Bellingham Mysteries 3: Black Cat Ink (2 page)

Nick glanced over. “What do you think happened to it?”

“I think the Halloween cat skinner came back to town.”

Chapter Two

One thing Bellinghamsters love is their pets. They dote on their dogs, they dig their Indian runner ducks and backyard chickens, and adore their miniature goats. But in terms of feline-friendly municipalities, Bellingham is a little piece of heaven for
Felis silvestris catus,
the common house cat. Perhaps that is why the Halloween cat skinnings of three years prior caused such collective outrage.

Even die-hard dog lovers distributed posters and door-belled, asking people to come forward with any information that might be useful in apprehending the person responsible for removing large sections of fur from at least five black cats. Three of the animals died from their injuries, and the other two survived, but with terrible scars.

The cat skinner was never arrested, although an anonymous police officer claimed that they more or less knew the identity of the culprit but couldn’t acquire enough evidence to convict him.

A piteous and deafening yowl broke Peter’s concentration. Beside him, on the padded bench in the waiting room of the Cat Clinic, sat a tall, skinny man covered with tattoos and pierced in virtually every fashionable area—most likely including his nipples from the way that the fabric ruched at the man’s chest. On his lap he held a cat carrier containing an angry calico. The skinny man looked vaguely embarrassed and said, “She hates to get her shots,” apparently by way of apology.

Peter tapped his pen on the side of his notebook. Beside him, Nick leafed through an issue of
Cat Fancy
with a perplexed expression. They waited together while a senior veterinarian was taking a look at the kitten and advising a course of treatment for her.

The kitten, apparently, was a
her.

Not only a
her
but a five- or six-week-old
her.

He flipped his notebook closed and stared at the assortment of cat magazines fanned out across the coffee table in the tiny waiting room. A veterinary assistant in blue scrubs called Tattoo Guy and Angry Calico into a waiting room, leaving Nick and Peter alone with the kindly-looking receptionist and rack upon rack of special-diet cat food. When his phone vibrated, Peter jumped. Nick glanced over the glossy pages at him questioningly.

“Phone call. My editor,” Peter said.

“He probably wonders why you’re not at work,” Nick commented.

Peter nodded wearily and stepped outside to answer. The sun had fully risen, but its light had yet to penetrate the layers of fog that blanketed the normally quiet side street, temporarily busy with morning commuters heading toward the downtown core.

“Hey, Doug,” Peter said.

“Hey, did you find the big penis?”

“Penis…?” It took him a moment to understand what Doug was talking about. His alley patrol in search of the missing sculpture seemed like it had happened days ago. “Sorry. No luck on that one.”

“Don’t suppose you’d mind coming to work, then? I need somebody to drive the truck.”

Peter winced. Long ago—well, all right, eight years ago—when he’d first started working for the
Hamster
, his duties had not only included writing articles but distributing the rag around the city. Winning a Tom Renner award had gotten him out of driving detail, but somehow every couple of months he ended up back behind the wheel of the old truck, slogging papers in the rain.

“What happened to Shawn?” Shawn was their current distro driver. A dreadlocked half-Japanese guy with a winning smile and dubious personal entertainment habits.

Doug sighed. “Shawn came in this morning and told me he had to get out of town for a while cause he owes some people some money.”

“Which people? What money?”

“I didn’t care to know,” Doug remarked. “All I do know is I can’t hump those papers anymore. Not since my hernia.”

Now it was Peter’s turn to sigh. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in Doug’s hernia—but Doug milked it an awful lot. “Isn’t there anybody else?”

“Everyone else has appointments.”

“Okay, I’ll do it, but I’ll be a little while. I’m at the vet.”

This brought a politely nosy inquiry from Doug. Peter explained the circumstances, and Doug let out a low whistle.

“Are you sure it’s the cat skinner? Because that would cause a real uproar in the city, and I’d want to have a veterinarian’s quote or a police statement before I ran the story.”

“That’s what I’m waiting for.” Peter glanced through the window and saw the friendly blonde vet talking to Nick. Their expressions mirrored each other. A study in seriousness.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll be in to do the distro later.”

