Catnapped! (15 page)

Monday

M
onday morning started with a sting. Helen was at Dee’s cattery at six a.m., under-coffeed, covered in cat hair and choking on vinegar fumes.

“Monday morning was wash day for my grandma,” Helen said. “But she never washed cats.” She wondered what her small, practical St. Louis grandmother would make of these coddled cats.

“Red and Chessie have to look pretty at the Hasher School Pet Appreciation Day this morning,” Jan said.

The vinegar fumes from the rinse stung Helen’s eyes. Worse than the vinegar sting was the bitter knowledge that she and Phil had failed—twice. His theory about the cat medallion found near Mort’s body was dead wrong. Judge Lexie had never been to the Coventry cat show. And Helen’s suspicion that Jan was hiding Justine was equally off base.

Where did that bloodred medallion come from? Who dropped it? Was the unknown print on it from Mort’s killer? If the private eyes knew that, they’d be closer to solving the case.

They had no leads for Margery’s case, either. Phil wasn’t even sure Zach had been murdered.

All Helen could do this morning was wash cats, talk to Jan and hope she could save two innocent women trapped in jail.

Helen was rinsing the last of the vinegar while Red watched her with those hypnotic copper eyes. “So, how did our two beauties do at the show Sunday?” she asked.

“Not bad,” Jan said as she shouted over the dryer. Chessie’s flat fur looked comical, but Helen would never laugh at the proud beauty.

“Chessie did better than Red,” Jan said. “She got six bests and two seconds.”

“What’s that mean?” Helen asked.

“Chessie was Best Cat in six judges’ rings, and Second-Best Cat in two rings. That’s at an eight-ring show,” she said. “Dee is campaigning her for a national win, and Chessie came close to sweeping the show.

“Red ended in the top ten with three bests, two thirds, a fifth and two sevenths.”

“You lost me again,” Helen said.

“Red won Best Cat in three Premiership Class rings, Third-Best Cat in two rings, one Fifth Best and two Seventh Bests.”

“Oh,” Helen said. “Red deserves better.”

She gently lifted the Persian out of the sink and wrapped her in a warm towel.

Helen dried the cat’s feathery ears with a cotton ball and hoped she wouldn’t hear the next sentence. “I think Red’s prettier than Chessie,” she said. “She looks like a bonfire, with her copper eyes and flaming fur.”

Jan turned on the hair dryer and started drying Chessie’s coat. “Chessie has a good shot at a national win this year,” she said. “Partly it’s her color. Whites require extraobsessive upkeep and they look dazzling when they’re well cared for. Plus Chessie puts on more of a show with her pole-dancing routine.”

Red nuzzled Helen’s hand with her broad head, and Helen gently washed her face with a warm cloth.

“It’s sort of like having two beautiful daughters,” Jan said. “You tell yourself you love them equally, but your heart still plays favorites. I want them both to win, but realistically, I know Chessie has a better chance.”

“What if Red doesn’t get a national win this year?” Helen asked.

“Dee will probably retire her. She’s planning to breed Chocolate and Mystery again, and she’ll see if they produce any show-quality kittens.”

“What will happen to Red after she retires?”

“We should be so lucky,” Jan said. “She’ll hang out here in the cattery with her pals. Dee, for all her faults, loves her cats, and Red will have a good life.”

“Tell me about this Pet Appreciation Day at Hasher elementary,” Helen said. “Why is Dee doing this?”

“We do a couple of educational assemblies every year,” Jan said. “Gold Cup believes in community outreach. It’s good for the fancy, and it’s good for Dee. The school is in Plantation, a rich community, and the kids’ parents are potential kitten customers. Pet Day really is educational. You’d be surprised how many kids are afraid of cats or dogs. The assembly teaches them how to act around animals.

“The school has a vet talk about proper pet care, an American Kennel Club breeder brings some show dogs, Dee will have her cats and there’s a service dog to teach the children pet safety, including the best way to approach strange animals. Lexie, the show judge, is there as a bonus. The kids love to hear how cats are judged. They like to know that even animals get grades.”

