Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  But I did. So I looked everywhere. Behind the cushions. In the bathtub. Even in the refrigerator, carefully stepping around my lounging feline.

  Nada.

  Meanwhile, Mitzi didn’t budge. She just watched us from the couch, looking amused.

  Okay, fuzzball, I thought, anger rising inside me. The jig is up.

  I went over to the couch and got on my knees so we were eye to eye.

  “Mitzi,” I said, trying to remain calm, “be honest. Did you take Max’s poodle?”

  She growled.

  Her reaction got my hackles up even further. And when it comes to dogs, I have a lot more patience than most people. Still, I found myself wondering if somewhere there was a reform school for dogs.

  “Mitzi,” I tried again, “I know what you did. Now, where is it? Just tell me—I mean show me—where you hid Max’s poodle. I promise there’ll be no hard feelings.”

  I was lying about that last part, of course. But it showed how desperate I’d become.

  Mitzi, however, remained unmoved. She continued staring straight at me, then let out a single yap. I could only imagine what it meant in dog language.

  And then, with a haughty toss of her head that sent her ears flapping, she stood up and turned her back on me. After leaping off the couch, she strolled into the kitchen nonchalantly, shaking her furry little butt.

  By that point, I was fuming. I’ve had more than my share of negative interactions with animals. I’ve been bitten, drooled on, peed on, pooped on, vomited on, hissed at, snarled at, scratched, kicked, and pecked. But never in my life had I encountered such attitude.

  “That’s it, Cujo,” I called after her. “If that poodle doesn’t show up by tomorrow morning—unharmed—you just may be making an unscheduled stop at the pound.”

  Of course, my bark was much worse than my bite. But I didn’t expect a Maltese to know that.

  “Don’t worry, I’m going to tell Nick about this,” I promised Max, who continued to stare at me with woeful eyes.

  But I knew it wouldn’t do much good. And that for better or for worse, Mitzi the Malicious Marauder was about to become my dog-in-law.

  Chapter 10

  “A dog wags its tail with its heart.”

  —Martin Buxbaum

  I made it over to Aziza’s residence in Pond Grove just in time for our five-thirty appointment. Even though I wasn’t familiar with that area, I tracked down her street easily with the help of my trusty Hagstrom map.

  But it wasn’t until I got there that I discovered she lived in a nondescript garden apartment complex called Norfolk Knolls. As I pulled my van into a curbside parking space, I couldn’t help wondering if the developer had thought of naming it Knorfolk Knolls. At least a catchy name would have added a little character. The half dozen two-story brick buildings packed onto the meager piece of land were as plain and angular as if they’d been built with Legos. They were grouped around large courtyards, but the grass was sparse and brown. The few trees that were planted on the property looked scraggly.

  The buildings themselves weren’t in much better shape. The dark green paint on the exterior doors was peeling in spots, and chunks of concrete had broken off the steps in front of them. The only splash of color was a pair of lime green paisley curtains someone had hung in one of the windows. I knew all about “curb appeal” from watching the Home & Garden Channel, and, frankly, this place had none. In fact, I got the impression this apartment complex had been built in the 1970s and hadn’t had a face-lift since.

  I was struck by the contrast between the flamboyant persona Aziza adopted at Theater One and the reality of her life as a disgruntled bank employee with a humdrum job and a shabby apartment. I wondered how she had really felt about Simon’s imminent success. Had she expected to ride on his coattails, finally launching the acting career she clearly longed for?

  Or had she feared she’d be left behind?

  I was also curious about which of the two Aziza Zorns I’d find at home this evening. I got my answer as soon as she answered the door. In fact, I got the definite feeling I’d just done some serious time travel and ended up not in the 1970s but in 1920s Hollywood.

  Aziza was wearing a cream-colored silk kimono, a garment I believe used to be referred to as a dressing gown. But it was the matching turban on her head that really made me wonder what decade I’d stumbled into. I half-expected her to croak, “I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.”

  As for her eyes, once again they were the color of emeralds.

  Her shiny, dark red lips stretched into a smile. “You’re right on time, Jessie. Thanks for coming.”

  While her apartment complex didn’t quite live up to her glamorous image, she had clearly done her best to create a living room that was the perfect backdrop for the role she was playing. In addition to the usual furnishings—a couch, a TV, a couple of nondescript end tables—tucked into one corner was a champagne-colored upholstered chaise longue. Thanks to my inexplicable fascination with watching other people decorate, I knew it was called a fainting couch. Since fainting had gone out of style long ago, they no longer enjoyed the popularity they had in, say, Victorian times.

  Both the fainting couch and the more traditional couch were festooned with satin pillows in rich jewel tones like purple, dark blue, and green. I would have bet my stethoscope that Aziza referred to them as “amethyst,” “sapphire,” and “emerald.” Hanging on the off-white walls were black-and-white photos of the greatest actresses of the past century. Marilyn Monroe and Jean Harlow peered down at me from the wall near the fainting couch. Greta Garbo and Katharine Hepburn both had a place of honor above the TV. I even recognized a few stars from the silent-movie era, clustered near the entrance to the kitchen: Lillian Gish, Clara Bow, Mary Pickford, and a few whose names I didn’t know, even though they looked vaguely familiar.

