Collared For Murder (3 page)

Three

I
was so excited about the prospect of big sales at the cat show—and, admittedly, a little anxious about this Marigold Aames and what she could mean for my relationship with Jack—that I had a hard time sleeping that night. I finally gave up around five thirty and crawled out of my bed and into the shower. I cringed when the old pipes began singing. I didn’t want to wake my downstairs neighbors, Ingrid and Harvey Nyquist.

Ingrid had been my mentor for years, and she owned the building in which I lived and worked. Now in her early eighties, she’d finally gotten around to marrying her high school sweetheart. The two had been separated when Harvey’s parents sent him off to military school, and each had lived a full life complete
with other spouses. But in their widowhood, the wonders of social media had brought them back together and their teenage love had been rekindled.

While Ingrid and Harvey planned to spend much of the year in Harvey’s condo in Boca Raton, they had the apartment on the second floor of 801 Maple in which to spend the dog days of summer. They knew what they were getting into, but I was still self-conscious that they were sandwiched in between the hubbub of the first-floor shop and the noise my animals and I generated in our third-floor apartment. They were retirees, after all.

Because of my early rise, I was ready for the day at an obscenely early hour. I made my way down to the shop and did a little work rearranging my wares on the shelf. I had just settled down with a cup of coffee and the
Merryville Gazette
when there was a sharp knock at the front door.

I looked out, expecting to find Wanda Knight, the Merryville high schooler Rena and I had hired to help out with the business so we would have more time to bake, sew, and market. Wanda would be covering the shop during the cat show, manning the fort while Rena and I were out at the hotel.

Needless to say, I was startled to find Phillip Denford on my front porch. Given his fight with Pris the night before, I was a bit timid about opening the door, but I was relying on this man’s cat show to bring in
enough working capital to expand my online business presence, allowing people to place orders and make payments directly online without having to call the store.

Xander Stephens owned the Spin Doctor, the record store across the back alley from Trendy Tails. He’d made his store a success by maintaining a thriving online business. He’d offered to do the programming for me, create a shopping cart and secure checkout process, for free, but I couldn’t abuse his good nature like that. I knew the offer came at least in part because he was dating my sister Lucy, and it wouldn’t be right to take advantage of that situation. I would get him to help me, but only when I could afford to pay him what he was worth.

“Mr. Denford? Please come in.”

I held the door and he walked in, hands clasped at the small of his back, scanning the inside of my shop with a proprietary air. King of the hill. Cock of the walk.

His plumage befitted his strut: orange-and-blue plaid pants with a perfectly matched orange golf shirt and blue jacket. Only rich people could get away with that kind of getup. Rich people and my aunt Dolly.

Phillip’s perusal of Trendy Tails included a leisurely sweep over my breasts. I suppressed a shudder. I’d met some skeevy guys in my day, but he was just so nonchalant about the way he ogled me,
confident that I wouldn’t call him out on his bad behavior. As though I might consider it flattering.

“You keep a tidy shop, Ms. McHale. I respect that.”

“Thank you?” I was so off-kilter at having Denford in my store—and staring at my bosom—that the words came out as a question.

“I also admire your, ah, product,” he continued. He chuckled at his own double entendre. “When Pamela Rawlins returned from her first site visit raving about the cute clothes and accessories you were creating, I purchased a huge selection of your stock.”

Phillip Denford had been one of my customers? I racked my brain, trying to remember all my biggest orders, and then it jumped out at me: an online/over-the-phone purchase made late last spring. The caller had ordered one of each of my handmade products—for both dogs and cats—but hadn’t purchased any of the items I got from wholesalers. I remembered being flattered that the person liked my work so much. But I also remembered that the caller was a woman. Mari Aames? Most likely.

“Well, thank you for that. I’m honored.”

“You should be. I admire your concepts so much that I’ve sourced them to a manufacturer in Korea.”

“What?” It was like his words weren’t even in English.

“I’ve sourced them to a manufacturer so I can
produce them and sell them through my own online retail outlets, the Dapper Dog and the Classy Cat.” He brought his hands around to the front of his body, revealing the cat pajamas he held. He reached out and pressed the garment into my hand and wrapped my numb fingers around it.

It took only a quick glance for me to recognize the seaming pattern in the pants and the piping detail at the neck, which were a mirror of my own product, but these pajamas were in a flannel pattern I’d never used.

“I don’t understand. You’re telling me you’re going to sell my designs?”

