Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat (4 page)

Chapter Five

Andrew Gilbert

Thursday Afternoon

“Where did you get that pen?”  Dennis asked.  He was standing next to Hotsy’s cage, eating a corn dog.

“From the Mouth Breather.”
  I didn’t tell him that I had seen the end of it peeping out of her backpack, and hadn’t been able to resist lifting it.

“Let me see that.”  He took it and held it up, examining the image on it.  “Is that Kenya?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I’d like to know where she had that done.  I’d like to do one of
Hotsy to hand out to potential kitten buyers.”

“I can ask her.”

“Yes, do that.  Hey, by the way, I noticed Cecilia benched right next to you.  How are you two getting along?” 

“Oh, she’s all right.  Kind of a freak, but she has a rather twisted sense of humor that I like.”

“She needs a major makeover.  She has a nice complexion, but that hair!  Ugh.”

“Yeah, and she needs to learn to keep her mouth shut,” I said.

“I thought she was quiet.”

“No, I mean literally. 
The Mouth Breathing thing.  She watches everything my aunt does, and just sits there with it hanging open.”

“It’s so obvious that she’s jealous.  Roxanne has all the glamour that she will never have.”

I looked at him.  “You think Roxanne is glamorous?”

He squirmed a little.  “Well, in
her own way.  She’s flashy, you know?”

I felt my face beginning to warm and tingle.  “No, I don’t know.  I think she’s vulgar.”

Dennis laughed, showing his gleaming, perfect teeth in his tanned Malibu Ken face.  “Now you sound jealous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

But when he looked at me, smiling, I caught my breath.  Dennis was a brown-eyed Brad Pitt. He was a cat show photographer whose work was mediocre, but he had no shortage of clients.  Women just melted over him.  I often wondered what he was doing with a skinny guy like me.  He was a Taurus though, beautiful himself, attracted to beauty but not obsessed with it. 

“Are you hungry?”  He leaned against the top of
Hotsy’s cage, nibbling the corn dog. 

“Ugh.  The show hall food is so disgusting.  I don’t know how you can eat it.”

“I wouldn’t try the pizza.  The crust is all curled up and the pepperoni is shriveled.  But these corn dogs are great.  Eating is fun!  You oughta try it sometime.”

“Funny.”

“Anyway.  All kidding aside.  I am a little concerned about this habit of yours.”

“What habit?”

“The stealing.  I know you swiped that pen.”

“Huh?”

“I read somewhere that the condition is sometimes treated with Prozac.”

I stood up and turned away from him.  “Aside from my dry winter skin, I don’t have a condition.  And I don’t need drugs.”

Dennis reached under the cage and found the plastic bag we used for trash.  He tossed the stick from his corn dog in there.  “I’m not saying you do.  I’m only suggesting – “

“Let’s just drop it, okay?”

He shrugged.  “Okay.”  He strolled back toward his photography booth.

I hesitated,
then followed him.  The booth consisted of a set of midnight blue curtains hung on a rack, which separated the space inside from the rest of the show hall.  Several metal easels held large photos of cats; some he had taken and some just posters he had glued onto a cardboard backing.  A table outside the booth held photo albums and his appointment book.

Dennis lifted the curtain and ducked inside the booth.  I followed.

Even when they were veterans of the showing world, cats being photographed could easily be spooked.  It was important to try to keep the surroundings as calm and still as possible.  Inside the booth was a table covered with black fabric, and behind it were piled rolls of fabric which Dennis used as colored backdrops.  They were all different colors and textures; lilac and canvas and cotton candy.  I had selected colors to compliment the different shades of cats – textured mint green to match the eyes of the smooth Havana Brown, silky sky blue for the shaded Silver Persian.  I had made a chart up for Dennis, from a color wheel I had found in an art supply store.  I sat up until 3 am one morning writing a list of suggested colors for the various breeds.  I suggested textured backgrounds for the shorthaired breeds, smooth backgrounds for the long coats.  I had become immersed in the concepts of contrast and lighting and the artistic side of it all.

Naturally, the cat owners always had their own opinions, usually wrong.  They picked the most garish things imaginable.  I cringed when one woman insisted on photographing her pure black Exotic Shorthair against a stop-light red background.  Why Dennis even had this red fabric, I couldn’t understand.  It was vulgar.  Black cats were so difficult to photograph anyway!  Special lighting had to be
used, and the cat’s features often disappeared, leaving a most vexing silhouette effect. I tried to suggest something other than the red, like a smooth tan or pearl grey. 

