days, MacRae lives with her family in Champaign, Illinois, where she pushes books on children at the public library.

My sister Bitsy and I were on speaking terms. Which was a shame, because speaking with Bitsy takes up so much of my time. She can’t confine herself to the basics of any single conversation. She has to back and fill and digress and impress and after awhile I would just rather be doing something else, cleaning the cat pan for instance.

Bitsy came around one morning and threw herself down at the kitchen table, flushed and breathing erratically, but without a strand of hair askew or an eyelash smudged. I ran my fingers through my own as-yet uncombed tendrils and handed her a cup of coffee in a mug sporting the slogan “Eat More Possum.” Bitsy didn’t notice and so I knew she was in a bad way and my morning was probably shot.

“Margaret! I’ve had the most hellish experience!” Bitsy has a rather shrill voice and she speaks with exclamation points. “All the goldfish are gone from our lily pond!” She paused for breath, then blinked at me. “Oh, Margaret, you’re not dressed yet.”

“Well aren’t you afraid someone will drop by without calling first and see you like that?”

“I should think your business would suffer,” she streamed on. “Surely even people who buy used books expect a certain amount of decorum, even if you aren’t upscale with one of those cute little shops downtown. The one on the corner of Maple and Goodwin is for rent, by the way. I mean, a conservative suit or a sensible shirtwaist in a subdued paisley might attract...”

“What does Rodney say?” I like to deflect her before she really gets going about my business, which I figure is none of her business.

Her face crumpled and she wailed, “Rodney is the one who did it!” Then she pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, waved it vaguely about and blew her nose delicately into it. I was fascinated. Where does she pick up these gestures?

“Rodney killed the fish?” I asked, staring at her. This was also fascinating. I’d never thought of Bitsy’s rotund husband as anything more than an insurance salesman. Had he stalked the fish relentlessly and dragged them out of the pond, one by one, leaving them to gasp and gargle on the lawn? Or had he slyly poisoned them all in one mad second of abandon? The mind boggled.

“Well, Bitsy,” I pitched my voice low, trying to sound solemn and concerned. She is, after all, my sister. “What exactly happened?” But I kept picturing fat Rodney furtively casing the fishpond.

“They’ve been disappearing a few at a time,” she hiccupped. “Every morning I go out and ring my little brass bell to let them know I’m coming to feed them. I trained them to do that myself. It’s the way the Japanese do, you know, with their Koi. And the fish all come up blowing little bubbles, only every morning now more and more of them have been missing and this morning they’re all gone!” Bitsy cried, then, because she is very sensitive. Which is a kind way of putting it.

And I sat wondering what this meant for the future of her marriage and for the future of my spare room.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shuddered dramatically. “Oh, I just don’t, well, I just don’t think I could bear going home at this point!”

“No! I couldn’t possibly stay with Leona! She has that house so crowded with dusty frou-frou and all she ever talks about are those damned African violets of hers. Do you really think she won that first prize ribbon or did she pick it up at a garage sale?”

I’d forgotten that Bitsy and our elderly cousin were not on speaking terms. Something to do with a falling out at the Garden Club Flower Show.

“Bitsy, maybe it was some dumb kids playing a nasty joke who took the fish out of the pond.”

“No, Margaret. You know very well the only children in the neighborhood are toddlers (she actually refers to small children as toddlers) and we have that six foot privacy fence around the backyard.”

“Oh.” Then I thought of something else. “Has Rodney been gardening lately?” I asked.

“Oh, Margaret! How can you be so unfeeling?” But I could see that something had occurred to her. Her mouth snapped shut and her eyes narrowed.

Bitsy’s mind at work is an unnerving sight so I got up to make another pot of coffee. Then, being not as insensitive as I wish I sometimes were, I offered Bitsy the spare room.

“Oh, Margaret, you’re sure you don’t mind?” But she was already arranging herself more comfortably and putting her sweater proprietarily over the back of the chair.

“No. I’ll just have to move a few books around in there.” I wondered if I could move them around enough to find the bed in there. I make a reasonable living dealing in used and rare books and my inventory has grown to the point that books have spilled over into most of the rooms of my small house. I know where all the books are, it’s the furniture underneath I sometimes can’t locate.