  But what really struck me about the place was the number of mirrors the apartment contained. I wondered if Aziza constantly watched herself out of the corner of her eye as she lived her life. It was possible that in addition to enjoying being an actress, she also got a kick out of being a director.

  At the moment, however, it was the role of actress she appeared to have stepped into. And apparently part of playing the role of a star was being gracious.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she offered as I settled into one of the more ordinary chairs. She gestured toward the kitchen with a dramatic sweep of her hand. “I just got home a few minutes ago, so I’m dying for something. Coffee? Tea? Or perhaps something more interesting?”

  Since I was working, I wasn’t exactly ready to start happy hour. “Tea sounds great,” I said, glad that the effects of my midday caffeine infusion with Ian Norman had worn off long before. Forcing myself to drink another cuppa would give me a chance to hang around for a while, trying to pump information out of the woman who had supposedly been the love of Simon Wainwright’s life.

  “Then tea it is,” Aziza declared. “Do you take milk or—oh, here she is. Ophelia, I was wondering where you were hiding, you naughty girl!”

  A fluffy white cat with the distinctive blue eyes, flat face, and tiny ears of a Persian had just wandered in from what I assumed was the bedroom. Despite her thick fur, I could see she was wearing a pale pink collar studded with huge rhinestones.

  “What a gorgeous cat!” I remarked. And she was. Persians are generally a lot of work, since they require daily grooming. Yet Ophelia had a beautiful coat. Because keeping their fur snow white can also be a chore, special grooming powders are available to maintain the bright white color and prevent stains. Aziza had clearly availed herself of whatever was required to keep Ophelia looking like she was posing for a cat food ad.

  “She can keep you company while I make the tea,” my conscientious hostess offered. “And I’ll see if I have a special treat for you, Ophelia.”

  As soon as Aziza disappeared into the kitchen, Ophelia sauntered over to check me out. I was relieved that she decided I wasn’t wo
rth her time, since I hadn’t yet had a chance to determine whether or not she had ringworm. She leaped onto a cushion that was probably a favorite hangout, choosing to study me from afar. Meanwhile, I studied the room’s intriguing decor, hoping I could use it to get Aziza talking about theater in general and the Port Players specifically.

  Yet she was strangely quiet when she returned with a tray. After giving her beloved kitty a treat, she gracefully draped herself across the couch so that she was half sitting, half lying down. We were separated by a coffee table laden with a teapot, two delicate china cups, and a plate of bland-looking cookies that had afterthought written all over them. Her sudden reticence told me I was going to have to do all the work.

  It was a good thing I’d worked out a strategy for making conversation. “I love all the photographs of old movie stars,” I commented, glancing around the room. “Which one is your favorite?”

  “Theda Bara,” she said without hesitation, pointing to the cluster of actresses I had recognized from the silent era. “She’s the mysterious-looking one with the big eyes and the exotic makeup.”

  She rose from the couch and, daintily lifting the skirt of her satin dressing gown, floated across the room. I nearly fell off my chair when I noticed she was wearing cream-colored satin mules with huge feather pom-poms at the toe.

  She stopped in front of the photograph, her eyes glazing over as she gazed at it in awed silence. “Theda Bara was the original vamp,” she finally said in a reverent voice. “She created the role of the ‘bad girl’ in the movies at a time when ingenues reigned. You know, the sweet young airheads with pretty faces and great figures but not much else going for them. Yet she dared to play women of depth, like Salome and Cleopatra. She was even cast as a character named Madame Mystery.”

  Aziza turned to me and smiled. “Her studio, Fox, told everyone she was a member of Egypt’s royal family, but she was actually born Theodosia Goodman in Cincinnati, Ohio. The deception was revealed early on in her career, yet she quickly became Fox’s biggest star. She made as many as ten movies in a single year.” Aziza looked back at the photograph and sighed. “And she had the perfect life. Not only was she wealthy; she was happily married to a man she truly loved.”

  Her message was all too clear. A girl from Ohio named Theodosia Goodman had completely reinvented herself, becoming someone totally different—not unlike someone named Ann or Anna becoming Aziza. She then went on to have everything she wanted, including a successful acting career and a loving husband. Aziza obviously idolized Theda for having had two important things that appeared to have eluded her.

  As she returned to the couch and poured me a cup of tea, she asked, “How are you finding your foray into Theater One?”

  “I’ve been enjoying the play rehearsals much more than I ever expected,” I told her. I was glad she’d mentioned Theater One, since it was the most direct way to bring the conversation around to Simon. “And everyone’s been so nice to me.”

  “Really.” She raised one eyebrow about a quarter of an inch, an ability I often wished I’d mastered somewhere along the way. “If I were you, I’d be careful.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, surprised.

  “Not everyone who’s involved with the Port Players can be trusted.” She shrugged, a movement that caused the creamy silk fabric of her dressing gown to shimmer. “I suggest that you watch your back.”

