Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Andrew Gilbert

Saturday

It wasn’t difficult to break into Roxanne’s van.  Like my grandmother, she always kept a key taped inside the wheel well.  My mother had done the same thing.  That was the advantage of being family.

He was crated inside, mewing piteously, and padding with those infernal front feet.  He really did have the most serious case of happy feet.

Poor Cecelia, she was so grateful, she just burst into tears.  She kept hugging me.  It was ridiculous, but kind of sweet.

Dennis, of course, was furious with me.  I told him this was the best thing I had ever stolen, and I had done it for all the right reasons.

“Don’t you realize there’s a murder investigation on?  And you’re breaking into the victim’s car?”

“I don’t care.  After all, I didn’t kill the bitch.  I bless the person who did.  He or she was a sacrificial lamb.  The world is a better place.”

Dennis just stared at me like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Oh, get real,” I turned and walked away from his photo booth, back to my benching area.

The show was going on.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ginny Robards

Drifting

Liesl
hadn’t come back to the hotel room.  I’d had the most horrible dream that Liesl was running through the mountains and the Nazis were after her.  I woke up sweating.  The cat stirred irritably and moved away from me.

But she was at the show hall that morning when I went in. 

“Where have you been?” I said.

She just shrugged and took the crate from my hand, took
Eidel out and began grooming her.  And then I saw the crowd around the restroom.

“What is happening?”

Liesl did not answer, but the woman across from me with the Himalayans said, “Roxanne Moore was murdered this morning.”

“What!”

I looked at Liesl.  She continued grooming the cat, showing absolutely no reaction.

I sat down and noticed that the picture of Julie Andrews in her nun’s habit had fallen on the floor.  I picked it up, smoothing it with one hand, and began to cry.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Kim Norwich

Saturday Night

I volunteered for night watch that night.  Nothing funny was going to happen on my watch.  I realized that Roxanne had been killed after the show started that morning, but with cats disappearing under bleachers and people being violently murdered, I couldn’t trust the night watch to that gum-popping idiot again.

Reynolds, to his credit, stayed too.  He strolled up and down the aisles that evening looking at the photos of cats, framed in ornate garb on top of the cages.  “Look at this one.  It has no ears.”

“It’s a Scottish Fold,” I said.  “It has ears.  They are just folded down tight.”

“Look at that!  He looks like an owl!”  Reynolds said.  “He’s pretty cute!  What do they do, tape the ears down when they are babies?”

“No, they breed for it. 
Something to do with the cartilage.”

Reynolds straightened and moved farther up the aisle.  “Oh look at this
one, it’s a fluffy version of the Scotland Fold.”

“Scottish,” I said.

“Sor-REE.” He looked back at me, smiling.  “Get up here, will you?  I know it’s a sign of respect, and all, but you don’t really have to stay two steps behind.”

I moved up next to him.  He looked down at me, patting the top of my head with one hand. 
“Hey, Shorty.”

Normally a gesture like this would have made me furious.  But I felt my stomach instantly go all smooth and creamy, like warmed butter. 

“Knock it off,” I told myself.

He turned and moved up the aisle again.  I followed.  He waved to me.  “Come on over here.  Look at this one.”

I bent over and looked.  “Oh, that’s a Siamese.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, that’s an aardvark.  Look at the snout on it.”

“That’s what they look like nowadays.”

“I guess that’s progress.”

We approached the Somali cages and Reynolds was suddenly quiet.  He knew that this was the murder victim’s benching area.  There was an empty cage, and in the one next to it there was a single cat, a very deep rust color.  The sign on the door said, “Moorover’s Zephyr”.  The Somali looked up at us with sleepy eyes.

“Hi Zephyr.
  Poor thing,” I said.  “Where’s your momma now, huh?”

“Do you think they know?”  Reynolds asked.

“Absolutely.  An animal will grieve just like a person.”

The cat suddenly rolled its head sideways, uncurling its front paws and reaching up toward us playfully.

