Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Andrew Gilbert

Friday Afternoon

Wesley Taft rushed past me sniffling like a schoolboy.  I looked down the aisle and saw the Mouth Breather watching him.

This I had to look into!

I got up from my chair and went over to her.  “Now I should have warned you, when we gay men try to convert to normalcy, we take rejection very hard!”

She shook her head.  “That’s not funny.”

“He must be a Cancer.  They’re notorious crybabies.  What the hell was that all about, anyway?”

“Do you know anything about that situation?”

I did know, more than I wanted to.  I had chosen not to get involved.

“I can see you do.  I can see by the look on your face,” she said.  “Well, Roxanne told me they starved their cat and he was sick all the time.”

I just looked at her.

“Is it true?”

“That cat was doing really well at the shows.  Do you think that would have been possible if he was underweight or sick?”

She hesitated.  “No.”

“And as I said, the cat was doing very well.”

“I see.  So, where is the cat?”

I shrugged.

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well does she still have him?  I’ve never seen him at her house.”

“I don’t believe he is there.”

“Well, he didn’t just disappear, did he?  Did he get away from her and she was just afraid to tell them?”

I shook my head.

“Did someone steal him?”

I smirked. 
“Yeah.  Roxanne did!”

I turned around to walk away.

“Andrew!”

It was the first time I had ever heard her say my name.  She said it forcefully and I stopped.

“She screwed those people over, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. 
Very badly.  And the scary thing is, I hear there’s a gene for moral character!”

“Well, why didn’t you do something?”

“What?”

She just stared at me.  She couldn’t be serious.  At least her mouth was shut.  I felt my shoulders shrinking upwards against my neck.  “What could I do?”

“Andrew, when you see something like that happening, and you don’t step in, you are just as guilty as the perpetrator.”

“Oh, come on!  I might cheat on my income taxes, but I would never steal someone’s kitty!”

She scowled and looked down.  I turned and ambled down the aisle, past a row of dozing Burmese and over to Dennis’s photo booth. He was leaning over his tripod, looking through his lens and adjusting the settings, blowing gently into the eyepiece. 

“Hey,” he said.

“You wouldn’t believe the conversation I just had.”

“It bothers me, you taking that ring.”  Dennis said.  “I know you stole it.”

“I’ll put it back, okay?”

“You’d better.” 

“I did it just to tease her.  I’ll put it back.”

“She will go ballistic on you.”

I shrugged.  “So what if she does?  It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He just shook his head.  He was looking at me with – I don’t know – an expression of condescension. 
Disgust, even.

“What?”  I snapped.  I couldn’t help feeling defensive.

“Nothing.”  He went on adjusting his camera, acting as if I should just leave him alone.  But I could never leave well enough alone.

“Well excuse me!  I’m sorry if I insulted your girlfriend.”

He edged away from me, turning his broad shoulder so that his back was completely toward me.  I watched the muscles ripple beneath his tight cotton shirt.  He looked so good in white cotton.  I paused for a minute, but when he continued to ignore me, I said, “Okay, well then, I’ll just be going now.”

He gave me no reaction.

“Maybe I’ll send Roxanne over for a little whoopee behind the curtain.”

He turned suddenly and glared at me.  “You know what?  If that’s what you think of me, then you should just take a walk!”

I took a step back.  “Oh, you mean it’s over?  Because of Roxanne?  Please!”

“No, not because of your aunt.
  Because of you.  And your lack of respect!”

“Because I don’t respect Auntie Climax?”
  I was laughing now.

“No.  You don’t respect me.”  He glared at me.  He was serious.

“Dennis…”  I reached for him.  But he folded his arms and looked away.

“I’m sorry.  It’s over.”

“Well, what about the cats?”

“We’ll discuss that later.  Please just leave me alone now.”

I smiled a little, tipping my head in the way I knew he found irresistible.  “Den…  Come on.”

“I mean it!” he snapped.  “Take a walk!” 

It was perhaps unfortunate timing that at that moment, my Aunt came breezing up holding Kenya.  “Denny?  You have time to do him?”

Dennis
’s smile was too big as he said, “For you, anything.  Let me get this backdrop ready.”

He raised one hand and wiggled the fingers arrogantly in my face. 
“Toodles!”  He turned and led Roxanne to the pile of fabric at the side of his booth.  Standing strategically with his back to me, he beckoned to her and pointed to the pile, saying, “See, I think for him, green is a good choice…”

I watched her lean over, close to him, far closer than she needed to be.  I felt an unadulterated surge of hatred.  She was never satisfied.  I felt my fists tightening, tightening, and
I looked down and noticed I was still holding the feather toy.  It looked foolish and trivial in my hand.  I stood there, clenching it, glaring at the hefty behind of my tacky and provocative aunt.

Chapter Eighteen

Ginny
Robards

Faraway Places

Everyone seemed drowsy in the show hall, as the sugar buzz from lunch wore off and the judging droned on.  The crackle of excitement had dulled to a frail whine.  The cats snoozed.  I had my crossword puzzle, and Liesl dozed in her chair with one arm propped up on the grooming cart.  Her chin was cradled in her hand and she snored gently.  My baby.

