Catnapped! (6 page)

Tuesday

H
elen, grumpy, hot and cat-hairy, was glad she didn’t run into anyone back at the Coronado. She went straight to her apartment, showered, changed into clean clothes and poured herself a glass of white wine.

After a few sips, she was ready to talk with Phil. She found him typing furiously at his computer in their second-floor office. She paused a moment to study him. She liked his silvery hair, and his slightly crooked nose gave him an offbeat handsomeness. He had a cute little wrinkle in his forehead when he was working intensely.

He looked up and said, “Helen! You look nice.” He got up and kissed her.

“I didn’t ten minutes ago,” she said. “I’ve been slaving over a hot cat box—ten cat boxes—while you’re working on a nice, cool computer.

“Any interesting calls come in today on Trish’s phone?”

“One from the Police Benevolent Association,” he said, “and two from her boyfriend, Arthur. He was surprised to find his fiancée had a secretary.”

“So they’re engaged,” Helen said.

“That’s what he said. She didn’t mention it. I’ve been hard at the computer. I’ve had a breakthrough in the case.”

Helen sat in her black-and-chrome partner chair, and Phil rubbed her neck and shoulders. “You’re tense,” he said. “I’m glad you got the job, but it must be rough.”

“I can whine later,” she said. “Tell me about the breakthrough.”

“I think the red medallion by Mort’s body is from the Gold Cup Coventry All Breed Cat Show,” he said. “It’s a big-deal show in Britain.”

“That’s no cute kitty,” Helen said. “Why the ferocious feline?”

“Cat shows will sometimes rent a big-cat mascot,” Phil said. “A panther, a tiger or a leopard, and then give out medallions with its image. I was at a cat show in Fort Lauderdale that had a cougar.”

“Brilliant,” Helen said.

“My middle name,” Phil said.

“Now we have to figure out who went to the Coventry cat show.”

“Already did that,” Phil said. “I did some research on Arthur, the boyfriend.”

“The foreclosure lawyer,” Helen said. “I couldn’t believe Trish said he had more prestige than Mort. I wanted to tell her about the classy foreclosure lawyer who put
Su casa es mi casa
on his yacht.”

Phil kissed her again. “I admired your fortitude,” he said. “Arthur is even richer than Mort, and he is prestigious, at least in his profession.”

“Humph,” Helen said. “I have more respect for garbage collectors. They serve society.”

“Okay,” Phil said. “I agree, but the faster we solve this case, the faster you’re away from those reeking cat boxes. Arthur has an impressive Web site, and he bragged he was a guest lecturer at the
Mapesbury Comparative International Law Seminar in Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“Shakespeare’s hometown,” Helen said.

“And a major tourist center. The Stratford seminar was the same weekend as the Coventry cat show, and Coventry is a little over twenty miles away.”

“You think Arthur went there?”

“I called Trish and she said yes,” Phil said. “His lecture was early in the morning; then he went to the show to get pointers for Trish. They have big plans for Justine. Trish thinks she can be an international star. A British show win would be an important step in Justine’s career.

“I think there’s something off about this kidnapping, Helen.”

“Off how?”

“I think that Trish faked it and stole her own cat.”

“How could she do that?” Helen asked.

“Easy. Arthur did the catnapping. Why would a kidnapper wait eight days for the money?” Phil asked. “The longer the wait, the easier it is to catch the kidnapper.”

“If Trish kidnapped her cat, do you think she killed her husband?” Helen asked.

“Well, it would be convenient for her,” Phil said.

“Can’t see it,” Helen said. “Murder would mess up her designer dress. She’s too girly.”

“Don’t underestimate her. Did you see the muscles in Trish’s arms?” Phil said. “She’s strong, but I don’t think she walloped Mort with the cat tower and walked off with Justine. She stayed safely at home and called the cops to set up an alibi.”

“That didn’t work,” Helen said.

“Right. The cops think like I do,” Phil said. “Trish set up her alibi and then her boyfriend did the dirty work. Arthur doesn’t look like a desk jockey. I saw his picture on his Web site. He’d have no trouble killing Mort.”