“Make yourself at home this evening. Gene’s coming by. We thought we’d go see a movie,” I said.

“Well, I’m sure if you explain it to him he’ll understand why you can’t go.”

“What?” I stopped sloshing water around in the sink, not sure I’d heard that quite right.

“You can’t leave me alone! I need someone to talk to! What if Rodney comes by looking for me?”

A scratching noise came at the screen door. The door opened and banged shut again. Bitsy looked around to see who had come in, but missed him, because he’s short, being only an average-size cat. When she turned back to the table he was standing on it looking her in the eye.

“Yeee!” she screeched, upsetting the poor old guy. He jumped back and put his foot in her coffee cup. Luckily the coffee was cold by then or he might have flung it in her face.

“What a horrible looking cat! How did it get in? Get it off the table! You’ll have to sterilize the cup!” she said.

The cat turned his back on her and proceeded to bathe himself in the middle of the table. I opened the refrigerator. He stopped mid-lick and hopped down for his breakfast.

“He looks diseased. Some of his fur is missing. His ears are flat. And why is he all wet, it isn’t even raining.”

I don’t make a point of defending myself or anyone else to Bitsy, but Old Geezer couldn’t begin to do it for himself, not with her attitude.

“He’s old, Bitsy. He looks on this as his retirement home. His legs are wet because there’s dew on the grass.”

She swiveled around to peer at the backyard. Her lips thinned at the sight of grass unmown for several weeks. “Is your mower broken?” she asked tightly.

“No.” I could have told her that I’m slothful and not mowing the grass goes along with not being dressed by 10 AM and pandering to frowzy fleabags. But Bitsy hates it when I’m honest about myself before she is.

Then Gene dropped in. Bitsy likes Gene as much as unmown grass or cats. She must see some cosmic connection between them. I could make a guess that what she finds detestable in all three is their unpredictability. To her, that is a moral fault. Bitsy needs consistency and routine. The unexpected is unpleasant and unwanted. Where I see a mass of delicate wildflowers drifting through my yard, she sees unkempt grass and weeds. Where a cat sees a dust mote that needs wrestling to the ground and all over the living room furniture, she sees disruption and unnecessary commotion. Where Gene saw the chance to rid himself of a high-pressure job designing big buildings he hated, she saw self-destruction and personal failure.

“Oh, hi, Bitsy.” The smile on Gene’s face deflated a little when he saw her. “How are you?”

“My fish were killed!” she snapped, glaring at him as though he were a conspirator in their deaths.

I think Gene visibly jumped back, though not as dramatically as Geezer had when Bitsy first addressed him. “Gee,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

“No kidding, Rodney?” Gene came over and put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a good morning peck on the cheek.

“Well,” said Bitsy. “I see you two have other things on your mind. I will go across and speak to Cousin Leona.”

“Something has occurred to me, Margaret, and I’m going to take a closer look at those African violets of hers. They’ve been looking particularly healthy lately.” She gave wide berth to Old Geezer, then stopped and looked from the cat to Gene. Geezer had beached himself on the rag rug in front of the stove and was scratching a flea. Gene was leaning against the counter, one hand vaguely rubbing his beard.

“Well, Margaret, that solves that problem. Gene can take the cat to the movies this evening.” She sailed on past and out the front door.

We listened for the purposeful slam, which accompanies Bitsy’s exits. Then I told Gene about the change in our evening’s plans and how understanding Bitsy was sure he would be about it. Which he wasn’t particularly until I pointed out that she wasn’t here now and I was. So we focused on that bright spot in our lives for awhile after which Gene straggled off to work with more than a twinkle in his eye and I opened my doors to the new business day.

Bitsy arrived back sometime shortly after noon. I told her there was tuna fish for sandwiches in the refrigerator. It was an unfortunate suggestion from her point of view, but it did stifle conversation.

She ate peanut butter and sat, her eyes fixed on the square of lawn visible through the kitchen window, muttering to herself. I caught the word “bats” but nothing more. Muttering “bats” after a chat with Cousin Leona isn’t extraordinary, and though maybe I should have asked Bitsy how it had gone, I didn’t have several hours to kill.