“You’re right.  His heart’s broken.  Poor thing.”

I felt my face getting hot, but he turned away.  He strolled up the aisle.  I followed.  He turned and said, “What is that guy doing over there on the floor by the bleachers?”

“His cat is hiding under them.”

“Why don’t we just pull them out?”

“We’re afraid we’ll hurt her.”

He hesitated, squinting into the dark corner where Wesley was barely visible, covered with his blanket.  “He can’t be spending the whole night like that.  He’s got to be miserable.  Let’s send him home.  We’ll get the cat if it comes out.”

“I’ve tried.  He won’t leave her.”

He looked at me and shook his head.  “That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

He just shook his head again.  “I don’t know about these cat people.  And I don’t think I want to know.”

“Didn’t you ever have a cat?”

There was a chair at the end of the benching row.  Reynolds gestured to it and then pulled another one up for
himself.  He settled into it, looking completely relaxed, and nodded his head.  “Sure.  I had a cat when I was a kid.  It got hit by a car.”

I shuddered as I sat down.  “Ugh.  I’m sorry.”

He shrugged.  “That is what always happened to cats in my neighborhood.  We never even dreamed of this kind of foof.”

He looked around at the show cages, all decorated in lace and glitter, with an expression of bewildered amusement.

“I have two cats.  Bill and Georgie.  They are just household pets,” I said.

“I think that’s what they’re supposed to be.  Cats should be at home by the fireplace, or out in a barn somewhere hunting for mice.  I mean, it seems kind of unnatural dragging them out and subjecting them to
foof like this.”

That was the second time he had said the word, “
Foof”.  It sounded absurd coming from him, but I said nothing.

“A dog, now,” he continued.  “That’s a different story.  Dogs are meant to do any stupid thing we want them to.  They are bred and molded into what we want. 
Hunters.  Guide dogs for the blind.  Police officers.  In fact I’ve worked with a couple of canine teams.  Those dogs are amazing.  You’d swear they could almost talk.”

“They’re still just dogs,” I reminded him.

“Yes, but it’s different.  They are not like cats at all.  They are more gratuitous.”

“That’s a pretty big word for a cop.”

He didn’t miss a beat.  “Dogs want to please us.  They don’t have the dignity that cats do.  Unless a cat is a really good sport, like a dog, a cat isn’t going to put up with this kind of-”

“
Foof?” I said.

He laughed.  “You sound as if you like this stuff.”

I shrugged, feeling around for my cigarettes, but then realized I probably shouldn’t smoke in here.  I was itching for one, but I decided to wait.  I rested my hands nervously on my legs and sat up straight in my chair.  “Well, I’ll tell ya.  I feel sorry for some of the animals that don’t like showing.  People just drag them out and force them to do it.  You can tell they’re just miserable.  Pringle’s got one like that.  And what I really hate is when they just let their kids run around like wild animals.  Those kids go totally unsupervised all weekend long.  It drives me crazy.  I wouldn’t want my kids hanging around these people.”

“You have kids?”

“No, but if I did, I wouldn’t want them hanging around some of these characters.  They have dirty habits and they use the most filthy language.  Talk like sailors.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”  I couldn’t seem to stop myself from slapping my pockets.  I needed a smoke.  “Then the kids pick it up.  When I was little if I talked that way, my mother would squirt dish soap into my mouth.”

“No kidding! 
Ya know, in this day and age, that could be considered child abuse.”

“My folks did all kinds of other shit that would be, too.  That was the least of it.  They kept a big wooden paddle hanging on the wall by the back door.  That thing looked like it belonged in a damn canoe.”  I
was wanting a smoke.  My fingers rapped an impatient little tattoo on my leg, but I stilled them.

“Did they use it, or was it just a visual deterrent?”

“Another big word.  You’ve been studying the dictionary.  Uh – hell yeah, they used it!  I got my butt warmed more than once by that thing.”

“Is that right!”