“Why would he bother? Trish is getting a divorce,” Helen said.

“And it’s taking forever,” Phil said. “The money’s being eaten up in legal fees, and the publicity is brutal. Arthur knows the longer a high-profile divorce drags on, the more likely one party will say, ‘Take everything. I don’t care anymore. Just cut the knot.’”

“And Trish, who’s engaged to a rich guy, is more likely to cave first,” Helen said. “But Arthur is already rich.”

“And greedy,” Phil said. “He’s a foreclosure lawyer, remember?”

“I’m not convinced Trish is a black widow. She seemed genuinely upset.”

“I used to work insurance cases,” Phil said. “You’d be surprised the frauds so-called solid citizens try. You’d also be amazed at how good they are at acting. Trish may be one of those undiscovered acting talents. And she does have real reasons to be upset. The cops suspect her. Her alibi didn’t fool them and she could be arrested anytime. If her scheme unravels, she goes to jail for murder one.”

“So Arthur kills Mort,” Helen said, “and steals the kitten. What did he do with her?”

“He takes Justine to his home. Trish said Arthur has two cats of his own and ‘he’s a good father.’”

“What’s that mean?” Helen asked.

“She told me, in great detail. If you want to lose an hour or two, talk to Trish about cats. Arthur comes home every night at seven to feed both cats and play with them. One’s a Russian blue kitten and the other’s a big Maine Coon.”

“I love Maine Coons,” Helen said. “They’re big, furry teddy bears.”

“Trish said Arthur often works twelve-hour days, but he insists on being at home at seven, no matter what. If it’s not raining, he feeds his cats by the pool and then plays with them. He makes sure they have a half hour for dinner and quality time.”

“Does Arthur live in Peerless Point?”

“No, near downtown Fort Lauderdale. A waterfront house in Rio Vista.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “He’s definitely got some bucks.”

“It’s after six,” Phil said. “Wanna go catnapping with me? You can drive the getaway car. I’ll swipe the cat and we’ll drive it to Nancie’s office.”

“How are you going to see Arthur’s backyard?”

“A former client lives on the same street. She’s a snowbird, and I still have her security code. Arthur’s the only year-round resident on that block. I’ll get in through her back gate and make my way down the seawall. You’ll wait in the car with Thumbs’s pet carrier.”

“Okay,” Helen said. “But I still think Trish isn’t guilty.”

“So noted,” Phil said. “Now think about never seeing those steaming cat boxes if I’m right.”

“Let’s go,” Helen said.

Even in rush hour, Rio Vista was only twenty minutes away. The pricey neighborhood along the Intracoastal Waterway was built during the roaring twenties. Helen could see Scott and Zelda playing in a tiered fountain, and Gatsby gazing wistfully out an upstairs window.

Phil had changed into his disguise—board shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers. “I’ll wade into the water first, so if I’m caught, I can say I fell in and lost my paddleboard.”

“Yuck,” Helen said. “That water’s nasty.”

“But it gives me an excuse to carry a towel so I can wrap up the cat,” Phil said. “That way Justine won’t claw my arm.”

At twenty after seven, Helen dropped off Phil half a block from Arthur’s home, a three-story mansion with a fountain. They could see a long, shiny black Mercedes in the curved drive.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so,” Phil said. He reached in back for Thumbs’s carrier and left it on the front passenger seat
with its door open. “Keep driving around until you see Arthur’s car leave, then park back here.”

He left, the towel slung over his shoulder.

Helen toured Rio Vista’s tree-lined streets, waiting for Phil. Many of the stucco mansions had yachts docked in the back and exotic gardens, but she couldn’t enjoy the sights. Helen was sure the Neighborhood Watch program would report her.

At least I’m a white woman, she thought. That means I look harmless to these homeowners.

Helen was relieved when Arthur’s Mercedes backed out of the drive. She drove around one more time, then parked at the drop-off, drummed her nails against the steering wheel and checked her watch. “Come on, Phil,” she muttered.