But the lady wouldn’t have it.  She just kept looking at Dennis, completely ignoring me.  In his suave way, Dennis gave her what she wanted.  He didn’t care.

So I butted out.  But I was sure to look at the proofs when they came back, and I had been correct.  The effect was blinding.

Near his bag of camera equipment, Dennis kept a basket of cat toys; feathers and furry mice rigged up on long fishing lines, so that he could hold the toy while operating the camera at the same time, at some distance from the cat.  The owner sat on a chair near the table and tried to keep the cat from jumping off.

I had searched antique stores and yard sales for doll furniture, and had acquired an assortment of tasteful décor that Dennis used as props in his photos.  An old mirror in a curving brass frame.  A velvet daybed.  A beautiful wicker basket.  I was always trying to come up with attractive features and ideas to make his portraits better, although it probably didn’t matter.

Dennis sat in a chair and dug through a large bag of camera equipment.  He pulled out a box of film and peeled it open.

“Digital is the wave of the future, but nothing will ever replace 35 millimeter,” he said.

I was surprised and charmed that Dennis stuck to the old fashioned photography methods.  I didn’t comment that his
photos came out blurry due to his insistence on manual focus combined with a quick-moving cat.

Dennis was not, however, entirely opposed to modern technology.  He and I had met on
FriendsFirst, an internet dating site.  His profile contained merely his photo and a question mark.  Judging from his looks, I’d guess that was all he needed.  But he had written me first, saying he was intrigued by my catch phrase, “We can have it all!”

“Hi,” his first contact had said. 
“Cappuccino?”

“When and where?”  I’d shot back.

That was all it took.  He stepped into Starbuck’s one brisk November afternoon, in his Calvin Kleins and his dark Ralph Lauren jacket.  At least, it could have passed for a Ralph Lauren at the moment.  I’ll never forget how he looked, pausing in the doorway with the sun coming in behind him, framing him in an arc of gold, giving each stray hair an edge of brightness.

Now he sat examining his camera, whisking dust off the lens with a soft brush, blowing softly on it. He pretended to be unaware of his beauty, but was completely graceful in a methodical way that told me he knew.  Oh, he knew.

“The Big Wigs were asking for you earlier,” I said.

He paused. 
“The Big Wigs?”

“Yeah, you
know, the nasty big-haired mother and daughter team with the Persians.  Ugh.”  I shuddered.  “They scare me.  Anyway, they want their cat’s picture done.”

“Did you have them write it down?”

“Yes, they are on your schedule there.”

“Good boy!”

I felt a flush, a little humiliation, pass over me.  “Please, Dennis.  I’m not a dog!”

He threw up his hands.  “Sorry!”

He started away again.  I followed.  “Anyway, they want me to come fetch them when you have time to do the shoot.  Wait a minute – Did I just contradict myself?”

“Huh?”  He was sifting through receipts.

“Did I not just tell you I am not a dog, and then in the next breath, offer to fetch something?  God, maybe I do have a condition!”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Who is next on the schedule?” 

He could be vacant at times, but he was so easy on the eyes I didn’t mind.  He bent to look at the book.  “Oh.  Robards’ Persian.  It says right here.  Okay.  What color is the cat?”

“She’s white, I believe.  But they said they want a blue backdrop.  They have this whole setup they want to do with a big poster of the Alps in the background.  They’re truly whacked.”

“Well, whatever makes them happy.”

“I’ll go tell them you are ready.  Just don’t get too close.”  I leaned in to him and whispered, “They have a condition too.  It’s called B.O.”

Chapter Six

Ginny Robards

Lost In Time

My daughter
Liesl and I had been showing cats for seventeen years.  We had started two cat clubs in the area and left both of them.  They just hadn’t worked out.  Egos took over and people didn’t want to do the work.  There were only one or two useful people in every club.

