Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat (6 page)

“I – I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t blame Larry, actually.  I would have wanted to slap her too.  She stood there now, with her hand on her face, looking at him, with her one eye drifting inward just a bit.  “That must be what happened to it,” I thought.  “Someone knocked it loose!”

Reynolds was clearly very disgusted with Larry.  “You can’t be doing that!  Jesus, I could take you to jail for assault right now.”

“It’s okay,” Tracy said.  “I won’t press charges.”

Larry was breathing hard, his eyes still wide.  Reynolds gave his arm a little shake.  “Hey!  You okay?”

He looked down.  “Yes, yes.  I do apologize.  I don’t know what came over me.”

I looked at Tracy.  I was beginning to think that maybe she was
more canny than I had imagined.  She had provoked him, there was no doubt about that.  But why?

“That judge bears watching,” Reynolds said as we walked away.  “He’s crazy.”

Ah.  So that was it.  Tracy was forcing the suspicion away from herself, maybe.  I glanced back over my shoulder, and saw her sitting in her clerking chair again, as Larry busied himself at his table, preparing for the next class.  Tracy looked over her shoulder, and our eyes met.  But she quickly turned away.

Chapter Eight

Cecilia Fox

Thursday Afternoon

Kenya was well into his championship points, and he only needed sixteen more to hit two hundred and be Grand Champion.  Roxanne and I knew that one final at this show would put him well over the limit.  We had talked about running him for a national breed win.  It was too late in the season for him to win any
Allbreed awards nationally, but he might have a chance to be best or second best Somali.

The thought was exciting to me.  I’d had very few wins in my life.  When I was small I had been particularly lucky with instant lotto tickets, winning nearly every time my father brought one home.  I would take a dime and scratch off the filmy coating, to find matching amounts of two or five or seven dollars.  That lasted for a couple of months.  And then, that was about it.  I had never been voted Class Anything; not even Class Nerd.  I had never won any scholarships, having worked my way through college to get a degree in business.  Now I managed a Wendy’s.  Yippee.

Just owning Kenya was a joy in itself.  He really didn’t have to win anything.  He waited for me right at the apartment door when I came home, and he slept on my head every night.  He entertained me with games in the evenings.  His favorite toy was the ring from a plastic milk jug.  He was easily amused and always happy.  And he was beautiful to look at, with his flaming ruddy coat and black ticking and full brushy tail.  No, he didn’t have to win anything.  But it was so great to have other people acknowledge how extraordinary this creature was.

Now he was sitting happily on the grooming cart while I did my knitting.  We were waiting on the next breed ring.  Kenya would perch on that grooming cart for an hour without trying to go anywhere, but his feet never stopped moving.  His name, Kenya Strut, fit him so well, because he definitely could.  He purred and kneaded constantly.  It was like he just couldn’t contain his joy.

Spectators would often stop and ask questions about him.  I had a sign sitting next to him that said, “Please don’t touch me, even if I ask!” and most people were very good about it.  They would stand politely gazing at him while they asked me questions.  The most common one was, “Do Somalis shed?”

The answer:  Of course they do!  Every spectator seemed to have this obsession with finding a non-shedding cat.  If you can’t handle a little hair, why have animals?  They also wanted a cat
who wouldn’t jump up on the countertop or claw the furniture.  It was insane.  I resisted the urge to tell them to just go to Toys R Us and get a stuffed animal.

Those particular topics annoyed me a little, but for the most part I loved answering questions about Kenya, even when I had to answer the same ones over and over.

“How old is he?”

“Eight months.”

“Does the Somali originate in Africa?”

I recited the answer like a newscaster.  “No, the breed is a longhaired Abyssinian, named Somali for that country’s proximity to Ethiopia, which was formerly Abyssinia.”

Then the next question was invariably, “How did they get the long hair?  What other breed is mixed in?  Persian?  Maine Coon?”

“There is no other breed.  A Somali is a purebred Abyssinian with a longhair recessive gene.  They look different, but genetically, they are the same cat.”

The questions made me feel like an expert, sort of.  And I was learning to even look people in the eye.  I did hate the kids though.  Sometimes a small child would come along and make a grab for him.  One drooling toddler had a bright red, sticky Tootsie-Pop, and it actually became glued into Kenya’s hair.  The mother picked the kid up and without a word of apology, walked away with him while the Tootsie Pop remained firmly adhered to my cat, and the child reached back over her shoulder and screamed.