Finally, Phil jogged out of his former client’s backyard, singing loudly to cover the howls coming from the towel-wrapped bundle in his arms. Helen opened his door, he tossed the bundle into the carrier and climbed in. He was soaked, and his wet tennies squelched.

“Go!” he said.

Helen wasted no time. On the short drive to Nancie’s law office, Phil called the lawyer. As they expected, she was working at her desk.

“I think our client is scamming us,” he said. “Helen and I are bringing you the proof. Once you see it, you may not want to take the case.”

“I’ll make that decision after I talk to you,” Nancie said.

At the stoplight, Helen noticed a long, bloody scratch down Phil’s arm. “You’re hurt,” she said.

“Justine has a set of steak knives on her paws,” Phil said. “Arthur has a screened-in cat run in the backyard, with a cat door so his pets can come and go as they please. The people door on the run wasn’t locked, so I walked in. The big, fluffy brown cat was asleep in the corner. Little Justine put up a fight, but I threw the towel over her and legged it out of there. Nobody saw me.”

“Thank goodness,” Helen said.

“Ouch!” Phil said. She heard a loud, snaky hiss.

“What’s wrong?”

“I opened the cage to take the towel off Justine and she clawed me again.” He wrapped his pocket handkerchief around his wounded hand.

Phil insisted on carrying the pet carrier into Nancie’s office, even though he’d bled through his handkerchief.

“I want her to see I was wounded in the line of duty,” he said.

“Your blood, your story,” Helen said.

Phil made a dramatic sight with his bloody, bandaged hand and the blood-spattered carrier. Nancie listened patiently to his story, then said, “If Trish is in on the catnapping, I won’t represent her if there’s a criminal case. Let’s see Justine.”

She cleared her papers off the desk, then opened the carrier door. An indignant gray kitten tested the desk with one paw, then eased out its round gray head, and finally its whole body.

The cat hissed, lifted its leg and whizzed all over Nancie’s black leather desk pad.

Helen and Phil couldn’t understand why Nancie was laughing. “That’s no Justine,” she said. “This angry gentleman is an unneutered Russian blue. I believe Phil’s kidnapped Arthur Goldich’s kitten, Misha. I’d get him back before the lawyer has you both arrested.”

“I—I thought Russian blues would be blue,” Phil said.

“They’re slate gray,” Helen said, using her newfound knowledge.

“And they have green eyes,” Nancie said. “Justine’s eyes are copper. Now get this cat out of here, will you? Cat pee stinks. I have to clean up my desk. I’ll deduct the new desk pad from your bill.”

Phil shoved the snarling, hissing kitten back into the carrier and earned another vicious scratch. “Ow!”

“Hurry!” Nancie said. “Get him back home before I have to bail you two out of jail.”

As they ran for the Igloo with the furious feline, Phil said, “Don’t say it.”

“Say what?” Helen asked.

“I told you so.”

“Don’t have to,” Helen said. “You just did.”

Wednesday

“S
o far, the police have made no arrests in the brutal murder of Peerless Point financial advisor Mortimer Barrymore,” said Channel 77 investigative reporter Valerie Cannata.

Helen and Phil had flipped on the TV in Phil’s living room to catch the morning news over a hasty breakfast. Mort’s murder was still the lead local story.

“Damn, she looks good at seven in the morning,” Phil said.

Helen felt a sharp sting of jealousy. Phil and Valerie had had a fling years ago. Helen knew it was over. She also knew Valerie was exceptionally well turned out. The reporter’s yellow dress hugged her curves, and her dark red hair glowed in the morning sun.

Helen felt frumpy in shorts and a T-shirt that would soon be covered with cat hair.

“Full makeup,” Helen said. “I’m impressed.”

Lock away the green-eyed monster, she thought. Phil’s no hound, and Valerie brings Coronado Investigations lots of business when she covers your cases.

