by Patricia Fry
A Purrfectly Perilous Plot: A Klepto Cat Mystery
Book 39
by Patricia Fry
A Purrfectly Perilous Plot: A Klepto Cat Mystery
Book 39
Author: Patricia Fry
ISBN: 978-1-7332772-5-9
All rights reserved
© 2019 Matilija Press
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
“Was that Gwen you were talking to on your phone just now?” Michael asked. “How is she?”
“Much better,” Savannah said. “Actually she seems even better than she was when we hung out together in Los Angeles all those years ago.”
“Good,” he said, sitting down for breakfast. He cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”
Savannah looked confused. “What?”
“The peace and quiet.”
Gladys chuckled. “You two kids don’t get much of that these days, do you?”
Michael shook his head. “No, but thank heavens our world has slowed down. No more crazy friends coming out of the woodwork and causing havoc in our lives. Savannah, can you believe your friend was plotting a terrorist attack?”
“Oh, Michael,” Savannah said, “Gwen didn’t mean…”
He put up his hand to stop her. “And what about that novelist from your writers group, who decided to live the murder he wrote. Holy cow!” He took a drink of orange juice and continued, “Then we volunteer to help out our friends in the San Francisco theater district and get tangled up in a bunch of behind-the-scenes drama. I’m sure glad we left all that behind us.” When he saw their grey-and-white cat walk into the room Michael said, “Even Rags needs a break from the bedlam he’s experienced over the last several weeks.”
Savannah grinned. “You forgot something.”
“Huh?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“Yes, what?” Gladys asked curiously.
“What about that sweet old rancher, Arthur, the cats, and I found just in the nick of time?” Savannah shook her head. “Yeah, it’s certainly been an unusual spring so far.” She gazed at her family from across the table and thought back to the day their life seemed to spiral out of control.
****
“Nice to see you enjoying your gazebo,” Gladys said, joining Savannah one spring-like afternoon in April.
“Hi, Mom. Yes, it’s my place of joy.” Savannah chuckled. “My happy place.”
Gladys sat down in a wicker chair. “It really is a beautiful spot. It’s secluded and peaceful, yet just outside your backdoor.” She asked, “So what were you doing before I disturbed your serenity?”
Savannah closed the tablet on her lap. “Just making notes—you know, events, activities, and phrases I want to include in the book. This is where I come to sort of gather my thoughts, unless it’s raining. Then I do my thinking wherever I can find a dry place.”
“In the kids’ playhouse?” Gladys suggested. “It has a roof.” She looked overhead. “Do you ever think about covering those slats? Then you could sit out here in the rain.”
Savannah shook her head. “No. I love having the sun filter through. Isn’t that the point of a gazebo or a deck—to be one with nature?” She added, “Except more comfortable. No, I don’t want to be outside, even under a roof, in rainy weather.” She smiled brightly, adding, “Unless I were in a tropical paradise. Our newly landscaped yard might be paradise-beautiful, but it’s not what you’d call tropical, here in Northern California.”
Gladys agreed. “So how’s the book coming along? This is the one you’re writing about Iris’s circus-cat fiasco, right? And Rags’s involvement in that?”
Savannah nodded. “Yes, and I’ll catch readers up on some of the other things Rags has experienced more recently, like when he was shot at and fell into the well and how he helped find Adam and Simon when they were trying to save the fox. These stories will reflect what he’s been doing since I published his initial memoirs.” She winced. “Right now I’m working on the details of that awful thing that happened up at Craig’s cabin last year—you know, when that deranged man tried to stab Rags and ended up stabbing himself instead.” She shuddered. “It’s hard to relive some of those moments.”
“I can imagine,” Gladys said. “So this will be a sequel to his meowmoirs?”
“Kind of, yes.”
Gladys chuckled. “Are you the only one in your writers group who’s writing about a cat?”
“Actually, no,” Savannah said. “You know Dora Lipton. She sometimes attends the Cat Alliance meetings. She’s the one who told me about the writers group.”
Gladys tilted her head. “Dora’s a writer? I didn’t know that. What kind of a book is she writing?”
“A children’s how-to book on the care of cats and kittens. She has some clever ideas for making it a fun learning experience for kids.” Savannah added with renewed energy, “She has found an artist who’s creating some of the most charming illustrations. I think he’ll do the cover, too. Dora, it turns out, is a very good writer and seems to have a knack for communicating at the four- to eight-year-old level. I know that Lily, at almost four-and-a-half, would comprehend the message in her book, and she’d enjoy the story and the characters.”
“Does Dora have children?” Gladys asked. “Or was she a teacher? What credentials does she have to write for that age group?”
“I’m not sure that she has any credentials, but she does have grandchildren, and she teaches a Sunday school class.” Savannah added, “Another woman is writing her memoirs and she tells a few stories about her childhood cats.” She chuckled. “When the others critique Dorothy’s work, they tell her she needs to pay attention to the way I write about Rags in order to make her cats come to life. Edith says Dorothy’s cats are one-dimensional.”