Liesl
was thirty five years old and from what I could tell, she’d never had a boyfriend.  When she was a child, not long after Ed left us, I’d had an affair with my cousin’s best friend.  He was a nice man, Lance was his name.  He had a gentle nature that I appreciated.  But he was allergic to cats.  Whenever he came over, his face would swell up like a balloon.  And so it had to end.

At that time we’d had only one Persian,
Muffy.  I’d let Liesl name her.  We had gotten her from a pet store when Ed left.  I thought Liesl could use a friend.

If
Muffy had been able to maintain a coat, she would have been a black and orange tortoiseshell.  But she was the worst quality Persian.  She had a long protruding snout and small drippy eyes.  Her coat grew in shoddy patches, like a ragged carpet, despite my doses of cod liver oil.  She had chronic ringworm and we had to shave what hair she did have.  She sneezed constantly.  It was before I realized that one should never buy cats or dogs from a pet store; before all the nasty puppy and kitten mills that supplied these facilities became public knowledge. 

Liesl
had immediately bonded to Muffy.  She used to dress her up in doll clothes and roll her around in a baby stroller.  Perhaps it was due to her poor health, but Muffy tolerated everything.  She would lie on her back in the stroller with her forepaws over the edge of the blanket exactly as Liesl had placed them.  In her pink lace bonnet and with that black tear-stained face, she looked like some kind of ghoul.  But she purred constantly.

Muffy
was the typical Kitten Mill kitten – she had health problems her whole short life.  When she was only four years old, she lost weight and suddenly became prone to fainting spells.  She would be sitting on the window sill, and suddenly fall over and crash to the floor.  Tests revealed that she had cardiomyopathy.  Liesl was heartbroken.

And so was I. 
Muffy’s lungs were filling with fluid, so we decided not to let her suffer.  I told Liesl I would take her to the vet myself, but my brave girl said, “No, I will go with you.  She is my cat.”

Our vet gestured to me and we left
Liesl alone in the exam room, so she could say goodbye to Muffy in private.

“Next time you get a kitten,” he had said gently. “Be sure to find a reputable breeder.  Don’t go to a pet store.”

Liesl held Muffy while she was injected, and Muffy died in her arms.  Liesl stood like a rock and did not shed one tear.

Lance had told me to call if I ever “got rid of the cat.”  It crossed my mind, but I never did.  I decided what was past should stay there.

A month or so later, Liesl and I saw an ad in the paper for a local cat show and decided to attend.

That was where we found
Cattindow’s K. Purr, our first real show cat.  He was a black Persian.  And that was how we had started in this whole crazy, wonderful business.  And now, here sat Liesel, snoozing next to K. Purr’s great-great-great granddaughter.  I liked to think that it was all done in Muffy’s honor.

Roxanne passed by, her skirt brushing against me.  She was with the Pringle boy again – I couldn’t remember his name.  He was sort of ordinary.  He and his wife seemed nice enough but they certainly wanted to play politics. 

Young people often wanted to clerk and make friends with the judges, thinking it would get them ahead.  In time, if they didn’t get discouraged and quit as many did, they would learn that the way to success was simply to show a great cat.  And that meant great in all ways – not only in conformation, but temperament.  There was no mistaking greatness when it was present in an animal.  The cat oozed it.  It was a thing of beauty.

I turned my attention back to the crossword.  What was a four letter word for assassinate?  Not, “kill”.  That didn’t fit.  It had to fit in with “adeptly” in the vertical column, so must end with a “Y”.

“Slay,” said Liesl.

I looked up, startled.  Her eyes were still closed.

Chapter Nineteen

Kim Norwich

Saturday Evening

The show hall was technically filled with suspects, but we had to let everyone go home that night.  I had followed, standing by in silence while the detective questioned people at length.  The restroom was taped off and the men’s bathroom became a unisex facility for the duration of that day.  That too had become a pigsty in short order.  It was disgusting.

I walked up and down the aisle that night checking under each cage.  I lifted curtains and drapes of all kinds.  Under the cages were all sorts of grooming supplies, boxes with crackers and cheese, bags of potato chips and cookies.  No wonder cat people looked the way they did.  There were trash bags too, filled with unimaginable stuff.  A couple of the cages had little mattresses, dog beds really.  For the gnomes, children of the Cat People.

I used my flashlight and shone it into every corner.  I didn’t know what I expected to see, but anything was possible.

A soft meow caught me by surprise and I shone the light up into the face of a blue Abyssinian.  Tracy Pringle’s cat.  She had left him here alone?  He reached for me with one paw, pleading for attention.  I looked around and saw no one.  I opened the door and took him out.  He settled happily into my arms, purring, reaching for my face with his paw, tapping me lightly on the cheek. 

“Oh, great,” I said.  “Now you know I have to put you back!”

“Miss Norwich, I’m here.”  I turned to see Everett, my night man, standing behind me.  He was a big fellow with a perpetual stupid grin.  He was popping gum.  I hesitated for a moment, thinking maybe I shouldn’t leave.

