Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Kim Norwich

Saturday Afternoon

After the slapping incident, Reynolds decided to go back when things calmed down and talk to Larry Cox more.  We waited for a few minutes and then strolled back.  Larry was no help, not surprisingly.  I’m sure he was wondering why we had reappeared.  He answered a few questions, but he seemed nervous and kept playing with his tie.  It was as wide as his abdomen, nearly, and decorated with ferns and leopards and panthers.  The tie tack glistened, a golden lion’s head.  This guy was really a case.

During the interview, which went as expected, he answered every question with the word, “No.”  No, he hadn’t seen anything.  No, he didn’t know Roxanne personally.  No, he couldn’t imagine why this would happen.

Tracy Pringle bustled back and forth around us, pretending to be busy, at a distance that was undoubtedly within earshot.  She kept her eyes down, but I wanted to smack that little smirk off her face.  I could understand Larry’s impulse from earlier.

Reynolds paid her no heed until she walked right up and tugged on his sleeve.  I stepped forward, about to grab her, but she pointed across the room.

“Detective, that other officer is trying to get your attention.”

Reynolds looked and, sure enough, one of his deputies was waving to him.  “Excuse me,” he said to Larry, and then turned to Tracy with a little grin.  “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” she said, giving him a huge smile which would have been pretty had it not been for that distracting, drifting eye.  Reynolds didn’t seem to mind.  He smiled back, nodded to her, and then whirled and walked away.  I felt an unexpected and unwelcome surge of – what?  Jealousy?  God, I hoped not.

“Is the show going to be canceled?”  Tracy asked.

“I would think it should be,” I said.

Her face fell.  I couldn’t believe it.  Didn’t anyone care that someone was dead?  Not even Reynolds, who was supposed to be investigating but instead he was flirting with this wooden blonde.

I turned away from them and saw Reynolds running toward the big garage door at the end of the building; the one they used for the trucks to haul in the equipment.  The door was opening and an ambulance was ushered in slowly.  Its lights were on, flashing.  Reynolds waved away the gathering crowd.  I started toward him, but thought better of it and stood back.  Let him have his show.  It was ridiculous to make such a fuss, but he appeared to be enjoying himself.

They backed the thing up to the door of the restroom, apparently to thwart the gawkers.  Then they hauled her away.

As the door rolled shut, the announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, “Ocicats number 318 through 325 to ring 6, please.”

The show was going on.

Chapter Fourteen

Cecilia Fox

Friday Morning

The voice over the loudspeaker was female and belligerent and could only belong to Tracy Pringle. 
“Calling all championship Somalis, numbers 389, 390, 391, 392, 393 and 394.  Somalis in Championship to Ring 2, please.” 

I looked around.  Roxanne was nowhere in sight.  Kenya was sitting on the grooming cart.  I grabbed a comb and quickly fluffed his tail and britches.  Around me, I could see various people carrying Somalis up to Larry Cox’s ring.  I picked up Kenya and stretched him, holding him carefully away from me so as not to muss his fur.  He lay comfortably in my two hands.  I could feel my breath coming in quick gasps.  My heart pounded.

“I’ve got him!  I’ve got him!”  Roxanne was suddenly there, whisking him away from me.  She held him up and checked his britches.  “He looks fine.” 

She darted up the aisle ahead of me, holding Kenya in the air above her head as she jostled past people.  “Excuse me!” she blared. 
“Cat coming through!”

I followed her, a little nonplussed.  Roxanne did not acknowledge her nephew Andrew as we passed him.  He was sitting at his cage flipping through the catalog.  He looked up and smiled at me as I slid by him.  “Too bad
ol’ Jack doesn’t have more staying power,” he said in a stage whisper.  “You would have gotten to show your own cat!”

I ignored him and kept going.  Roxanne flounced up into Larry Cox’s ring and placed Kenya into cage 389.  Right next to him was number 390, a Grand Champion red male named High Five’s
Tigger.  Tigger was a huge cat with deep red color and enormous flaring ears.  His ears were his crowning glory, I thought.  The rest of the cats paled in comparison to him.  There were two other red cats, both champions, and two blue champions.  If Kenya was chosen as Best Champion, he would get four points toward his Grand Championship title.  In my opinion, he had no hope of beating Tigger.  Judges automatically put the Grands over the Champions.

Roxanne gave Kenya’s tail one final shake.  She turned and caught the judge’s eye, giving him a big smile as she walked out of the ring.  I noticed that she pointedly ignored Tracy Pringle. 

There was a group of spectators already seated, and a dearth of empty chairs, so I stood in the back row and watched.  Roxanne spotted one empty seat in the front row, right by the judging table, and sat in it.  She flipped her hair back and said something to the woman next to her, who I recognized as another Somali owner.  They giggled.