“Well, that’s a nice compliment for you,” Gladys said. “But some cats do seem one-dimensional. Don’t you think so?” Gladys didn’t wait for a response. “Rags is rather exceptional in that he’s so animated. He’s a character, and you do a good job of illustrating his personality. You make it easy to visualize him doing those things you write about.”
“Thank you, Mom,” Savannah said. “That’s nice of you to say. But to answer your question, the members in this group have very different writing styles and topics. It’s quite a challenge to adequately critique such a variety of genres.” She raised her eyebrows. “One man is writing a murder mystery, and he wants to test out his idea for the murder to see if it would actually work.”
“What?” Gladys shrieked. “He wants to kill someone?”
Savannah laughed nervously. “I hope not. He says he just wants to set the scene and do a sort of enactment to find out if his idea is plausible. I don’t think he has the ability to visualize. His writing’s kind of flat.”
“Well that’s odd,” Gladys said. “So he wants to do a pre-enactment. Is that what you’d call it, as opposed to a reenactment?”
“Probably. Yeah, good one, Mom—a pre-enactment. But it’s not as odd as you might think,” Savannah said. “I guess fiction writers do a lot of research. It never occurred to me before this, but evidently it’s important to fact-check, even when it’s a made-up story.” Before her mother could respond, she added, “One gal explained that you lose credibility with your readers if you make mistakes in your facts, such as having your character driving a 2001 model car when your story takes place in 1996, or describing the murder weapon as a pistol in one chapter and a rifle in the next.” She chuckled. “One of our w
riters misspelled the name of a famous art museum in his manuscript and attributed the wrong painting to the wrong artist. You can’t get away with things like that, even in fiction.”
“Oh, yes,” Gladys agreed. “That would make me suspicious of an author.” She laughed. “I once read a murder mystery where the body was found at a construction site. In the next chapter it was in the victim’s ex-wife’s garage.”
“Was her garage under construction?” Savannah questioned.
Gladys shook her head. “No. Initially the author had the detective roll out to the crime scene after a construction worker called from his job site to report a body. Later the detective was in the ex-wife’s garage with the forensics team examining the body. It was a total mistake on the author’s part.”
“Maybe someone came along and moved the body,” Savannah suggested. She frowned. “But I can’t imagine the authorities leaving a body alone once they’d begun an investigation. So I guess that wouldn’t happen.”
“Oh no. That wasn’t it at all,” Gladys insisted. “It was the author’s mistake through and through. Because of that, I never read another one of her books. Too confusing and, as you suggested, not very credible.” She frowned at Savannah. “Does he want you involved?”
“Involved?” Savannah asked.
“The guy who’s going to pretend to kill someone. Does he want you to help him with that?”
“Yes,” Savannah said. “He has invited the writers group and Rags out to the murder site.”
“Rags?” Gladys repeated. “Why Rags?”
“Because he wants to put a cat in his story.” Savannah explained, “He doesn’t know much about cats, and as I understand it, he wants to observe Rags so his facts make sense. He seems like an okay guy, but some of us are just a little creeped-out by this idea. I mean, we don’t even know yet who’s getting murdered. He has read excerpts from three chapters of his manuscript so far. He’s just about to the part where the murder takes place, and he wants to go on this field trip before he fine-tunes that chapter. Oh, and it has to be on a weekend night in order for his plan to work; it has to be Saturday or Sunday, he says, out at that old abandoned building on Second Street.”
“Out there? At night? Oh, Vannie, I think I’d decline that invitation. I mean…”
“Yeah, maybe I should, but I’m just curious enough that I’d kind of like to tag along.” Savannah tilted her head thoughtfully. “I have a lot to learn about this writing game, and you know me—I want to soak up as much information as I can as quickly as I can.”
“Yes, I remember,” Gladys said, grinning. “Your fourth-grade teacher was always getting after you for reading ahead and asking questions about math and English lessons she hadn’t even introduced to the class yet.” She asked, “So how many of you will be there?”
“Maybe three or four. Edith wanted to go, but I heard she changed her mind.”
“And you should, too.” When Gladys sensed that her daughter wasn’t listening to her, she asked, “What does your husband say?”
“Well…”
Gladys pointed a finger. “You haven’t told him? Vannie, I doubt he’ll go along with this.”
“Yes, actually I have told him about it,” Savannah insisted. “He didn’t seem concerned. I think he’s looking at Rich’s idea as an expression of art—you know, a writer striving to perfect his art.”
Gladys grimaced. “Well, I think it’s risky.”
“Quit being such a…a…mom,” Savannah said lightly. “I’ll be fine. It’s not real. It’s simply for art’s sake. Besides, Rags will be with me, and you know I won’t let anything happen to him.” She chuckled. “He’s my bread and butter. His books and maybe future movies will pay the bills in my old age.” She picked up her phone and looked at the screen. “Oh, I missed a call. I had my phone on mute so I could concentrate.” She smiled. “It’s from Arthur. I’d better call him back. I want to hear how he and Suzette are getting along with little Alana Ruth.”
“Oh, their precious bundle. How old is she now?” Gladys asked.
“She was born March thirteenth, so she’ll be a month old tomorrow.”
