A Singular and Whimsical Problem by Rachel McMillan Page A

Stockings, garters, and a lace chemise or two dangled from a string Merinda had tied from over the top of the hearth to the French doors bordering our parlor. Our delicates and dainties were on display for everyone to see. A line of negligees. My best corset!
    â€œMerinda, can’t we send the washing out until Mrs. Malone gets back?” With our client’s arrival imminent, I whisked the underthings from the line and into a basket crooked in my arm.
    I wasn’t fast enough. The bell rang, and I opened the door to greet a well-dressed lady adorned in a dark blue day suit and a feathered hat. She raised an eyebrow at the basket of lingerie. I blushed, hurrying to the kitchen to make tea while Merinda greeted our client and showed her into the sitting room.
    I was still assembling the plate of biscuits when I heard an emphatic “No!” Quickly gathering up the tea service, I returned to the sitting room and began pouring out three cups.
    â€œNo?” The woman recoiled at Merinda’s vehement denial. “But I can pay! I’m told that most of the work you do for immigrant women is done out of the goodness of your hearts: I am a paying client.” The well-dressed lady settled on our doily-ornamented settee, gingerly sipping the hot black tea I supplied her.
    â€œYes, you can pay.” Merinda sounded bored. “But my mind cannot handle your case.”
    I smirked: “Too complex, Merinda?”
    â€œIt’s a cat, Jem,” she hissed at me.
    â€œNot just any cat,” the woman said. “Pepper!”
    Merinda made a sound I cannot emulate in prose. She stretched her legs and narrowed her eyes. “No. No cats! I don’t even like cats!”
    â€œMs. Herringford, please. Please. My husband is Clinton Walters. I will pay you whatever you wish.”
    I took in a hiss of air. Clinton Walters was a shipping magnate—one of Toronto’s most prosperous citizens. But Merinda seemed unimpressed by the name. “You’ll pay for a mangy cat?”
    â€œMerinda.” I leaned forward in the armchair opposite the hearth and spoke carefully. “We could use the money.” I opened my blue eyes wide and bored them into her, willing her to understand what I hesitated to say aloud: Our accounts were close to empty.
    â€œOh, cracker jacks. Very well! We’ll find your wretched cat!”
    â€œBrava!” Mrs. Walters clapped her gloved hands and reached into her pocketbook. “Consider this an advance for your services, Ms. Herringford.” She unscrewed the cap from a heavy pen and wrote out a check for a generous sum, finishing with a bold flourish on her signature.
    Merinda, mumbling something about needles in haystacks, wasn’t paying attention to the check held out to her. I rose instead and accepted it politely.
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Walters,” said Merinda. “I’ll let you know when we find Peepers.”
    â€œPepper,” I said quickly.
    â€œI am much obliged to you. Here.” Mrs. Walters lifted a locket on a long chain from underneath her high collar and opened its delicate clasp. Inside was a portrait of an ebony cat with one ear. “This will help you recognize Pepper.”
    Merinda didn’t even turn as Mrs. Walters rose and I walked her to the door, ducking under our laundry line. “Jem, take her particulars!” Merinda bellowed.
    â€œIs she always like this?” asked Mrs. Walters in a low tone.
    â€œYou’re lucky to find her in such a pleasant mood,” I said.
    I returned to the sitting room, waving the check. “This is quite a tidy sum, Merinda. And how hard can it be to find a cat?”
    Merinda had rather brilliant cat eyes herself, and they were eyeingme skeptically. “Jem, this is a big city. Lots of black cats. We ought to just find the first one that crosses our path and present him to Mrs. Walters.”
    â€œBut she is awfully attached to him. He is her best