“
Giddyup, giddyup, giddyup!  Joo-bil-LAY-shun, she loves me again!  I fall on the floor and I’m laughin’…” A voice behind me sang the verse from the Simon and Garfunkel tune.  Of course I knew the song, “Cecilia.”  It had haunted me my entire life.  At least I liked it.

Andrew was the singer, naturally.  He had sneaked up behind me again.  He seemed to have a talent for doing that.

“What are you doing here?”  I said.

“I have Somalis, remember?  I have an interest.  Not to mention it’s only fitting to cheer on your family members.”  He smirked.

I turned to watch the judging.  Larry was finishing up the Siamese class.  There were lots of them.  He had a rhythm going:  Take out cat, place on table, shake toy.  Step back, look at cat’s structure.  Pick up cat, hold under lights, examine closely.   Put cat back in cage.  Pick up disinfectant spray bottle, squirt table lavishly, wipe hands.  Take pen and bend over book, make a mark.  Turn back to cages, take out next cat.

This examine – squirt – wipe pattern was repeated over and over all weekend.  It was so ingrained that the judges seemed to be in a
zen-like state while they did it.

“I see the bimbo’s clerking this ring,” Andrew nudged me.  “You think she’s caught on yet that Aunt Roxie is charming the spitting cobra?”

I looked around nervously but no one appeared to be listening.

Larry hung the ribbons on the Siamese cages, awarding
Best, then Second Best of color, Best Champion, and finally the Best and Second Best of breed without fanfare.  Tracy promptly got up and walked to the ring.  She turned the number down on top of each Siamese cage, the signal that the judge was finished with that group.

Seeming satisfied, the Siamese crowd went up for their cats and a bunch of chairs were emptied.  I sat down in one of them.  Andrew sat beside me.  His legs were so long that his knees bumped against the chair ahead of him.

“That red cat kicked your cat’s ass in Philadephia last weekend,” he said.

“So I hear.”

Larry turned to the Somali group and surveyed them briefly as he wiped his hands.  He tossed away the paper towel and went to Kenya’s cage.  Kenya’s back arched upward as Larry reached for him.  The judge swung him out of the cage and set him on the table.

I couldn’t help smiling.  Kenya stood there on the table and marched in place, his front paws opening and closing enthusiastically.

“He should work in a bakery,” Andrew said.

“No doubt!”
  I laughed.

Larry took a toy, feathers on a stick, and shook it in the air above Kenya’s head.  Kenya stood up on his hind legs and instantly had it, ripping it from Larry’s grasp and straddling it.  The crowd tittered with appreciation.

Larry smiled and put Kenya back in his cage.  He hung the black Best of Color ribbon on the door and turned to the disinfectant bottle.

“That wasn’t very much time,” Andrew said.  “Don’t you feel slighted?”

I shrugged.  I wasn’t the judge.

Out came the big red cat, who sat with a plop on the table.  Larry brought the toy out and
Tigger gave it a few perfunctory whacks.

“Well if they’re judging on spirit, your cat wins!”  Andrew quipped.

I said nothing.  Tigger was probably five pounds heavier than Kenya.  A lot of judges liked the large size.  But I thought he was just fat.

Back
Tigger went into the cage.  Larry wiped the table and turned to the second red cat.

“This one is not in the running,” Andrew said.  “Look at the color of it.  It’s like a fawn, almost.  Way too pale.”

Inwardly I agreed with him.  The cat stood on the table, a ghost of the color that Tigger had been.  Blonde.  Tigger was a nice rich copper color.  The blonde kitty’s tail swished happily over its back.  It certainly had the pleasant Somali demeanor.  It jumped gladly for the feather toy which Larry jiggled enticingly through the air.  Larry stepped back and gave the cat an appraising look, then picked it up with one hand and artfully slid it back into its cage.  He shut the door and turned to spritz the table again.

“That no-color cat was in Philly too.  There were a few other Somalis there too.  It was quite a large class,” Andrew said.

“Really?  How many?”

“I don’t know.  I have the catalog with me.  You can look at it.”

“How did Hotsy do in Philly?” I asked politely.

“Oh she was great!  She pulled down five out of the six finals and really put on a show.  And that was just getting her winner’s ribbons!  She wasn’t even a champion yet!”

“Ah.”

Larry judged the rest of the Somalis, giving each one about the same amount of time.  He then picked up the breed ribbons and turned back to the cages.  I saw Tracy Pringle stop her scribbling and lift one eyebrow as she watched with interest.

“Here we go.  Let’s hope you get Best Champion,” Andrew said.

