No Escape Claws

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The first thing I saw when I made it to the back wall of the storage unit was Elvis, sitting on top of a wooden casket. He looked at me, cocking his head to one side, and his expression seemed to say, Look what I found!

“Good grief, what’s that doing in here?” I said.

He didn’t answer. Not that I expected him to, seeing as he was a small, black cat and not the swivel-hipped King of Rock and Roll.

I reached up and ran my hand over the smooth surface of the long wooden box. When I’d bought the contents of the storage space—and a second one three doors down—I’d given things a cursory check, just enough to feel comfortable about making an offer. The fact that the owner of the building had taken that offer without haggling had made me wish I’d offered a little less. At the time, I hadn’t spotted the coffin—that’s definitely what it was—sitting on several wooden packing crates by the end wall.

“Hey, Sarah, you all right?” my brother Liam called. He’d come along as muscle to help me load my SUV and the trailer it was pulling. He’d been in town for several days, consulting on the harbor front development project.

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