Both cats were combed and sleepy from the warm dryers. Helen and Jan fitted them with their coffee-filter collars to protect their clean ruffs, and carried them to their sunny, carpeted window shelves for a snooze.

Soft gray Mystery patted Helen’s leg as she passed and said,
“Merp?”

“You’re right, little cutie,” she said, picking her up. “You’ve been neglected all weekend. How about a good combing and some playtime?”

“Same for you, Chocolate,” Jan said.

The two cats sat on adjoining grooming tables while Helen and Jan petted, combed and scratched them. Mystery was in a playful mood and batted the comb. Chocolate closed her eyes and smiled, a contented woman luxuriating at a spa.

“They really need exercise,” Jan said.

Helen and Jan set both cats on the tile floor and brought out the teaser wands. Chocolate and Mystery jumped and batted at the wands, then chased each other around the pet carriers. Midnight heard the thumps and giggles and padded in to join the two cats. Now all three were romping.

Like nannies in a park, Jan and Helen watched the cats play. Helen wanted an answer for the question Jan had left hanging on Saturday.

“At the show, you started to tell me why you don’t like Lexie, but then lunch was over and we were overwhelmed with work.”

“I can hardly look at that woman,” Jan said, her blue eyes narrowing. “She has no business being a judge. She was charged with animal cruelty.”

“What? What did she do?” Helen asked.

“She had a fat cat.”

“That’s cruel?” Helen asked, and felt a flash of guilt. Her vet had warned her that Thumbs was two pounds overweight.

“I guess the term is ‘morbidly obese,’” Jan said. “Nobody in the fancy knows, or Lexie would never be a judge. I only know because I heard about it from my grandparents. They live in Dobbsville, North Carolina, in the Research Triangle. This happened in the mid-eighties, before I was born, and before that part of North Carolina was flooded with newcomers.

“Dobbsville is a pretty little town not too far from Raleigh,
though back then, it was out in the country. Lexie’s cat, King Tut, was the talk of the town. Tut was a sweet gray shorthair who was supposed to weigh maybe fifteen to eighteen pounds. But Lexie had a sales job then and her territory included a huge chunk of the Southeast coast, from North Carolina all the way down to the tip of Florida, so she was on the road for days at a time.

“Rather than pay someone to feed Tut, hire a sitter or even get a pet feeder on a timer, Lexie used to open a twenty-pound bag of cat food and leave the lid up on the toilet for the three or four days she traveled.

“She joked that the toilet was her cat’s emergency water supply.”

“Yuck,” Helen said. “We have to keep the lid down to keep Thumbs out of the commode.”

“That’s what any responsible pet person does,” Jan said. “Lexie had plenty of money to spend on that fancy car of hers, but she neglected her cat. And now she’s a judge! It just makes me sick.

“Cats get lonely, too, and poor Tut sat around and ate and ate,” Jan said. “He could barely move. He’d crawl over to sun himself by the sliding glass door. The neighbors saw he was eating himself to death and complained to the local humane society.

“Tut was taken into custody and the vet examined him. He said Tut was morbidly obese—he weighed twenty-six pounds. The poor cat couldn’t clean himself properly and he had bedsores because he could hardly walk.

“Lexie was charged with animal cruelty, but the charges were dropped when Tut died of a heart attack. The story made the paper, too, the
Dobbsville Guardian.
”

“That’s awful,” Helen said.

“That’s what everyone in Dobbsville said. A couple of years later, Lexie got herself promoted to a desk job and became active in the fancy. First she bred cats and then, nearly fifteen years later, she retired as a breeder and became a Gold Cup show judge. Most
of the Dobbsville people who were around when she was charged with cruelty had either moved or died, like my grandparents. But Lexie’s neighbor, Mrs. Pickett, was horrified.