“Well, obviously they won’t be exactly your designs. For example, we’ll line the Pooch Parkas with synthetic sherpa, not genuine fleece. And you’ll note that the pajamas you’re holding have a notch at the front of the collar, which your design did not have.”

“You can’t do this,” I said. “It’s got to be against the law.”

He held up a hand and waggled it back and forth. “Maybe it’s on the line, but that line is pretty wobbly, Ms. McHale. Fashion law hasn’t really found its stride yet. As I said, we’re making some select design changes, and we’re not planning to sell the items under the Trendy Tails trademark, so I think we’re safe. But even if we’re not, even if we are crossing some vague legal line, what exactly do you plan to do about it?”

I shook my head in confusion. “Sue!”

“Mmmm-hmmm. Have you ever been involved in intellectual-property litigation?”

“No.”

“Yes, well, it’s a lengthy process. You’d need a lawyer. At least one. Preferably a fashion lawyer, and they don’t come cheap—and I’m not sure they come in ‘Minnesotan’ at all. Not to mention the textile, pet, and apparel experts you’d need. From what Pamela said, you’re doing good business, but you haven’t been open even a full year. There’s no way your business has the sort of reserves to fight an IP battle with an established company. Not to mention that my people inform me that you’re not independently wealthy. I don’t see how you could hold out against someone with my resources.”

“You’ve been looking into my personal finances? How dare you?”

“I assure you all of my inquiries have been legal. For example, a simple title search tells me you don’t own this building, that you’re renting both your business space and your home. It was also easy enough to find out about the various complaints your neighbor Richard Greene has filed against your business. Complaints that have surely cost you money to resolve.”

It was true. Richard Greene owned the Greene Brigade, a shop dedicated to military history and
memorabilia. Despite owning a giant German shepherd named MacArthur, Richard was leery of loud and smelly critters possibly running off his clients. He’d tried to oust Trendy Tails from the neighborhood a couple of times. He’d stopped his crusade against us when he decided that it was more fun wooing my aunt Dolly, but his efforts had cost us a pretty penny.

I was still having trouble wrapping my brain around the disaster that was unfolding before me. “But how can you do something like that? Just stealing someone else’s hard work. How can you sleep at night?”

“Like a baby, Ms. McHale. A baby who knows that his investment is going to pay off. It’s one of the first things you learn in business school: know your competitors.”

When I was first opening Trendy Tails, Ingrid told me that the first rule of business was to sell a quality product for a fair price. I liked her school of thought a whole lot better than Denford’s.

“If you’re dead set on stealing my designs and so certain that you can do so with impunity, why are you bothering to tell me? Is this some sort of negotiation?”

“No negotiation, I’m afraid. Look, I’m not completely heartless—”

“Close enough.”

He
tsk
ed at me. “Ms. McHale. I could have done exactly as you suggest and simply allowed you to find
out about my business plans through regular channels, but I’m doing you the courtesy of giving you a little warning. You’ll probably turn a tidy profit over the course of the M-CFO’s convention, and what you
do
with that profit might depend on the future of your business. Do you want to reinvest it in your store and possibly waste it all, or do you want to hold back the profit so you can walk away from your business without going bankrupt?”

I raised my chin a notch, hands balled into fists at my sides. “What makes you think your knockoffs will hurt my business? People recognize quality when they see it.”

“They do, indeed. And they’ll pay for it, especially if they have money to burn. But I can offer them a product that is almost exactly the same, very high quality, at a fraction of the price, and even rich people like a good deal. For example, that product you are holding? In my online store, it will retail for eighteen dollars.”

I studied the pajamas in my hand. He was correct that the quality was high. The seams were reinforced, the piping smooth, the snaps down the back lined up perfectly. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it had come from my own store, from my own hands. The big difference was that I had to sell the pajamas for twenty-five dollars in order to make a profit.

“It’s all about mass manufacturing.” He pointed to my worktable, where the pattern pieces for my most
recent creation were spread out, each piece of paper pinned to the back of a piece of fabric. “Your prices are incredibly high for what amounts to a novelty item, and still, given your in-house manufacturing, I imagine that your profit margins are slim. You can’t possibly afford to lower your prices to meet mine. Not without a huge infusion of capital that would allow you to follow my manufacturing strategy.”

