Deserted and desolate, like an outpost on the edge of nowhere. As the ferry chugged away, a sleek blue gray adult cat disappeared around the corner of the general store. “Look,” I said to Derek, pointing, “it looks like my kitten.” The only other person to disembark on Rowanberry Island was a middle-aged woman in a worn coat, with a scarf over her head—to protect her permed hair from the ocean breeze, I assumed—and half a dozen shopping bags clutched in her hands. “That’s Pepper,” she said, her voice hoarse. “She’s a Russian blue.” “Is that a breed?” The woman nodded. “She belongs to Gert Heyerdahl. You know, the writer. Usually he takes her south for the winter, but maybe she tucked herself away somewhere and he couldn’t find her when it was time to leave last fall.” “I think she must have had kittens recently,” I volunteered. “At least there’s a kitten living under our porch that looks a lot like that. Maybe Mr. Heyerdahl left her with the caretaker for the winter.”