“She told Lexie she was going to write to the Gold Cup association,” Jan said, “and they wouldn’t let her be a show judge with her history. Lexie hired a lawyer and threatened to sue Mrs. Pickett if she sent that letter, and she backed off. The poor lady was eighty-two years old. A lawsuit would have ruined her.”

“But doesn’t Gold Cup do background checks on its judges?” Helen asked.

“They do,” Jan said. “But this was ten years ago, and the Dobbsville paper’s archives weren’t online yet.” Ten years was an eternity in a fluid society.

“They’re available now,” Jan said. “I think the paper just put its archives online in the last year.”

“Did Mort know that Lexie was charged with animal cruelty?” Helen asked.

“Oh yes,” Jan said. “I told him. But Mort never used it against her and made me promise I wouldn’t tell, either. He was a more-flies-with-honey type. He hated blackmailers.

“Instead, Mort gave her financial advice. He was determined to help his Justine win, but he’d never stoop to blackmail.”

And that kind gesture failed when Mort lost the judge’s money, Helen thought. Now Justine’s missing and may never be shown unless we find her.

“Mort was so good and generous. That’s why I love—loved—him. Well, I guess I still love him. I miss him so much. We had a wonderful life planned. I was going to devote myself to the care and showing of Justine and my Persians. We were going to travel the circuit and go to all the major shows. All those dreams are gone now.”

Midnight raced by, chased by Mystery. Jan scooped up the black cat. “Time for your combing, sir,” she said, “or you’ll get
mats.” Midnight glowered at her with his copper eyes, but Jan carried him to a grooming table.

“Helen, will you clean the litter boxes? Then we have to go to Hasher School.”

“Sure,” Helen said.

She took her purse, ducked into the bathroom and called up the
Dobbsville Guardian
archives. She found a story from August 31, 1986, that Lexie Deener was charged with multiple counts of animal cruelty involving a cat named King Tut. Three weeks later, a follow-up story said that the charges were dropped against Ms. Deener.

The paper didn’t mention that the cat had died.

Helen called Phil, excited by her find. “We’ve got a break at last,” she said, and told him about Lexie.

“It’s a start,” he said.

“A start!” Helen said. “It’s more than that.”

“How?” Phil said. “How do we prove the judge killed Mort? And what’s that got to do with the cat medallion?”

“Nothing,” Helen said, as her excitement died.

That’s what they had once again. Nothing.

Monday

“V
alerie Cannata!” Helen said. “What’s an investigative reporter doing at a grade-school pet-appreciation day?”

The Channel 77 star was professionally glamorous in a black sheath dress and tailored beige blazer. Her makeup and dark red hair were perfect.

Helen felt like a frump after a morning of washing cats. She picked a bit of Chessie’s fur off her T-shirt. “Pardon the pun, but you don’t usually do fluff.”

“My new producer is an animal lover,” Valerie said, her smile too bright. “His daughter, Paige, is in the sixth grade here at Hasher School.”

“Oh,” Helen said, and hoped that syllable sounded sympathetic. Valerie was a hard-hitting reporter whose stylish clothes and flawless makeup tempted the unwary to underestimate her. Her exposés had helped launch Coronado Investigations.

“Why are you here?” Valerie asked.

“I’m cat wrangling for Chatwood’s Champions,” Helen said. “This is my associate, Jan Kurtz.”

“I need your help,” Valerie said. Helen was surprised that the
tough reporter sounded so desperate. “I don’t know anything about pets. I’m—I’m scared of dogs, ever since one bit me when I was eight. I’d rather face a lawyer than a Labrador. My producer expects me to get at least three features here.”

“Stick with us,” Helen said. “We’ll show you the stories.”

Valerie spoke quickly to her photographer, a big, ponytailed man built like a bowl of melting ice cream. He nodded, and they followed Helen and Jan into the school cafeteria.