Roxanne would usually take over talking to people if she was around.  With her loud, authoritative voice, bright orange-y dyed hair and her flirty manner, she seemed to attract spectators, especially men.  Her voice would always heighten to a squeaky falsetto when she spoke to them.  She would cast her eyes downward to look demure, smiling coyly and fiddling with something – the edge of the cage curtain maybe – as she squeaked out answers to their questions.  It made my
hair stand on end, but for some reason men loved this baby-talking persona.  They would laugh gently and keep making up questions, sometimes really stupid ones, like how much Kenya ate.  If they could manage it, many of them would later ditch their wives in some other aisle and come wandering back, under the pretense of being so fascinated by the Somali.  I would look up and here they’d come, slogging down the aisle, stopping to look briefly into a cage along the way, attempting to appear nonchalant.  But they always drew closer to us until they inevitably would stop by Roxanne and say, “Hi.  Do you have a business card?” 

They were like dogs tracking a bitch in heat.  It was nauseating.

Roxanne always took a card from her clearly visible plastic business card holder on top of the cage, and then she would scribble a little note on the back of it before handing it to the guy.  He would read it, laugh and put it in his wallet.

I had noticed that the business card never went into their pocket.  They always reached for their wallet, flipped it open and stuck it in there.  Then they would say an immediate goodbye.  Some of them blushed at this point.  Some of them would wink at her.  But they always left right after taking the card.  Their curiosity about the Somali was suddenly assuaged.  What a surprise.

She had the perfect patsy in me.  One evening she had sent me off to the store for kitty litter, claiming to have forgotten to bring any for our hotel room.  She directed me to a Wal-Mart that was on the other side of the town where we stayed.  I thought maybe there would be something closer, and upon investigating the local phone book I found another one just a few miles down the road.

While there, I shopped around a bit. I picked up some Kit Kats, Roxanne’s favorite candy bars, and some sparkly puff balls and other treats for the cats.  I headed back to the room and as I opened the door, I heard a strange man’s voice saying, “
Dammit!  Damn your engines!”

And then a woman shrieked, “No!  Stay down there!  Don’t do it like that!  That’s not what I wanted, you fucking moron!”

Obviously, it was a couple arguing, and judging from the language, it had to be a cable channel.  I walked around the corner and there was a naked man standing by the bed with his back to me, thrusting hard with his bare buttocks, illuminated in the lamplight.  He was holding Roxanne’s feet in the air, her thighs slapping like lumpy batter with each thrust.  The man did not appear to hear me come in, which wasn’t surprising.  He was still grunting rhythmically, “Oh damn your engines, damn you!”

“Not so fast!  You’re doing it all wrong!” Roxanne’s voice wasn’t squeaky now.  It was deep and thunderous and annoyed, rising like a drill sergeant over the man’s grunting.

Then she turned her head and looked me straight in the eye.

The entire experience lasted just a split second, but it seemed longer, and that look stayed with me afterward.  It was not one of shame or surprise.  It was not one of apology.  It was a
cold and knowing smirk; the eyes half-closed, daring me to say something. 

I dropped the plastic bag and quickly left the room. 

I fled out the door and down the hall, pressed the elevator button and waited.  I could feel my heart pounding.  It was ridiculous.  I mean, what were they going to do, come after me?

It occurred to me that Roxanne made love just like a cat.  The female would coo and roll and trill, inviting in a tone different and higher than her normal pitch.  But when the male mounted her, she would curse him.   He would grasp her by the nape of the neck, as if she may decide not to cooperate.  Some of the females growled and wailed the entire time, and at the moment of climax, the female would let out an ear-splitting scream, and suddenly turn on the male, clawing and spitting.

Afterward the female would roll on her back, over and over from side to side, and lick herself.  Often she looked very sated and, I thought, gloating.

I never intended to mention the incident to Roxanne.  I hoped we would never speak of it; and in fact I wanted to just forget that it had ever happened.  But she brought it up when I came back to the room hours later.  She was wrapped in her bathrobe, her hair in a towel, sitting on the bed watching T.V. and eating a Kit Kat bar. 

She grinned at me when I walked in. “It’s the Peeping Celia!”