He smiled. “Even then, if people can buy the same product for the same price at two locations, they’re going to use the retailer who is most convenient. My Web sites get massive amounts of traffic, and visitors can purchase both the cute duds
and
all of their grooming supplies, gourmet food, and accessories like crates and bedding. I offer one-stop shopping. You do not.”

I may not have had a degree in business, but I wasn’t an idiot. Everything Phillip Denford said made intuitive sense. I was turning a profit, but a small one. If he ate into my business even ten percent, it could push me into the red.

Somewhere outside, a car honked, and Phillip leaned back to glance out Trendy Tails’ front window.

“That would be for me.” He held out his hand for the pajamas, and I dropped them there, careful not to touch him. I was genuinely repulsed by the man.

He paused in the doorway on his way out. “I will see you later at the show, Ms. McHale. For now, consider yourself
warned.”

Four

P
hillip’s visit and the news he brought had thrown me for a vicious loop, a loop that required caffeine to settle, so I’d stopped for a latte on my way to the show. Between that stop and Wanda showing up nearly fifteen minutes after she’d promised to be there, I arrived at the ballroom a few minutes later than expected, fumbling into the room with my arms full. I’d brought Jinx, my black-and-white Norwegian forest cat, to model my wares. She was penned up in a black wire cage to prevent her from slithering off into trouble, but she didn’t seem to mind. She groomed herself vigorously, ignoring the people who stopped to admire her fur-trimmed purple track jacket.

“Let’s get this party started,” Rena said.

I knew I needed to tell Rena about Phillip’s threat.
Heck, it wasn’t even a threat. . . . It was a plan he’d already put into action, and my business partner had a right to know about it. But the time and place were all wrong. Rena had a good head on her shoulders, but she also had a wicked temper. I was afraid if I told her about Phillip in the midst of the ballroom, she’d storm off to find the man and punch him right in the face. No, it would be better to wait until we were alone and break it to her gently.

“You betcha,” I replied, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the day.

Even though the day’s events were all agility-based circuits and would be held out in the tent the hotel had set up in its scenic green space, the ballroom buzzed with excitement as breeders and owners took turns making the rounds, checking out the competition, collecting business cards, inquiring about goods and services on display, and, of course, stopping to admire the grand prize for the entire event.

Despite being a total sleazebag, Phillip Denford had outdone himself. He’d had Jolly Nielson, our local jeweler and Rena’s girlfriend, create a custom collar dangle. According to Rena, the actual design had been conceived and drawn by Phillip’s artist son, Peter. This was no ordinary collar dangle: crafted of the most delicate platinum filigree and set with both a five-carat fancy-cut diamond and a five-carat Colombian emerald, it was a work of art. Very expensive art.
Jolly had even made a platinum cage to house the accessory. Hanging from the top of the cage, the pendant could twist and turn ever so slightly, catching the lights surrounding it from a host of angles. It certainly looked expensive, but its true value wouldn’t be known until the end of the show, when it was presented to the grand-prize winner. At that point, a gemologist and an insurance adjuster would swoop in to make the determination of the dangle’s cash value and make sure it was insured before the winner even left the room.

The prize had been artfully situated atop a table near the best-in-show ring. The table was draped with pale pink satin gathered in sensuous fabric curls on the table’s surface. The cage had been set atop tiered satin-covered boxes, and the whole setting was filled with crystal vases of pink peonies, white lilies, and delicate green Kermit mums. The arrangement looked like something out of a fairy tale, and it seemed out of place surrounded by the chaos of the show.

The only thing marring the tablescape was a paper cup from Joe Time Coffee that someone had carelessly left on the corner. I walked over and snatched up the cup, still half-full of milky coffee, and walked it to the large waste can just behind our station. I thought about tucking it behind Jinx’s cage in case someone came back for it, but frankly, it smelled funky, like someone had dripped perfume into it. It reminded me
of my friend Taffy’s Happy Leaf Tea Shoppe, a faintly musty and cloying smell. Near as I could tell, the stuff had gone off and should probably be tossed, and if someone still thought it was any good and came back to claim it, I would take the heat.

“Thanks! I was just about to do the same thing so I could get a clean picture.”

I looked up to find Ama Olmstead, a reporter for the
Merryville Gazette
, facing the prize table with her sleek digital camera in hand. The petite Danish woman, pixie cute, used to carry a slew of camera equipment with her back when her strapping husband, Steve Olmstead, had been available to help her lug it around. Steve and Ama were divorced now, though, and the single mom had had to pare down her life in a multitude of ways, from moving into a smaller house to limiting herself to one really good camera for her assignments.