Gladys nodded. “That’s right. On your Aunt Rose’s birthday.” She smiled. “I received the cutest thank you note from Suzette for the baby bonnet I knitted. She said that was Alana’s first handmade gift. Isn’t that something? I guess we haven’t passed along needle-arts skills to the younger generations. Such a shame.” She tilted her head and asked, “Where did they get her name? I know that they honored Ruth, Arthur’s longtime nanny and caregiver, with her middle name, but where did the name Alana come from? Do you know?”
Savannah shook her head. “Maybe from Suzette’s family, or they just heard it and liked it. Certainly it’s not from Arthur’s family tree, unless he found a long-lost great-great grandmother or aunt on a genealogy site or something. I mean, I don’t think he knew anyone in his family when he was growing up except for his evil mother, who’s in prison, and his father, who died when Arthur was so young.”
“That’s right,” Gladys said, “he had no access to anyone other than Ruth and his mother during all those years he was forced to live in the basement of that mansion.” She asked, “He was communicating with Suzette back then, right? As I recall, they met as children in the burn center where they were both being treated.”
Savannah nodded. “Yes, Suzette was his only childhood friend, even though theirs was a long-distance friendship.” Savannah chuckled. “He had all those cats though, remember?”
“And didn’t Rags have a part in freeing him from the dungeon?” Gladys asked.
“Yes,” Savannah said. “Although it wasn’t really a dungeon, when you consider the ambiance and special touches. His mother had a lot of money, and she fixed that basement up really nice.” She winced. “Even so, Arthur was a prisoner.” She grinned at her mother. “And yes, Rags found him the weekend we stayed there, and we got to witness and even help with his release from that place.”
“Did you stay in the mansion?” Gladys asked.
“No. We stayed in one of the charming cottages on the property.”
The women were quiet for a moment, each with her own thoughts, when Gladys said, “You’d never know that young man had gone through all that. He turned out to be quite handsome and appears to be well-adjusted for someone who had very little or no socialization as a child.”
“True. He has a good understanding of many things—people, history, geography, business matters...I guess that’s partly because he had access to books and a computer. His curious mind was probably his saving grace growing up,” Savannah said, “but it took him a little while to adjust socially.” Thinking aloud, she added, “I’m sure his many surgeries helped with his confidence.” She asked, “Mom, you didn’t see Arthur before all that plastic surgery, did you?”
“No, I didn’t, but I’ve seen pictures of him. He was pretty seriously burned. And I understand Suzette was badly scarred after her accident, but look at them now,” Gladys said.
Savannah smiled. “Yes. They’re a good-looking couple with a rich future.” She shimmied. “I just love their happy ending.” Quickly putting her hand over her mouth, she backtracked. “Well, it’s not really an ending, is it? I guess it’s more like a new beginning for the two of them. Now they have their own baby.” She sighed. “It’s a beautiful continuing story.”
Gladys agreed. She stood up and looked at the baby monitor she held in her hand. “All is still quiet with the children, but I’d better go check on them. They’ll be waking soon from their naps.”
“All right, Mom. I want to return Arthur’s call, then I’ll be in.” She put the phone up to her ear. “Hi, Arthur. You called?”
“Yes. Were you out shopping or something?”
“No. I was seeking inspiration in my gazebo. I turned off the ringer.” She smiled. “How’s baby Alana?”
“Wonderful,” he said with enthusiasm. “We hired a nanny—you know, because both Suzette and
I are ignorant when it comes to caring for a baby. Grace is wonderful; such a comfort. Our main challenge is getting Grace to understand that we want to be hands-on with our baby. We didn’t hire her to take care of Alana, but to guide us in taking care of her. We sure don’t want to make any mistakes.”
Savannah laughed. “Trust me, you will make mistakes.” When Arthur didn’t respond, she quickly changed the subject. “So you and Suzette are getting up with her at night and all? You’re not skirting the reality of having a baby, huh?”
“Oh yes. We both get up with her just about every time. But she’s such a good baby; we don’t feel we’re losing sleep. Frankly, we can’t get enough of our daughter.”
“I’m so glad, Arthur. I can’t wait to meet her. The pictures you’ve sent are beyond adorable.”
Arthur chuckled. “Yes, she’s beautiful. I’m giving Suzette all the credit for that. Maybe if we have a boy someday it’ll be okay if he resembles me a little.”
“Oh, Arthur, you’re both great-looking people. All of your children will be gorgeous.”
“Like yours?” he said. “You and Michael do all right in the baby-making arena, too.”
“Yes, we do have a couple of cuties, don’t we? Hey,” she said, “Mom and I were wondering about Alana’s name. Where did that come from? Does it have a special meaning for the two of you?”
“Yes, actually. And you’re the first one to ask.” Arthur said more reverently, “Alana was Karen’s middle name.”
“Oh, your sister,” Savannah said. “I didn’t know that.”
“She was named after my grandmother on my father’s side. Grandmother died when I was a baby. Evidently Father went along with my mother’s desire to name her Karen. I don’t know why she liked that name, but Father insisted on her middle name being Alana. I wanted to honor my grandmother and my father and my sister, all of whom died much too young.” He paused and took a breath. “Thankfully Suzette loves the name, too.”