I held my breath.  Larry hung the Best Champion ribbon on Kenya’s cage, and then, to my astonishment, also awarded him the coveted brown ribbon – Best of Breed.  The orange Second Best of Breed went to
Tigger.

“Oh my word, what has this world come
to!” Andrew said.

I gasped.  I jumped up and nearly knocked my chair over.  Roxanne burst forward and went to the cage.  She pulled Kenya out.  “Thank you!” she said to Larry as she left the ring.  She looked elated.  I stood there watching as she was swallowed by the crowd, carrying my cat.

“Price of fame,” Andrew said.

I turned to answer him, and caught a glimpse of someone familiar.  It was Wesley, standing in the back row watching me, with a sad smile on his face.

“Excuse me,” I said to Andrew, and walked away.

Chapter Fifteen

Tracy Pringle

Friday Morning

Larry gave
Baloo Best of Breed over a couple of other grand champions.  I was so excited!  I thought we had it made until I saw what he did in the Somali ring.  What was he thinking, putting a champion over a Grand?  I could not see him using both an Abyssinian and a Somali in an Allbreed final.  That just didn’t happen.  And he was obviously really impressed with that Somali.

I knew the owner, Roxanne Moore.  She was always flirting with my husband.  She was too stupid to realize that Jack would never want anything to do with her.  She wasn’t his type.  She was cheap and slutty-looking, and talked like an idiot.  And she was taller than him.  Jack was attracted to intelligent women who were cute and petite.

Still, it didn’t hurt to be aware of potential hazards.  I had decided to keep my eye on Roxanne Moore.

I did like that ring she wore, the cat with the emerald eyes.  I told Jack he could have one of those made for me for my birthday.

Roxanne’s Somalis were mediocre at best.  I was surprised that Larry had sold out to the slut look, but that was a judge for you.  Anywhere the wind blows.

Chapter Sixteen

Wesley Taft

Friday Afternoon

“I owe you an apology,” I said.

Cecilia’s head swiveled around.  She was sitting by her cage, knitting what looked like a scarf, out of fluffy purple yarn.  She put the knitting into a flowery bag at her feet and politely turned to face me.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, coming over here and trying to influence you against someone who is obviously your friend.  In fact, I don’t know what she is to you.  She could be your sister or cousin.  That was really tactless of me.  I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.  “It’s okay.  I am not related to Roxanne.”

“It’s just that, well, Max and I saw you hugging your boy there.”  I nodded toward her Somali who stirred happily in his cage at my glance.  He was so like Rusty!  I couldn’t look at him for long.

“His name is Kenya,” she said helpfully.

“Yes, well, we saw you with him and we both just felt really bad.  We didn’t want the same thing to happen to you, which happened to us.”

“I see. I understand.  It’s okay.”

It was clear that she didn’t want me to go on.  So, I stopped.  I stood there, somewhat helplessly, not knowing what else to say.  Finally, I added, “We meant no harm.”

Kenya squalled, an unusually loud call for a cat of his breed.  She turned to him and smiled.  The moment she looked at him, he bowed his head and slammed it enthusiastically against the cage door, arching his back up in a thrill of blatant affection.

I laughed.  “He is a beautiful Somali.”

“Thank you.  He’s starting to notice girls and today he started spraying!”

“Uh oh.
  That’s always fun.”

“I know it!  He lives loose in my house.  I couldn’t bear to ever cage him!”

“I can see why.  He’s very sweet.”

“He’s like this all the time!  Just purr, purr, purr and the feet going…”  She dropped the needles to use her hands in kneading motions, imitating the cat.

“Maybe he learned it from you.  You know, with the knitting and all.  The body still but the hands always moving.  It must take deep concentration to keep his paws kneading like that.”

She smiled.  Her whole demeanor had changed now.  She leaned toward me, enthused, the knitting kind of crumpled in her lap.  The ball of yarn had tumbled unnoticed to the floor, trailing a string behind it, and now it rested by her foot. 
The proverbial cat toy.

“He has done that with his feet since a baby!” she enthused.  “I thought he might grow out of it sometime but he never did.  It’s so funny.”

“I’ve seen lots of cats knead like that, but I must say, I’ve never seen one do it quite as incessantly as he does.”

“I just hope he
will grand soon so we can neuter him.”

“I’m sure life will be easier for both of you when that happens!”

“Roxanne said I could have him neutered if he started spraying.  His appetite is good though.  Gracious!  He eats like a horse!  Why, he’s practically omnivorous!”  She was laughing now, but then looked up and noticed my face, and said, “Oh, I am sorry.”

The mention of Roxanne’s name had sobered me, and then her sudden empathy was my undoing.  I felt myself bursting into tears, and I turned away and fled.