Peter snapped his phone shut and went back in. He entered just in time to hear Nick explaining once again that
she
wasn’t his cat.

Dr. Nagelschneider nodded with what could only be described as resigned understanding. She was a middle-aged woman with straw-blonde hair and tan, weathered features. Both the texture of her skin and her slight Southwestern twang revealed her to be a transplant to the area.

“Even if she isn’t your cat, she certainly is a hoot,” she said. Then spying Peter returning, she added, “You must be Dad.”

Peter nodded, though
she
wasn’t his cat either. Someone had to take responsibility—at least until she was well enough to go to the shelter.

“What was her name?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Peter said. “I just found her today.”

“So you don’t know how she got the wound on her back?”

Peter shook his head. “It looked like the skin had been removed.”

“Well, it looks to be deliberate, so I’ve informed the police about this,” the vet said. “Just to give them a heads-up. They’re on their way over here.”

Dr. Nagelschneider watched his reactions carefully as she spoke, and Peter realized, with shock, that she was looking for signs of guilt. Logically, he supposed that her suspicion was only natural. Probably a fair number of injuries to animals were inflicted by the people who brought them in. Still, Peter felt a slight prickle of offense at coming under such scrutiny.

“I’d be happy to talk to the police,” Peter reassured her. “But what I really want to know is if she’s going to be okay.”

“Oh sure, she’s going to be fine. Kittens have very loose skin, so we’ll be able to sew her up all right. We’d like to keep her overnight and give her some antibiotics and fluids since she’s pretty dehydrated. But you’re free to take her home in the morning.” Her eyes flicked between Nick and Peter. “If your plans were to take her home, that is.”

“I—” Nick began, but Peter cut him off like a teenager in a tricked-out Mazda.

“We sure are.” He grabbed Nick’s hand, lacing his fingers through Nick’s thicker, browner ones. Nick seemed baffled by his sudden public display of affection but didn’t pull away. “At least until we can find a good home for her.”

“That’s really generous of you fellas. Not a lot of people would do that.” Dr. Nagelschneider glanced past Peter, out the front window. “The police are here.”

Seeming to stiffen slightly at the sight of the police officer getting out of her car, Nick asked Peter, “Do you want me to stay?”

“It’s not necessary. I have to go drive the
Hamster
truck this afternoon anyway.” Peter released Nick’s hand. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Right, I’ll see you there,” Nick paused then, cracked a sardonic smile, and added, “
Dad
.”

With that, he fled the scene.

Like most other members of the Bellingham Police Department, Officers Patton and Clarkson were known to Peter. The very same officers had been first on the scene of Shelley Vine’s murder. They looked very much the same. Officer Patton still sported the same dykey mullet, and Officer Clarkson’s heavy moustache remained eternal, as if stamped out of some mold made in the mid seventies when
CHiPs
had still been popular.

They exchanged pleasantries. Officer Patton inquired about Nick, and Peter said he was doing great. Both police officers nodded at him as though it had been their duty to check up on the happiness level Bellingham’s premier young gay couple.

Officer Clarkson said, “Dr. Nagelschneider tells us you found a cat.”

Peter explained where he had found the kitten, omitting the fact that he’d been heavily engaged in skulking through the alley minutes beforehand.

“And you didn’t see anyone there?” asked Officer Patton.

“Not even a jogger,” Peter replied.

She nodded, jotted something down in her notebook. “What were you doing in the park that early? It’s pretty far away from Wildcat Cove.”

Peter thought, ah, small-city police. They
do
remember where you live.

“Riding home from a party.” Peter supplied the excuse he had prepared. “Hey, do you mind if I ask a question?”

Both officers glanced up at him. Peter took this to be assent and said, “Have you seen any other instances of this kind of cat abuse recently?”

Strangely, Officer Clarkson chuckled. The receptionist, who had been silently eavesdropping on their whole conversation, shot him a glare so cold that Peter felt his testicles shrinking back up into his body.

Shaking with outrage, she stood and said, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t see what’s funny about that.”