Yep, but most of the time I probably deserved it.”

He smiled a little.  “Let me ask you something, Norwich.”

“Yeah?” Where were my cigarettes, anyway?  Had I left them in my car?  I usually carried them in my coat pocket but they weren’t here.

“Would you ever do this?”

Maybe they were in the inside pocket.  I unzipped my leather coat and felt inside.  “Do what?”

“Show cats.”

“Fuck, no!” I blurted.

He burst out laughing and slapped his hands on his legs.  He had caught me off guard and he knew it.  I was a little irritated. 

“I’ve got to go find my smokes,” I stood up and walked away, leaving him sitting there laughing.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Cecilia Fox

Saturday Evening

Kenya was back!  Thank God nothing bad had happened to him.  And the show was back in full swing.  I even showed Zephyr.  I didn’t know what his future was going to be like, with his owner dead, but I saw to it that as long as he was entered, he was going to be shown.  He allowed me to handle him with no problems.  He really was a very nice boy.

I felt sorry for the poor Bobtail people whose cat had blown up.  What a bad stroke of luck they’d had in the fancy.  On occasion I glanced over to see one of them sitting by the bleachers, trying to tempt the cat to come out.  I meant to go ask if I could help, but I had my hands full that afternoon with showing two cats and keeping track of two classes. 

Zephyr being a Grand Premier was making finals left and right and he kept getting called back to the rings.  His cage front was covered with rosettes.  It was a bit cumbersome having to tie his bib on every time I brought him back, only to remove it again so I could groom him.  The bib was weighted in the front so it stayed in position.  It was covered on the outside with sequins, which I thought was kind of dumb, because cats are so prone to swallowing things, and if one of them had come loose, well…  I didn’t want to think any more bad thoughts though.  I was having such fun with him.  It was exciting hearing his number called every time they announced a Premiership final.  And he was scoring high!  Best Cat, Second Best Cat, always in the top five, even in the Allbreed rings. 

Zephyr was having a good time, too, and was easy to show.  He really loved it.  He’d sit like a stone in the judging cage, but then pop up when the judge came to take him out.  He was an old pro.  When he was placed on the table, he’d sit down and wait patiently until a toy was selected.  And then as if on cue, he’d jump up like lightning, exploding into motion, reaching for the toy, batting and twirling and rising up on his hind legs.  He was truly a star.

It was too bad he didn’t get along with Kenya, as it would have been great fun to continue his career.  But my first priority was my Kenya Kitty, my fuzzy britches, my bread making boy.

That security guard in the black leather jacket was hovering around all the time.  She watched me.  I vaguely wondered if I was a suspect, but well, she was only a security guard. 
Probably had a little Supercop ego thing going.

I felt bad after thinking this, because she had always been nice to me.  She asked a lot of questions about cats.  Here she
came again, watching me groom Zephyr’s tail.  I was rubbing some Fuller’s Earth into it. 

“What’s the powder for?” 
she asked.

“He’s got stud tail.”

She grinned.  “What the heck is that?”

“It’s greasy right along the top here.  They call it Stud Tail because it happens to male cats
who are hormonal, but Zephyr here is neutered.  But he has it anyway.”

She watched as I brushed and fluffed out the tail.  “Yes, I see how it seems to dry the coat right out.”

“Yes it does.”

“This is the murder victim’s Somali, no?  And you just kept showing him?”

I hesitated for a second, then nodded.  What was I supposed to say?  I didn’t want to appear callous, but after all the cat was entered.  But she said nothing and strolled on up the aisle, stopping by Tracy Pringle’s cage.  Tracy wasn’t there, but Jack was sitting reading the paper.  He looked up when she approached.

“Is this an Abyssinian?” she asked, peering into the cage.  “What an unusual color.”

“Yes, he’s a blue Aby,” Jack replied.  He folded the paper and sat upright in the chair, with his knees pressed together like a schoolgirl.

“Is he a champion or – “