“How have you been, Ama?”

“As well as can be expected,” she said with a half smile. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that Jordan has started calling Packer ‘his’ dog.” We both laughed. Ama’s toddler son often played with Packer when the pooch and I ran into the Olmsteads in Dakota Park. Packer was great with children, and Ama had often expressed gratitude that Jordan would grow up loving dogs instead of fearing them.

“Are you thinking about getting him his own?”

“Someday. When he’s old enough to walk it and scoop its poop. Right now I have my hands full, and I’m happy for him to simply have the occasional playdate with Packer.”

“Well, anytime you want some canine companionship, you know my number. Packer has boundless energy, so he’s always game for a romp in the park.”

“Thanks for that.” She swept her hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “This is quite the show, isn’t it?”

“I had no idea,” I confided. “I figured it would be big and good for business, but I had no idea just how big it would be.”

She grinned at me. “Want a little free promo? I can get a picture of you and Rena at your booth.”

“Oh my gosh! Would you?”

One of the lessons I had learned during my months as an entrepreneur was that one never turned down the chance for free publicity.

“Rena,” I called. “Ama wants to get a shot of us in front of our booth.”

“Ooh! Fun!” Rena replied, scrambling around from the back of the table. “Here—let me get your bangs straightened.” To my horror, she licked a finger and used it to sweep a swath of hair from my face.

“Rena!”

“Oh, chill out,” she muttered.

Ama was laughing so hard she was bent at the
waist and wiping her eyes. “You two should take this show on the road,” she said when she came up for air.

I held up a kitty capelet while Rena pretended to take a bite out of a salmon cracker, and Ama snapped our picture.

“I need to scoot off to take some pictures of the cats and guests. But it was great seeing the two of you.”

“Same here, Ama.”

“Where’s Pris?” I asked Rena as Ama made her way out through the crowd. I could see all her worker bees buzzing around the spa station in the corner of the ballroom, but I couldn’t spot Pris in the midst of the fray. I felt a stab of irritation. We’d made an arrangement to share each other’s cards with the cat owners, and if someone bought a service from Pris and an item from me, they got ten percent off both purchases. I had my cards ready to go, but Pris still hadn’t brought hers over.

“I don’t know,” Rena replied. “I saw her when I first got here this morning, but it’s such a zoo in here I can barely keep track of myself.”

Tension in the ballroom continued to mount as we all waited for an announcement that the day’s activities were beginning. But I didn’t see anyone in charge. I expected to see Pamela Rawlins, her brown Burmese, Tonga, draped around her neck. She was technically the organizer of the event. I scanned the room, looking
for signs of her sin-black topknot moving through the crowd, but nothing.

Neither Marsha nor Phillip Denford had made an appearance yet, and Marigold Aames—who seemed to be the driving force of the Denford operation—was MIA, too. The only Denford in sight was Peter, and he stood off to the side, in an empty judging circle, sipping a cup of coffee.

I frowned. My sixth sense told me something was up.

I reached beneath our table to grab a box of outfits, thinking I might find a wardrobe change for Jinx for later in the day. As I picked it up, I thought I heard a rustling sound coming from inside. I set the box on the table and cautiously lifted a corner open. In a wink, something small and furry wiggled out from the confines of the box and leapt from the edge of the table.

My first thought was that Rena’s ferret, Val, had hitchhiked to the show in the box, but then I realized that Rena would have left Val at home for the day and that the critter who’d scampered from the box was too small to be a ferret.

“Was that Gandhi?” Rena squealed.

Lord have mercy. It absolutely was Gandhi, making one of his rare and inopportune appearances.

Nearly a year before, a woman named Sherry Harper
had died in my back alley, and her auburn guinea pig, Gandhi, had escaped into the wild. Over the months, we’d tried to catch him as he took up residence in businesses up and down the alley: Richard Greene’s Greene Brigade, then my friend Taffy’s tea shop, and eventually in Xander Stephens’s record shop, Spin Doctor. I lived in fear that he’d find his way to Ken West’s restaurant, Red, White & Bleu, and end up in an exterminator’s crosshairs.

I hadn’t seen Gandhi inside Trendy Tails since he first went missing, but somehow he must have gotten in and managed to elude Jinx for long enough to hop a ride to the M-CFO cat show.

The absolute last place a guinea pig should be.