“I’m sorry. I just thought Mr. Fontaine was going to ask me about the statue that went missing from the university campus.” The officer took off his hat, scratched his head. “I should have known you’d want the inside scoop on this. This is the third incident that veterinarians have reported to us this month, but that’s not unusual for the month of October.”

“Three reported incidents means there are probably more,” the receptionist said. Now that she’d entered the conversation, she’d apparently decided to stay.

Officer Clarkson reapplied his hat and turned to address the receptionist directly. “I already spoke with the chief, and he told me that we’ll be issuing a warning to the public later this afternoon. It should be in the
Herald
and on KGMI first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think it’s the same sicko as before?” Peter asked.

“Hey, who’s interviewing who here?” Officer Patton cut in before her partner could answer.

Peter held up his hands in mock defense. “I’m just curious. I know that the police had a suspect before.”

“It’s not the same one,” Officer Clarkson said. Peter focused on him, since he seemed in a repentant and therefore extremely forthcoming mood after sticking his foot in his mouth.

“How can you be sure?”

“Because that individual died very shortly after the investigation began.” Officer Clarkson cast a glance at the receptionist—who had finally returned to her seat—and then to Peter.

“Can you tell me who that individual was? Now that he’s dead, I mean?” Peter caught himself unconsciously leaning in closer to the officer. He couldn’t help it. Juicy tidbits of information drew him like… Well, like a cat to catnip.

Officer Patton stepped forward, probably to save her partner from divulging anything else. She said, “We have no new suspects at this time, but we encourage the public to come forward with any information they might have regarding this matter. You have a nice day now, Mr. Fontaine.”

Chapter Three

After giving his statement to the police, Peter rode his bike the seven blocks to the
Hamster’s
offices in downtown Bellingham. He picked up keys to the
Hamster’s
white Toyota—the bed was already full of bundled papers—and checked the delivery route. It had been a few months since he’d delivered and even longer since he’d driven out into the county for any reason other than to go to the ski area.

His mind roved as he jiggered the old truck into gear.

Snuggled up against the largely undefended Canadian border and bounded on the west by the Strait of Juan de Fuca, Whatcom County is a place of extremes. Tie-dyed liberals from the university in Bellingham keep hope alive, facilitating the country’s longest-running peace vigil—forty years old and still going strong—while out in the county the Aryan Nations holds routine meetings, complete with target practice. The one thing these disparate elements can agree upon is that the mainstream media comprise nothing but propaganda, provocation, and lies.

Enter the
Hamster,
a weekly paper that, while slanting to the left at least manages to deliver the truth.

Someone’s idea of the truth, anyway.

It always amazed Peter that anyone outside of rock-throwing distance of the university would be interested in Doug’s conspiracy-theory-laden editorials or his leftist views on watersheds and zoning laws.

But the
Hamster
had a strong readership in the county. Right on the outskirts of the city of Lynden—a municipality so religious that it still outlawed dancing—were vineyards producing award-winning wines and dairy farms crafting artisanal cheese. Farther into the mountains, near Glacier, survivalist militia types shared solar-shower tips with off-the-grid environmentalist homesteaders. Rifle ranges stood within sight of alternative no-kill animal-rescue organizations.

He drove from restaurant to coffee shop to corner store throughout greater western Whatcom county setting out bundles of free papers among the stacks of other free papers, the
Thrifty Nickel
,
Whatcom Watch
, and
Whatcom Independent Tribune
—the
Hamster’s
rival for local news—and real-estate brochures and a paper devoted entirely to buying and selling horses. More than one person asked him about Shawn’s whereabouts, some with looks of weedy desperation that gave Peter the distinct impression that Shawn had been using this route as a distro for his own sideline alternative pharmaceutical business. He wondered who exactly their delivery driver owed so much money to. Not any of these people, certainly. These were his regular customers, not his supplier.

Five hours later, with a sore back and dirty hands, Peter found himself heading west again toward Bellingham. He pulled over at Nugent’s Corner to drop off a bundle of
Hamsters
and get a coffee. When he returned, a young woman was standing by the truck, tucking a note under the windshield wiper.