I didn’t see her again until after lunch. We ran into each other in the bathroom.

“They’re letting us go early today,” she said as we were washing our hands together. “Due to the Super Bowl this weekend. Long lines for beer, I guess. I’ve scheduled you to work next week, so we can do what we planned,” she finished.

“Why not today when everyone’s gone?” I asked, leaving the water running to cover our voices, just in case anyone was loitering outside.

“Because I think it’s only the staff that’s leaving early,” she answered.

“I see.” No, it would not be a good idea for us to snoop around with Milo and his cronies on the premises. Someone else entered and we had to end our conversation.

Barbara came by about an hour later and told us to go on home. Nobody disagreed. As I was getting my stuff together, I noticed several men entering the front door. Some of them I had seen before, going into the locked left door. Others I had seen only as pictures in Sergeant Ranson’s apartment. They all had that look about them, dressed very well, but in a manner that wasn’t the standard corporate look. Too much gold and colors that were a little too bold. They dressed to please themselves. All except the young guy I had seen before. He still looked rumpled and out of place. Yet he was obviously here without a gun pointed at his head. Something about him said fallen accountant. Again I wondered what his story was.

I got to talk to Barbara just long enough to wish her luck at Patrick’s play. I left open the meaning of luck at a seventh-grader’s school play. She laughed and smiled and was gone until Monday. This left me with a long Friday evening and a longer still Saturday and Sunday with nothing wonderfully enticing to do.

It was such a perfect day, I couldn’t face the idea of going home. So I decided to head to Audubon Park, skirt, heels, and all. People were out strolling around. It was the end of January, everyone had been grinding since New Year, and our next big holiday, Mardi Gras, was a long way off. The city was coming up from the winter doldrums for a collective gulp of fresh air.

I realized that I was humming “Fall” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. I decided to tone down since I was walking toward one of the fountains and there were more people about. There were three boys playing with something in the water, probably a boat. I guessed they were from some parochial school since they all wore gray pants and white shirts, with blue blazers discarded off to one side. There were a number of old men and women scattered around on the benches. Off to the left there were two people engrossed in a chess game. I smiled when I realized that they were both women.

Then I heard a voice off through some trees to my right say, “Hey, stop it. You’ll drown that kitten.” It was aimed at the boys. And I was now close enough to hear a frantic “mew.” I stalked up behind them, saw that there was a kitten in the fountain and that they wouldn’t let it climb out. I grabbed the boy nearest to me by the belt and upended him into the water. The other two started to run away. I got one by the belt and the other by his collar. He got away but left me with part of his shirt. I tossed the second boy into the water and reached down and scooped up the kitten. It was wet and shivering. I used one of the blue blazers to dry it off.

“Shall I or do you want to?” said the voice that I had first heard. I looked up from the kitten. It was Cordelia; she had caught the third boy.

“Go ahead, make my day,” I replied. She dropped him in the water. The first boy was climbing out and complaining about my using his blazer for the kitten. I put my foot on his shoulder and pushed him back in. Both boys made satisfying splashes.

Cordelia and I grinned at each other. Kitten rescuers extraordinaire. She was wearing old faded blue jeans, an off-white sweater a few sizes too big, and a beat-up brown leather jacket. I am very rarely in the company of straight women who are dressed, shall we say, more comfortably than I am. She wore no makeup and had large hands and feet, somehow reminding me of a lion with its huge paws. When she walked she had a quality of stepping with a surefootedness most people, particularly women used to high heels, don’t have. It was the grace of a lion padding along her jungle path.

“Hey, give me my jacket back,” one of the boys yelled as we started to walk away.

“Wait a second, this bag holds everything,” Cordelia said. She started rummaging around in the gray duffel bag she was carrying. With a triumphant “aha” she pulled out a pair of gi pants. I bowed the proper bow to show her that I knew that they were karate pants and I threw the jacket down. I almost threw it in the water, but I figured the kid might need something dry to wear.

“Don’t be too impressed,” she said as we transferred the kitten, “I’ve only been doing it about four months.”

“What style?” I asked.

“Gogu. You?”

“Shotokan.”

“How long?” she asked.

“Eight years. We should spar sometime.”

“Haven’t we already?” she said in a manner that Jane Austen would have described as arch.

“Touché. Speaking of which, how’s Karen?”

“Spitting nails. At small children.” I laughed, because it was something that I could see Karen doing. “Can I carry the kitten for a while?” she asked.