Onscreen, Valerie was standing outside Mort’s wrought-iron gate. The TV camera panned the marble statues and the
bougainvillea-draped mansion, then focused on the front door. “Mr. Barrymore was battered to death inside this historic mansion, where he had been living since separating from his estranged wife,” the reporter said. “We are expecting a development later today. Peerless Point Crimes Against Persons detective Lester V. Boland has called a press conference for three o’clock this afternoon, and reliable sources say an arrest may be imminent.”

“What do you bet that reliable source is Detective Boland himself?” Helen asked.

“You’re so cynical,” Phil said. “And so right.” He kissed her, a lingering kiss that made Helen wish they could go back to bed.

“To be continued,” she said. “I have to run to work or I’ll be late.”

She fished her tennies out from under the couch and the phone rang. “It’s Nancie,” Phil said, and put the phone on speaker.

The lawyer sounded clipped, quick and urgent. “I only have a minute,” she said. “Trish is being arrested this morning. They’re charging her with first-degree murder.”

“We just saw Valerie’s story on TV,” Phil said. “Does Boland have a case?”

“If he wore anything that flimsy, he’d be arrested for indecent exposure,” Nancie said. “He says Trish’s DNA and prints are all over Mort’s front door and the murder weapon, and Trish’s tire tracks are in the driveway.”

“So?” Phil said. “She used to live there and still visits regularly. She has a key.”

“That’s what I said. Boland said only someone Mort knew—or someone with a key and the security code—could get through the gate, and he says that’s Trish. They found hair and fibers from the pantsuit Trish said she wore the night of the murder in the hall, but she wears it all the time.”

“Any blood on it?” Phil asked.

“Boland says she got rid of the outfit she really wore.”

“Can’t have it both ways,” Phil said. “What about bloody fingerprints? Blood on her shoes? Any witnesses see her at the scene?”

“No, no and no,” Nancie said. “But the cops did find out she’d been to the Coventry cat show with Arthur. They made the same connection about the cat medallion that you did, Phil.”

“Clever,” Helen said.

“Not really,” Nancie said. “A uniform worked security at the Lauderdale cat show when he was off duty. He remembered the cougar.”

“Trish never told me she went to the Coventry show with Arthur,” Phil said.

“Me, either,” Nancie said. “When the cops told me, I chewed her out. Trish said she was embarrassed because Mort hadn’t moved out of the house when she went to the UK with Arthur.”

“If she’s worried about embarrassment,” Phil said, “wait till she’s strip-searched in jail.”

Helen shuddered. Fragile, elegant Trish had some ugly shocks waiting.

“So, Trish was cheating on Mort?” Phil asked.

“It was mutual. I think they were both seeing other people before they called it quits,” Nancie said. “Mort had two girlfriends, and Trish has Arthur. She’s the kind who won’t leave a man unless she has another waiting for her.”

“Did Trish have a Coventry cat medallion?” Phil asked.

“She says she has no idea what that is,” the lawyer said. “She swears there were only show cats, not cougars, panthers or wild cats, at the Coventry cat show. But since she lied, the cops don’t believe her.”

“Are Trish’s fingerprints on the medallion?”

“No,” Nancie said.

“Someone else’s prints?”

“I won’t find that out until discovery,” Nancie said.

“So why are they arresting her?” Helen asked.

“She’s rich, she lied about a silly nothing and here’s her real crime: She tried to pull rank and get the Peerless Point police to find her cat,” Nancie said. “I told her to be brave and get through this. When I finish with Peerless Point, Trish will own the city.”

That wasn’t an idle threat. Nancie had taken on a bumbling detective and the town that hired him. By the time the town settled, she’d nearly bankrupted it, and the detective took early retirement.

“I’m surprised the DA is going ahead with it,” Phil said.

“He was Mort’s golfing buddy,” Nancie said. “Mort filled his ear with anti-Trish propaganda every Wednesday afternoon.”

“And left out his own transgressions,” Helen said, tying her tennies.

“Old boys will be old boys,” Nancie said. “I’ve warned Trish she probably won’t get bail with murder one, even with these trumped-up charges. With her money, she’ll be considered a flight risk.”

“But she’d never leave Florida,” Phil said. “Not without Justine.”