I blushed and my reaction angered me.  Why should I be the shamed one?

I took my coat off and said nothing.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

I didn’t answer, instead going to the sink and washing my hands.

She was laughing.  “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen anyone doing it before?  Honey, you and I should rent some porn.  I have never seen anyone look so terrified!”

I attempted a smile.  I picked up my hairbrush which was lying on the sink, intending to use it, but noticed it matted with long bright orange hairs.  I laid it down again.

She patted the bed, motioning for me to sit by her, but I selected a chair.   There was an issue of “All Cats, All the Time” lying on the floor, which I had purchased at a newsstand earlier that day.  I picked it up and flipped through it.  The cover headline was, “Maui
Wowee!” with a clever photo-shopped picture of a leaping Egyptian Mau shooting out of a volcano.

Roxanne
unwrapped another Kit Kat bar.  “Celia, are you a virgin?”

I looked up at her, startled.  She sure had a way of getting one’s attention.

“Why do you ask?”  This was the tactical question one used instead of saying, “That’s none of your business.”

Roxanne shrugged and took a bite of chocolate.  “You shouldn’t be embarrassed about sex.  It’s a very natural act.  It is the most natural thing in the world.  Did you get a chance to notice the size of his tool?”  She shook her head and chuckled.  “He was hung.  He could be a porn star.  Not like that last one, the married one in Toronto.  That poor guy had four inches, tops.  I won’t be seeing him again.  You can hardly call that a tool.  Of course, I suppose there are tools that small.  Needle nosed pliers.  Drill bits.”

I loudly riffled the magazine pages.  “Did you hear about Ajax, this Mau that won the Hawaiian Regional?”

“Aw, can’t we girl talk?” She pouted.

I sighed.  “Actually Roxanne, I am not that comfortable with girl talk like this.  In answer to your question, yes I was very embarrassed.  And the four inch thing wouldn’t bother me.  I haven’t had any in so long that I’ve forgotten what it’s like anyway.”

“You’re not a virgin!” she crowed.

“Next time, just tell me when you’re going to have company.  You don’t have to send me to the store.  I’m not a nine-year-old.”

“Oh, touchy, touchy!
  You really need to get yourself some, Sweetie.  It will improve your mood.  Do you want me to fix you up?”

I glared at her.  I couldn’t help it.

She just smiled and went back to her Kit Kat bar, gloating, I thought, just like a cat.  I half expected her to throw the candy bar down and start rolling around on the bed.

After that, I started getting my own room on show weekends.  She had not brought up the subject again, thankfully.  Lately she had taken to wandering off to parts unknown.  It was convenient that Jack always disappeared at the same time.  Fortunately, this usually happened during show hours, when there was no chance of me bursting in on them.

I didn’t mind being left alone in the show hall with Kenya, answering questions.  It was easy and pleasant for me.  The men did not stay as long, and they never came back or asked me for a card.  That was fine with me.

Today Kenya sat on his cart, and was keeping himself amused with a rabbit’s foot.  I had tied it to the outside of the cage door, right next to him.  He would stand on the cart, twirl, and arch his back.  He would look at the bit of fur, tilting his head to the side, farther, farther, and then suddenly give it a whack.  Sometimes he would lie on his back on the cart, so he could look at the toy upside down before he batted it.  Then he would stand up and turn again.  Now he stood looking at me, front feet dancing.  I glanced up at him from my knitting and he squeezed his eyes happily. 

“Hi Babykins!” I said, and his tail quivered with joy.

“Cecilia?”

I turned to see a short man standing with his hands in his pockets.  He was probably only in his mid-thirties but he had already suffered substantial hair loss.  His stance was timid, apologetic.

“Yes?”

“I’m Wesley.”

I knew who he was.  Roxanne had warned me about the awful way he and Max had treated their cat during a terrible co-ownership stint.  She said that Rusty had become emaciated and sickly, and they brought him to the shows with goopy eyes.  After repeated warnings, she had been forced to take him away.  I had seen Wesley and his partner around at the shows, carrying their Bobtail kitten; poor thing.  Who knew what kind of life she was in for?

“Hi.”  I turned to Kenya and opened the cage door.  He obligingly hopped inside.  I closed the door, and turned back to find Wesley, to my alarm, squatting near me, hunkered down close.  He held out a business card and I took it.