“If you want an easy interview, start with the cats,” Helen said. “Our employer, Deidre Chatwood, breeds prize Persians. Once you get Dee talking about her cats, your biggest problem will be shutting her up.”

“Good,” Valerie said. “We can always edit her. Who else?”

“The AKC dog breeder is supposed to be here shortly,” Jan said. “He’ll be good.”

“Okay,” Valerie said, drawing out the word.

“Unless you want to skip him,” Jan said. “The other participants are at the tables along the window. How about the hot guy with the brown hair? Dr. Bob is a local vet.”

“Very telegenic,” Valerie said.

“Especially the muscles,” Jan said, and winked. “Dr. Bob loves to talk about pet care.”

She nodded toward a sweet-faced brunette with a brown pug. “I know you’ll get cute video at Jill’s pet safety session with the service dog, Barney. He’s the tiny pug wearing the little red vest. He may even help you conquer your fear of dogs.”

“Those are good starts,” Valerie said, but she eyed the pocket-sized pug doubtfully.

Helen saw Lexie’s black Jaguar glide into the parking lot. “Oh, wait,” she said. “I almost forgot. Lexie Deener, the cat-show judge. Show judges are natural teachers. She’ll tell you all about the Gold Cup Cat Fanciers’ Association.”

“Perfect,” Valerie said.

Why is Jan glaring at me? Helen wondered, then remembered Jan hated Judge Lexie—for good reason.

Get over it, she thought. My friend needs a story.

“I’ll introduce you to Dee now,” Helen said. “She goes on first, about ten o’clock. That’s her up front.”

Dee and her cats made a theatrical picture on the cafeteria’s little stage. Dee wore a crisp white pantsuit with a flame-red scarf, the same colors as her cats. Helen and Jan had set up Red’s and Chessie’s show cages with the fancy curtains and showy rosettes on a table next to her.

“What beautiful cats,” Valerie said. As if she’d pressed a button, Dee launched into a talk about Red’s and Chessie’s awards, their bloodlines and their future.

Helen and Jan leaned against the wall, enjoying the bottled water and chocolate-chip cookies the school gave the participants, while colorfully dressed students filled the cafeteria.

“These are the older kids, grades four through six,” Jan said.

Some sixty students pushed, shoved and noisily settled themselves on the floor while their teachers vainly tried to keep order.

Rich kids really are different, Helen thought. They have confidence I didn’t get until after college. Maybe it’s the knowledge that nothing bad has ever happened to them. They have their parents, their family money and their lawyers to protect them.

“Why aren’t the students sitting on the cafeteria chairs?” she asked.

“They like the floor better,” Jan said. “It’s a kid thing. They’re more bendable than we are.”

Valerie was still interviewing Dee, but now the reporter had a slightly glazed look. “I’m campaigning Chessie for a national win this year,” Dee told her.

“And if she wins?” Valerie asked.

“She’ll win,” Dee said, “and then she’ll give me the most beautiful kittens.”

Valerie noticed a teacher, barely older than her students, hovering nearby. “Looks like you’re about to go on,” Valerie said to Dee.

The teacher was slender but determined. “Good morning and welcome to Pet Appreciation Day,” she said.

The students continued talking, and she shouted over them. “Before we start, we have a celebrity with us today: Channel Seventy-seven investigative reporter Valerie Cannata. Anything you’d like to ask Miss Cannata?”

The noise quieted as a tiny blonde in a
GIRLS ROCK
T-shirt raised her hand.

“Ashley?” the teacher said.

“Valerie, are those Chanel T-straps you’re wearing?” Ashley asked.

“Yes, and they’re very comfortable,” Valerie said.

“I
meant
,” the teacher said, “does anyone have any questions about reporting?”

An uncomfortable silence settled on the audience. “Okay, then,” the teacher said. “We’re very grateful to our guests for taking their time to attend our Pet Appreciation Day. Let’s start with Mrs. Deidre Chatwood and her two gorgeous pedigreed Persians.” She smiled at Dee.