“I know that, but these cops don’t get cat lovers,” Nancie said. “I worked out a deal to take Trish to the police station at eight this morning. That’s all I can do—save her the shame of a public arrest. She wants you to do two things.”

“Name them,” Phil said.

“Handle the kidnapping negotiations for Justine,” Nancie said. “She’s worried sick about her cat.”

“I’m on the case,” Phil said.

“And find the catnapper.”

“I got the job at Chatwood’s Champions,” Helen said. “I’ll be working with Mort’s fiancée, Jan Kurtz. There’s a cat show Saturday and we’ll be working overtime. Lots of opportunity to talk.”

“Good. Report as soon as you learn something,” Nancie said. “Phil, I need you to contact someone at the Coventry show and find out about that medallion.”

“Will do,” he said.

“And call me the moment you hear from the kidnapper,” Nancie said. “When you find him, we’ll have the killer, and Trish will go free. Gotta run.” She hung up.

“Me, too,” Helen said. “I’m going to be late.” She kissed Phil good-bye. “Love you.” Thumbs stood in her way, demanding a scratch. She gave him a quick pat and bolted for the Igloo.

She would have made it, except for a traffic accident on Federal Highway. Helen was five minutes late when she knocked on Dee’s front door. Gabby Garcia met her and said, “Mrs. Chatwood wants to speak with you in her office.”

“Is something wrong?” Helen asked.

“Not sure,” Gabby said. She seemed reluctant to say more. Helen followed the slender Latina maid to Dee’s office on the east side of the pool, with another stunning view of the Intracoastal.

“She’s in there,” Gabby said, and nearly ran back down the hall.

Helen was mesmerized by the majestic white yachts churning past the window. They were much better-looking than the tiger-striped wallpaper. Midnight, the Persian stud, lounged on Dee’s black marble desk. Dee paced her office in a black halter and tiger-print clam diggers, her bloody claws clenched.

Uh-oh, Helen thought. She’s ticked. She could almost see the frown trying to burst through her boss’s Botoxed forehead, like a newly hatched alien.

“You wanted to see me?” Helen asked.

“Five minutes ago,” Dee said. “You’re late.”

“I—”

“Don’t waste my time with explanations. I’m docking you a day’s pay. I’m doing this for your own good. It’s not about the money.”

It’s always about the money, Helen thought, as resentment burned through her like a lightning strike. I’d love to tell you what to do with this job, but I need it.

“I’m sorry,” she said, forcing herself to sound contrite.

“Next time, you’re fired. And from now on, use the servants’ entrance on the side, behind the travelers palm. That’s the tree shaped like a fan.”

Helen nodded, too angry to speak. The servants’ entrance. A day’s pay docked. Welcome to your new workplace.

Dee pressed an intercom button and shouted, “Gabby, come here. I need you to witness a contract.”

“Right away, Mrs. Chatwood,” Gabby said.

Gabby didn’t seem surprised by the request. She reappeared, slightly out of breath, and stood near the desk, head down and hands folded in front of her. Her forehead was smoother than Dee’s and her natural beauty made Dee look grotesque.

“Helen, you must sign this employment agreement to work for Chatwood’s Champions,” Dee said. “I want to make sure you understand the noncompete clause.”

While Helen scanned the one-page agreement, Dee brought out a small recorder. She recited the date and time, then said, “I’m speaking with my new employee, Helen Hawthorne, in my office at Chatwood’s Champions. Ms. Hawthorne, do you know you’re being recorded?”

She stuck the recorder in Helen’s face. “Yes,” Helen said.

“In your own words, can you tell me what the noncompete clause says?”

“I cannot show or breed pedigreed cats of any variety for five years in the state of Florida after I leave this job.”

“Or?” Dee demanded.

“Or I’ll have to pay all your associated legal costs plus fifty thousand dollars.”

“Are you signing this of your own free will?” Dee asked.

“Yes. Right now,” Helen said, and signed the paper with a flourish. She wondered if the recorder picked up the pen scratches.

“Gabby, you sign, too, as a witness.” Gabby did.