I crouched down to see if I could spot the little fella, but between the table drapes and the sea of legs, he was long gone.

“Lose something?” I looked up to find Jack smiling down at me.

“Yes. No. Sort of,” I muttered as I climbed to my feet. Jack stood next to my aunt Dolly, who—alarmingly—held Packer, my pug-bulldog mix, on a leash.

I hugged everyone in sight, including my dog, who returned my affection with a big slobbery puppy kiss, before narrowing my eyes and chiding Jack and Dolly. “Why did you bring Packer?”

Jack shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo
shorts and shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’m just the driver.”

Right. “Just the driver.” Like he had no control over Dolly, no obligation to rein her in. Jack knew Dolly did inappropriate things on a daily basis; it took a village to keep Dolly in check. Besides, Jack was a cop, for heaven’s sake. He should have been the voice of reason. But I was inclined to give him a pass. Once Dolly got an idea in her head, it was hard to talk her out of it. In fact, the more rational you tried to be, the more she dug in her heels. While Jack was very serious about his copness, he wasn’t a bully; I couldn’t imagine him forcing Dolly to do something she didn’t want to do.

For her part, Dolly cocked her white-haired head and narrowed her eyes right back at me. “Izzy McHale. I never knew you to be so discriminatory. Packer has just as much right to be here as anyone else.”

“But it’s a cat show.” I knew I was stating the obvious, but what else could I say? I swept my arm around to display the tables full of cats.

“And I’m sure all the cats are lovely,” Dolly said. “But Packer wanted to join in on the fun, and you know he’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

I knew nothing of the sort. Both Packer and Jinx were ill-behaved little creatures, spoiled rotten by Ingrid, Dolly, and occasionally me. Besides, even
assuming we could corral Packer under our display table, I knew his presence would disturb the cats.

Sure enough, Packer let out a snuffling little bark, and the cats in the cages closest to my table started to
roo
. The international feline call of distress spread from cage to cage, table to table, until the collective keening of two hundred cats overwhelmed the room. Even Jinx had her ears flattened back on her skull, and she usually ignored Packer like he was a piece of furniture.

As though the cat calls had summoned her, Pamela Rawlins strode into the ballroom through the main door, about twenty feet from my table. She had her eyes downcast and her shoulders hunched with tension as she made a beeline toward the prize table. She leaned in to examine the glittering collar dangle, head cocked this way and then that, before turning on her heel and walking back the way she’d come.

I heard sniggering behind me and turned to find both Rena and Jack, heads down, shoulders shaking suspiciously. “You two are not helping,” I hissed. “Dolly, you have got to take Packer home.”

“But I want to stay.”

I pinned Jack with a stern look. “Jack will take you back to 801 Maple so you can drop off Packer and leave him with Wanda, and then he will bring you back to the show. Right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, scuffing his toe like a wayward child.

Before they could move, a
thunk
ing sound resonated from the hallway, and the lights in the ballroom went out. In the vast windowless room, there wasn’t so much as a glimmer of light. After a heartbeat of silence, both the cats
and
the people began to whine and call out, everyone disoriented in the sudden darkness. Not to be outdone, Packer took up a howling complaint.

I felt a rush of air as someone moved quickly past me. I was disoriented by the dark, but I got the distinct impression that the person was moving from my right—from somewhere near the main ballroom door—to my left—toward the back corner of the ballroom, where the conformation-judging rings started to wend their way around the room, forming a big U that ended right by the other front corner of the room, where Pris’s grooming station had been arranged.

A minute later, I was blinded by light from the corridor as Jack threw open the main doors and secured them to the heavy magnets set in the wall. A maintenance worker rushed up to him, and the two exchanged a few brief words.

Slowly that beacon of light from the doorway lowered the level of chaos in the room. Jack yelled out across the crowd, “Just a tripped fuse, everyone.” Everyone hushed, and it seemed like all attention—human
and feline—had turned to Jack. I felt a swell of pride at his confidence, the way he commanded the room. “We’ll have light again in a second.”

As his last syllable trailed away, there was another
thunk
, and the lights returned, leaving a roomful of people blinking as their eyes readjusted to the bright ballroom chandeliers.

“On that note,” Jack said, “we’d better get going. Heaven forbid the lights go off again and we lose Packer in the ensuing panic.” He gently took Dolly’s elbow and, like the big Boy Scout he was, drew her toward the wide-open entrance to the ballroom.