I went back to work, locating Thurber’s The Thirteen Clocks for somebody’s grandmother, selling The Happy Hollister’s and the Whistle Pig Mystery to two small boys and in between packing a box with half a dozen P.G. Wodehouse first editions for shipment to a customer in Michigan. Then, before I forgot, I went to excavate the bed in the spare room, being careful not to confuse my sophisticated retrieval system.

The lawn mower started up. Glancing out the window I saw Bitsy attacking the backyard. From the look on her face she was a woman with a mission. I left her to it.

I can’t say I didn’t enjoy my evening with Bitsy. We made popcorn and sat at either end of the sofa, facing each other, eating it out of big bowls and laughing, something we hadn’t done together since we were teenagers. We hadn’t done it often then, either. Her bout with the backyard had left her in good spirits, probably deluding her into thinking she was making progress towards her life-long goal of setting me straight. I saw no harm in letting her dream on.

She even kept her feet up on the sofa when Gene showed up with “Bringing up Baby” on tape and sat down between us. I think she was encouraged because he didn’t bring a six-pack with him and he kept his shoes on.

Then Rodney arrived. Bitsy’s mouth got small. She stood up so she could turn her back on him.

“Evening, Gene, Margaret,” said Rodney. He pulled a handkerchief out of his sans-a-belt pocket and wiped his forehead. He took several deep breaths. He studied the floor in front of his toes, which came into view just beyond the edge of his belly. Then he raised his head and pursed his lips momentarily before speaking to his wife.

He was masterful. I hadn’t known what it takes to make an insurance salesman. But Rodney has it. And it worked on Bitsy. Within minutes they were clinging to each other, the near-wreckage of their wedded bliss sweeping past, forgotten.

“Oh, Rodney, I knew it couldn’t be you,” Bitsy sniffled into his shoulder. “Margaret must be right, it must have been some nasty children.”

“That’s alright, Honey Pot. You know I like watching you feed the little critters. In fact, I bought you some more. They’re not very big, yet, but they’ll grow. There’s the prettiest little orange fantail with white spots, and a couple of those gold pop-eyes you like. You come on home now and give them names.”

They spooned their way out the front door. Gene and I followed and we all stood on the porch in the mellow light of the moon while Bitsy went on saying goodbye. Someone should have taken a picture then, of the four of us standing there exuding warmth, companionship, pleasure, and used it as an advertisement for some cozy beverage, or saved it for five or ten minutes to give us a few laughs after what happened next.

As we smiled and the men shook hands again and Bitsy was saying something about artichoke hearts, Old Geezer trotted up the front steps. He dropped a small parcel on Gene’s shoe and gave his old cat’s version of a mew.

The crickets ceased to chirp. Ourselves silent, as one, we bent forward, to stare at Gene’s foot. We focused on the orange body with fantail and white spots nestled there on his laces. Bitsy was the only one to comment.

Between finger and thumb, Rodney picked up the fish. He held it up and looked from Gene to me to Old Geezer, who had calmed slightly and was shaking, one by one, his wet legs.

I cut her off. “I think Gene and Geezer make a handsome couple, don’t you?”

“They’d better make it a permanent arrangement!” she snapped. And she and Rodney stalked off into the night.

Leona tottered over from next door while Gene and Geezer were getting into Gene’s car.

“I’ve got something for her.” She produced a plastic bag from her apron pocket. “It’s bat guano,” she said. “I use it on my African violets. Thought she might like some, but the way she rushed out muttering this afternoon I didn’t have a chance to give it to her. What’s Gene doing with that cat?”

Gene was trying to get Old Geezer to sit down in the passenger seat of his beautiful dark blue Lamborghini. Geezer wanted to stand in the driver’s seat with his paws on the steering wheel.

“They look good together,” said Leona. “They both have a moth-eaten look about them, but they look damned handsome in that car.”

“You should spend more time with him,” she said, looking at me slyly. “I like him. How about giving Bitsy this bat guano next time you see her. She isn’t speaking to me, apparently.”

“Actually, Cousin Leona, I don’t think she’s speaking to me right now, either.”

She gave me a little push towards the car. She stayed to wave as the three of us drove off.