“You can leave now,” she said. “You, too, Helen. Jan’s going to show you how to bathe Red. That old sweetie is one of my favorites.”

I bet, Helen thought. Two cannibal queens.

She fumed all the way to the cattery, but her anger melted when she heard giggles and meows. She stood in the doorway and watched Jan play with three Persians. She waved a long, flexible wand with feathers on the end. Chocolate, a glossy swoop of deliciously dark fur, stood up on her hind legs and batted at it. Chessie, the snowy contender for national winner, chased the feathers as fast as her short, sturdy legs could move. Red bounded over Chessie, chomped the feathers and pulled one out. She triumphantly chased her prize across the white tile floor.

Helen enjoyed the three show cats and the showy, dark-haired Jan.

Jan saw Mystery lounging on a carpeted window shelf, watching the fluttering, feeding birds on cat TV. “You need your exercise, too, lazybones,” she said, and shook the wand at the fluffy pale gray cat. Mystery took a lazy swipe, then yawned.

The other three cats, looking like conspirators, gathered at Jan’s feet.
“Merorower,”
they said.

“Sorry, kitties,” she said. “Playtime’s over. Red needs her bath.” She scooped up the flame-colored Persian and saw Helen.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Helen said.

“Dee chewed you out, didn’t she?”

“I was five minutes late,” Helen said. “I got caught in traffic. She docked me a day.”

“I should have warned you,” Jan said. “She’s a stickler about time. I bet she also told you to use the servants’ entrance.”

“She did,” Helen said.

“She should install a revolving door for that entrance. Gabby and I have stayed the longest. I hope I don’t lose you. I’m taking off for Mort’s, my fiancé’s, funeral, even if she fires me.”

“When is it?” Helen said.

“I don’t know yet. The story has been splashed all over the media, but so far I haven’t heard anything about the funeral. I only took this job to help Mort. He had big plans for his cat, Justine. I wanted to know the important players in the show world.”

“What kind of cat is Justine?” Helen asked, proud she remembered she wasn’t supposed to know about the kidnapped cat.

“A pedigreed Chartreux,” Jan said. “French cats with copper eyes, round bodies and short legs. Some call them potatoes on toothpicks, but their eyes are hypnotic and they’re so lovable. They’re thick-coated shorthairs with smoky blue fur. Mort is—was—in the middle of a divorce. He and his wife, Trish Barrymore, disagreed about everything, but they worked out joint custody of Justine. Trish believes her cat will be a national winner.”

“Do you?” Helen asked.

“She has the potential,” Jan said. “She’s beautiful, sweet and has great conformation. But Trish treats her like an only child. Kittens need to get used to the noise and smells and commotion of a show hall. Trish doesn’t understand that show cats need to be around other cats and other people, or they can come to hate the show scene.

“Trish keeps Justine in her own room and caters to her every whim. I warned Mort and Trish that Justine is too isolated, but Trish won’t listen to me. I’m just the Other Woman.

“Well, not my problem. Not anymore. Not with Mort gone.”

She buried her head in Red’s soft fiery fur. “I miss him,” she said, hugging the cat. Red patted her with a velvet paw.

“Who do you think killed him?” Helen asked.

“I don’t know. Mort was a financial adviser and a good one. A real people person. He made you feel he was genuinely interested in you. It wasn’t an act, either. It’s one reason why I loved him.”

“Ever hear of Amber Waves?” Helen said, tossing out the name of Mort’s pole-dancing lover.

“The TV movie with Kurt Russell?” Jan asked.

Did she know about Mort’s other girlfriend? Helen wondered. Is Jan lying? She has her head buried in Red’s fur and I can’t see her eyes.

Jan lifted her face, and Helen saw that she’d been crying again. Her blue eyes were almost as red as the cat’s fur. “I’m supposed to show you how to wash this beauty,” she said, sniffling. “I feel better talking to you about Mort, but we have to get to work, or Dee will have a fit.”

“Right,” Helen said.

“I’ll tell you who I think did it,” Jan said. “Trish. She’d do anything to get control of that cat.”