Most people don’t know how much work goes into organizing a cat show.   A club has to apply to be sanctioned by CLAW; otherwise no one of consequence will come.  Funding is a big issue.  Judges are paid for their work, and if they come any distance there are travel expenses and hotel stays.  An adequate building had to be found with enough floor space to house a significant number of cats, hopefully a space that was well ventilated but not drafty.  The show committee supplies litter – if one is lucky we could find a company to donate food samples and litter.  Cages have to be supplied and usually they come with a service to set them up and tear them down.  Then there are the judging rings, with portable lights and table coverings and platforms for the cats.  Cat toys and disinfectant for each must be available.  The rosettes were a huge expense.  The more elaborate they were, the more they cost, of course.  Each ring had at least thirty rosettes, not to mention breed ribbons – best of breed, second best of breed, best of color, and so on.  A club tried to
provide gratuities – little perks for each judge.  There were muffins, drinks, maybe a house plant (always the type non-toxic to cats, of course!) or some type of gift for the judge to take home as thanks.

There were political issues, too.  Which weekend should the show
be held?  One must be chosen where there were no other competing shows in the region.  Advertising had to be done to tempt enough public to come, so the exhibitors could sell kittens and promote the various breeds.  Should household pets be invited to compete, or not?  And which judges would expect to come, depending on location, specialty, and other things.  There were enough small matters to boggle the mind.

We did manage to get through the first show with one club.  Several things went wrong.  The judge’s books got lost and didn’t turn up until Sunday afternoon.  All the judges –
except one – I won’t say who that was – were very nice and understanding and just wrote their results in notebooks instead.  The one remaining told us that he would never judge for our club again.  He was pursued by the show manager, fortunately a solicitous man who was very good with people,  and the judge eventually calmed down.

With all these issues at hand, and a group of people who loved cats, one would think there was enough in common to form a cooperative effort.  Not so.  The clubs bickered about everything, from who was going to transport judges to and from the airport, to what color the rosettes should be, to what time the judging should begin. 
Leisl and I had discovered that it was just easier to do most of the work ourselves.  This inevitably led to resentment, and accusations that we were trying to “take over,” and that we had, “control issues.”  These things hurt my feelings, but Leisl would become angry and so eventually we left both groups.

It was better just being on our own.  We maintained a club membership here and there, which only required us to pay annual dues, and that seemed the best way to contribute to our region.
I had been applying for my judging license, but it was slow going.  I had allergies and other health problems.  My feet were swelling and I had varicose veins. It was getting hard to walk, and I couldn’t see standing in a judging ring all day every weekend.

Liesl
was named after the character in my favorite movie, “The Sound of Music.”  Our cattery name was VonTrapp.  I had all kinds of neat stuff from the movie to decorate my cage – photos of Julie Andrews and Chris Plummer, and the children.  We even had a set of cage curtains that duplicated the drapes which Maria made play clothes from!  We’d had kittens named after each child in the movie and in fact we had finally run out of names.  We did resort to one pet kitten being named “Rolfe”, even though in the movie he was a traitor.

I had thought about bringing in a laptop computer and showing clips of the movie, but then realized someone might steal it.  And besides,
Liesl and I couldn’t run a computer anyway.  We were old-fashioned girls, the two of us, living alone in our apartment with the Persians.  It was a lifestyle of convenience.  We tried to keep things as simple as possible.  For instance, Liesl had worn contacts for awhile but she had had to resort to glasses.  Her eyes were bad, but the contact lenses had become unbearable in light of the cat hair everywhere.  It was fine and it seemed to weave itself into the threads of our towels and sheets.  It was like sleeping in cobwebs.  But what were we supposed to do, lock them out of our rooms?  They wanted to be under the covers with us, so we let them. 

Our current show star was
VonTrapp’s Edelweiss, a white female who had just earned her winner’s ribbons and was now a Champion.  I expected her to do well in the quest for her Grand Champion title.  With her copper eyes, perfectly flat profile and full coat, she was practically flawless and the finest thing we had ever bred.  Liesl and I had high hopes that this would be the cat we had waited for.  We had a special bank account set aside for a National Win run.  We thought Edel might be the one to start the first withdrawal.

Liesl
and I both worked at the bank.  We had a busy work week and we liked to get away on weekends.  So, our weekends were spent in the show halls, and the cat show people were our adopted family.  We did everything we could to make others comfortable, and we helped newcomers get acquainted with the showing routine as best we could.

That was how we’d met Roxanne Moore.  She came by our cage one day, bending over to look in at our kittens as they
slept in a pile in their cuddle bed, her long golden hair swept up in a big ponytail with ringlets hanging around her face.

“I might like to try showing a Persian,” she said.

Liesl just stared at her.  I could tell right away that it was an instant case of dislike.  Liesl had been treated cruelly in high school by girls who looked just like Roxanne:  Tall, lots of makeup, dyed hair, tight clothing.