“Got a friend there, huh?” he said.

I put the Aby back in his cage and shut the door.  “His owner’s an ass.”

“’
Zat right?”

“Only an ass would leave a cat in a show hall overnight like this.  But she’s an ass for plenty of other reasons too.”

He chortled, a low gravelly sound in his throat.

“Any special instructions tonight?” he said.

“Stay awake.”

Again the chortle.

“Just be alert.  The cops will be crawling all over the place all night, but that doesn’t mean we get to slack off.  You know this building better than they do.  And check the back doors.  I am sure I locked them, but check them again.”

“I’m on it.  Get some rest,
willya?”  He clapped me on the shoulder with a heavy hand.  I brushed it away.

“Keep a sharp eye out.  The murder was in that restroom.”  I gestured with a thumb.  “And make sure this kitty has water.”

I turned and left the building.

Chapter Twenty

Cecilia Fox

Friday Afternoon

The judge stepped up to the table, and with a dramatic flip of his wrists, tossed Kenya up under the lights.  With a solid “
thunk”, the cat stuck the landing like an Olympic champion.  His feet were squarely planted, his legs stretched, and he stood on his toes with his back arched slightly.  He gazed out over his audience, a benevolent ruler, lifting his chin and stretching his neck upward.  His head nodded, a light “yes”, that universal good-humored feline gesture.  And his tail!  Oh, his tail, that crowning glory, swept up over his back, flagging this way and that, a black-tipped banner of pride.

The judge stepped back from his table, allowing the cat to shine alone in his glory.  Larry had no fear that Kenya would go anywhere.  It was very clear that he knew what it was all about.  There he stood, center stage, calmly absorbing the adulation that was his due.

Around me, I felt the spectators go breathless.  “Wow,” said a voice behind me.  I was suddenly aware that I was weeping, as this moment signified what all the trivia, all the effort was about:  The constant search for that one special creature, who so effortlessly and fearlessly represented its breed, in temperament and stature, and in that elusive charisma that so few of them possessed.

Kenya had it.  And despite all the squabbling, all the back-stabbing, not a soul here could deny that he deserved every award bestowed upon him.

At that moment, I realized the judge was speaking, but my thoughts had missed most of his description.  I think he talked about Kenya’s perfect muzzle, the feral shape of his green eyes, his beautiful ruddy color.  He was finishing with, “He’s got it all, this Somali boy.  A great representation of the breed.  And today, he is my Best Cat.”

As Larry said the words, he picked Kenya up, holding him high overhead, fully stretched.  Kenya rested easily in his grasp, his front paws treading the air gently in his contented “swimming” motion.  The crowd around me began to applaud.  I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I quickly wiped my eyes, and turned around to see Wesley standing behind me. 

“Congratulations,” he said.  I could tell by his smile that he meant it.

I smiled back.  “Thank you so much!”

“Where’s your cat?”  Andrew said.  I was sitting alone, knitting, with no Kenya on his grooming cart.

“Oh, Roxanne took him to have his photo done.”

“Why didn’t you go with her?”

“She told me to stay here and keep Zephyr company.”

“Here’s the show catalog from Philly.”  Andrew tossed a dog-eared manuscript onto my cart.

“Thanks!”  I said.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”  He strode away.  He took huge steps, but he was elegant in a way.  He sort of floated when he moved, light and airy.  I could imagine him pole vaulting or playing basketball.

I set my knitting aside and picked up the catalog.  It had a yellow cover, which was illustrated with a badly drawn cat sitting on top of the Liberty Bell.   “Philly Pheline Phanciers” it said.  Yuck.

I flipped toward the back, where the Somalis would be listed.  Sure enough, there was High Five’s
Tigger, listed below Kenya and another ruddy cat.  Andrew had added notes.  “Short legs, low white,” he had written by the other ruddy’s name.  Tigger had won in every ring.

I looked at Kenya’s name and paused.  “
Moorover’s Kenya Strut”, it said.  “Breeder/Owner:  Roxanne Moore.”

I was not mentioned.

Quickly I turned to the back of the book, to see if I was at least listed in the index.

No Cecilia
Fox.

My heart pounded.  Wesley’s words about Rusty’s disappearance were coming back.  Hadn’t he said their names were omitted from the show catalogs?  I stood up and walked to the end of the aisle, looking over at the show
photographer’s booth.  It was enclosed, and I saw a flash briefly illuminate the dark curtain which surrounded it.

I walked over to the booth, lifted the curtain and saw the photographer pointing his camera at an Oriental Shorthair.  The owner looked up irritably and grabbed the cat.  The photographer turned.  “Yes?”

“I’m looking for my Somali.  Is he here?”

“No, honey, there’s no Somali here.  Sorry.”  He turned back to his camera.

I let the curtain drop and began looking around.  I couldn’t see Roxanne anywhere.

I went back to Kenya’s cage, walked past it down to where Jack was bent over the wastebasket, scooping out a small litter pan.

“Have you seen Roxanne?” I asked.

He looked up at me.  I could see his eyes, widening, the pupils encircled with white.  “No!  Why would I?”