“This is going to be fun,” Jan whispered to Helen. “Dee is terrified of public speaking.”

“I’ve read that some people are more afraid of giving a speech than dying,” Helen said.

“Dee’s one of them,” Jan said. “Remember how she chewed you out in her office?”

Helen rubbed her derriere. “How could I forget that—or the day’s docked pay?”

“You’re about to get your revenge,” Jan said. “She’ll start off strong, then, about halfway through, she’ll panic.”

Helen heard some of the girls talking about the pretty kitties. Dee’s voice rose above them, clear and confident. She introduced
each cat, then discussed their accomplishments, grooming, and awards. The two Persians seemed to feed on the attention. Both cats fluffed their fur and gazed at the audience with their amazing eyes.

“How many of you have cats?” Dee asked, and about twenty-five students raised their hands.

“My brother’s allergic,” someone said.

“Lots of famous people owned cats,” Dee said. “Queen Victoria had an Angora cat, which is longhaired like a Persian but has a different face. So did Queen Marie Antoinette. She used to let her cats roam the table.”

The class stared at her, and Dee faltered. She looked out at her audience and Helen saw her fright. The students seemed to sense it, too. Dee started talking faster, almost tripping over her words.

“John Lennon, the Beatle, loved cats,” she said.

“My mom listens to him, but he’s dead,” a boy in a blue polo shirt said.

Helen could sense Dee’s growing panic. She was on a tightrope and she’d looked down.

“Yes, well, Freddie Mercury, the founder of Queen, liked cats.”

“He’s dead, too,” another boy said.

“Martha Stewart has calico Persians and blue-point Himalayans. You know Martha Stewart, the businesswoman famous for elegant living. She’s rich and famous and alive.”

The class watched her with hard, silent faces.

“And Vanna White,” she said. “Vanna White on
Wheel of Fortune
. The TV show.” Someone snickered. “Any questions?” Dee asked brightly.

Jan whispered, “Betcha a nickel they ask how much money she makes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Chatwood,” the teacher said. “Who has questions?”

A boy with buzzed hair and a green-striped shirt raised his hand.

“Yes, Austin?” the teacher said.

“How much money do you make breeding cats?” he asked.

“You win,” Helen said to Jan.

“The little darlings ask it at every assembly,” Jan said.

Helen could pick out the boy’s teacher. She rolled her eyes, then looked mortified. The other teachers smiled knowingly.

“How much do I make? Nothing!” Dee said. “Not one cent. You don’t go into the fancy for money. I do this because I love cats and want to better the breed.”

Another hand went up. “Yes, Paige?” the teacher said.

The producer’s daughter, a blonde in skinny jeans, a coral shirt and a long yellow scarf, asked, “How much does that white cat cost?”

Paige’s teacher stifled a groan.

“Chessie’s not for sale,” Dee said. Now her fear was gone. “But she will be having kittens later this year, and those will be for sale. I don’t sell my kittens to just anyone. I have to meet you and your parents. I want to know if you have other pets and if you take care of them. Most important, I have to see you with my kittens. If you and my kitten are not a good match—if you don’t hit it off—you don’t get to adopt one.”

This news created another buzz.

“Adopting a cat is a big responsibility,” Dee said. “Not everyone wants to care for a longhair cat. Persians have to be combed every day and bathed once a week.”

“Every day!” The phrase ping-ponged through the cafeteria.

“That’s right,” Dee said. “Their fur mats. If you don’t comb them, it mats when they sit. Longhairs are beautiful, but if you don’t want the work, you can adopt a shorthair from the Humane Society.”

“More questions?” the teacher asked. “No? Thank you, Mrs.
Chatwood.” The teachers applauded as Dee fled the stage. Helen and Jan carried the cat cages to a side table as Judge Lexie Deener strutted onstage.

The older girls studied her hair and her outrageously expensive outfit. Is her suit this season’s style? Helen wondered. Carol Berman, Mort’s assistant, said Lexie was furious when the moneyman’s bad advice ruined her financially. The cat-show judge had screamed she’d have to work till she dropped.