Never one to judge a book by the cover, I spoke up.  “Well, they are lots of fun to show.  But they require probably more grooming than any other breed.”

“Oh, I can see that!” Roxanne said, straightening.  She held one hand out to me, and I took it and shook it.  “Hi.  I’m Roxanne.  I would like to buy a kitten from you.  How much are they?”

She offered a hand to
Liesl, but Liesl had strategically bent to reach for something in the show bag at that moment.

I smiled at Roxanne, hoping to make up for my daughter’s rudeness.  I didn’t want to blow the opportunity of placing a kitten in a show home.  I nodded toward the cage.  “Did you want to start out with a premier?”

“Premier?  What’s that?”

“That’s a class for spayed and neutered cats.”

“Oh!  No, I want to breed it someday.  Have kittens.  Like those.  They’re so darling!”

Liesl
had a peacock feather in her hand, the flashing teal end of which she swished gently across the bars.  The group of kitten heads popped up, looking for all the world like a nest of owlets.  Roxanne squealed in delight.  “Look!”

I saw a little smile play around
Liesl’s mouth.  She did love the kittens.  They bounced up, the picture of split-second alertness, and with their tufted paws reached through the bars in a frantic attempt to bat the feather.  Liesl swept the front of the cage with wide strokes, and back and forth the kittens ran, from one side to the other, violently stretching and leaping after it.  The grey male was the most excited, by far the biggest.  The little girl, all black, was a bit more recalcitrant, giving way to the male as he bounced aggressively from side to side.

“I like the black one,” Roxanne said.

I turned to her quickly.  “You have a good eye.  The female is the more correct.  She is shorter bodied and has the better head.  The male, though, will have the coat.”

I opened up the cage door and reached for the female, pulling her out and stretching her for Roxanne’s perusal.  I held her close then, cupping her head in one hand and running my finger up the bridge of the kitten’s nose.  “See this? 
Just a perfectly flat profile.  That’s what you want.”

I nodded toward the male.  “He has more of a nose.”

I held the kitten up to Roxanne and she took her and flipped her on her back.  The kitten, whom we had named Sister Margaretta, lay still with her legs splayed out like a Raggedy Anne.

“She’s lovely,” Roxanne said. 
“How much?”

“What are you doing, Auntie?” a voice said.  I turned to see a tall, energetic young man looking over my shoulder at the kitten.

“I’m busy, thank you very much,” Roxanne said.

“I thought you were going to buy a shorthair kitten.”

“Like one of your ugly Devons?  Ugh, I don’t think so.”  But then Roxanne caught herself and smiled at me.  “This is my nephew, Andrew.”

“Hello,” Andrew said.  He smiled at me.  “For the record, my
Devons are not ugly.  You’ll have to excuse my Auntie, here.  She has some strong opinions.”

“To say the least,” Roxanne agreed proudly.

“Let me see that little brillo pad!” Andrew reached out and took Sister Margaretta from Roxanne, and snuggled her close.  “Oh, you are just a dear little flat-faced thing!”

“Give her back,” Roxanne said, reaching, but he pulled away.

“No, she’s mine!” he said, with a pretend pout.

“Not for long,” Roxanne said.

Andrew held the kitten up to his face.  “Aren’t you just a widdow waffle?  Huh?  Aren’t you just a widdow baby baby ba ba ba boo?”

Roxanne rolled her eyes.

I looked at Liesl, but she was watching the young man and smiling.

And so our friendship was born.

We fixed Roxanne up with cage curtains and helped her with all the other show amenities.  Liesl found her a used dolly that eventually became her grooming cart.  For awhile Liesl maintained her crush on Andrew, but then it became apparent that Andrew was gay.

Sister
Margaretta developed a tail kink right about the time Roxanne became interested in Somalis.  So she was sold as a pet, and Roxanne moved on to another breed with our blessing.  We were there when her first real show cat, Rusty, made his first final.  We cheered and Liesl threw her trademark confetti. When Rusty granded, we brought in a cake with his name on it, and shared with the crowd.

Roxanne was a dear, sweet girl and a good friend to us.  She always came to us for grooming tips – who knows better how to groom than Persian people? 
Liesl actually went to her house one day to demonstrate the bathing and blow-drying technique. As a result, Roxanne had the best groomed Somalis in the country!  That was no doubt part of the success of her cats.