Was Lexie angry enough to kill Mort? Helen flashed on Mort’s blood-soaked body and the red medallion with the unknown fingerprint. Phil said that print could belong to “a jeweler, a parking valet, even a bumbling Peerless Point cop.” How about a cat-show judge? The police wouldn’t have Lexie’s fingerprints.

As she passed Helen, Lexie tossed her water bottle in the trash. Helen picked it out with a pen through the mouth and slid it into a plastic bag in her purse.

Lexie was not afraid of the students. She held their attention with a short, concise talk about a judge’s duties, schooling and cat shows.

At question time, a tall boy in a gray hoodie raised his hand.

“Derek?” the teacher said.

“Do you own that awesome black Jaguar?”

“I do,” the judge said, basking in the praise and forgetting about four-legged felines.

“Can we, like, go out and look at it?”

“Can they?” the judge asked.

“It’s like a history lesson,” Derek said. “We’ll never see a car like that up close. Even at a car show, it would be behind a velvet rope or something. Please? It’s right outside the door.”

Some sixty pairs of eyes turned toward the teacher. Even the judge seemed to be begging permission to show off her car.

The teacher caved. “Okay, but make it quick.”

Outside, Judge Lexie’s car was surrounded by admirers. Like
the Persian cats, Judge Lexie seemed to expand and glow in the students’ praise.

“It’s perfect,” Derek said. “This is, like, the most beautiful Jaguar ever made, except for the E-Type.”

“The E-Type was certainly handsome,” Judge Lexie said. “But it wasn’t a good road car. That long nose had a tendency to spin out at high speeds. I still drive my Jaguar. I brought it here all the way from North Carolina.”

Judge Lexie opened the car’s doors so the students could see the shining red leather interior, burled oak dashboard and leather steering wheel.

She shut the doors and the students went back to praising the exterior. “I like the silver cat on the hood,” Paige said.

“The cat is a Jaguar,” Lexie said. “That’s Blackie’s hood ornament. It’s called a leaper.”

Blackie? Helen wondered. Why was that name familiar?

“Is Blackie your car’s name?” Derek asked. “My mom calls her beater the Blue Bomber.”

“Blackie is short for Black Beauty,” Judge Lexie said.

Helen felt suddenly alert, energized. Her mind was sparking, making connections. She remembered the conversation Jan had overheard between Mort and Lexie at the pet store.
“It’s serious,” Lexie said. “I need at least five thousand dollars to save Blackie.”

“I can make you a lot more than that,” Mort said. “You’ll be able to keep him in style.”

“You’d better be right,” Lexie said. “I love him. He’s part of my image.”

Jan had thought the judge was talking about a sick cat. But Jan cared about cats. Lexie wanted a major repair for her Jaguar, Blackie.

The Hasher School students were still admiring Blackie while Lexie drank in their praise like a life-giving fluid.

“Look at the snarling cats on the hubcaps,” Austin said.

Ping!
Another connection. That phrase—“snarling cats”—set off a sunburst in Helen’s brain. She bent closer for a look at the cat face in the center of the closest hubcap. She’d seen that cat before.

“That’s why this car is so awesome,” Derek said. “Everything works. What year is it? A ’ninety-five?”

“Absolutely not,” the judge said. Her smile vanished. “Jaguars were made by Ford in the nineties. I wouldn’t own a Ford. My Jaguar is the real thing, made in Coventry when Jaguar was British owned.”

Coventry! Helen thought. She stared at the snarling cat face on the hubcap. The same cat was on the bloodred medallion by Mort. She remembered the brass loop at the top. Was the medallion part of a key chain or key ring celebrating a genuine British Jaguar?

Only a true car snob would know or care if she had a Coventry Jaguar. Helen’s brain made rapid-fire connections about cats, blood, medallions and murder.