  I wondered if she was referring to the likelihood of someone in the troupe being Simon’s murderer or something of a completely different nature.

  “I’m sure there are all kinds of intrigues within the group,” I remarked. “Friends, enemies, jealousies—even love affairs.”

  “Like Simon and me,” she noted.

  I decided to jump in, feetfirst. After all, a person could nurse a cup of tea for only so long. “But that sounds like it was one of the smoother relationships within the group,” I observed. I paused before adding, “I was surprised to learn from Betty that Simon and Lacey used to be an item.”

  The way Aziza bristled confirmed that I’d just brought up an extremely sensitive topic.

  “That’s right,” she finally replied, frowning. She stirred her tea so frantically that some of it spilled into the saucer. “About three months ago, during rehearsals for A Chorus Line, Simon and I had a silly disagreement and we split up. But only for a very short time,” she added hastily.

  “That seems surprising,” I commented, “given how close Betty told me you two seemed to be.”

  “Betty’s right; we were extremely close. But Simon had, shall we say, a real sense of drama.”

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, I thought.

  “Anyway,” she went on, clearly still agitated, “it was just a silly lovers’ quarrel, but Simon was known to overreact on occasion. He demonstrated just how angry he was with me by taking up with that fat, mealy-mouthed Lacey Croft.

  “It was pathetic, really,” she went on, her green eyes narrowing. “That woman isn’t even close to being in Simon’s league. Not only is she one of the most unattractive people I’ve ever seen in my life; she has absolutely no acting talent. I mean none. She can’t even make a decent costume. I’m sure Derek only keeps her around because he can’t find anybody else willing to work as hard as she does. And that’s only because she has no life. When I think of her and Simon together, it’s all I can do to keep myself from…I don’t even know what.”

  I could practically see Aziza’s face turning green, like the Wicked Witch character in TV ads for the Broadway musical Wicked.

  “Of course, she’d been throwing herself at him for months.” The way Aziza spat out her words reminded me of my pussycat Catherine the Great, back in her feistier days. “And when Simon suddenly found himself alone, well, you know how men are. They’re not very good at saying no. Especially when someone is obviously panting for them. Add in the fact that he was trying to find a way to hurt me, and you’ve got your motivation for their tawdry little affair.”

  “So Simon and Lacey started going out as a result of your breakup,” I prompted, hoping for more detail.

  Aziza smiled coldly. “From what I hear, they didn’t go out much. They mostly stayed in. It seems their relationship was based primarily on, shall we say, carnal pleasures. Not surprising, considering the woman’s complete lack of personality.” She sighed. “Fortunately, it lasted only a few weeks. It didn’t take Simon long to realize that he’d traded a silk purse for a sow’s ear. Just as I expected, he came running back to me.

  “You see, Simon and I were made for each other,” she went on, throwing one arm into the air in an embarrassingly histrionic movement. “We both realized that the moment we met, on the same day he joined the Port Players. He used to call me his muse. He said he would never be able to create without me at his side to inspire him. We’re a real life Romeo and Juliet.” Her voice thickened as she corrected herself by saying, “I mean, we were.”

  The tears that suddenly filled her vibrant green eyes seemed genuine. Then again, I wasn’t the most insightful person around when it came to evaluating someone’s acting abilities.

  “He never really cared about Lacey,” Aziza continued. Her vehemence made me wonder if she was trying to convince me or herself. “He just used her to get back at me.”

  “And yet it seems like poor Lacey never got over him,” I said softly, as if I was simply thinking out loud instead of trying to understand their love triangle as well as I could.

  Aziza let out a raw, throaty noise that sounded so much like a bark that it took me a few seconds to realize it was a laugh. “Now, that’s what I call an understatement.”

  My confusion must have been written all over my face, because she added, “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” I asked.

  “That for the past few weeks Lacey had been stalking him.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond, since I didn’t know if Aziza’s version of “stalking” meant giving him a call every few wee
ks to see how he was doing or taping her underwear to his bedroom window. Frankly, Lacey struck me as someone who was much too levelheaded to do anything extreme, let alone stalk someone.

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘stalking’?” I asked cautiously.

  Aziza’s expression darkened. “As soon as Simon came back to me, the woman went absolutely berserk. She started calling him on his cell phone thirty or forty times a day. She constantly followed him in her car, so that wherever he went he’d find her waiting for him when he came out. She also sent him letters.”

  “What kind of letters?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Threatening letters,” she replied, her emerald-colored eyes growing round. “Letters that were filled with phrases like I’d rather see you dead than with her and One day you’re going to regret what you’ve done.” She paused, no doubt for dramatic effect. “Then there were the phone messages.”

  “What kind of phone messages?”

  “The ramblings of a deranged mind,” she replied bitterly. “Simon and I would come home from an evening out together and she would have filled up his answering machine. She’d say things like, ‘I know you’re out with her. I followed you, so I know you went to such-and-such restaurant.’” She shuddered. “It was terrifying.”

  “Where are the letters and tapes now?” I asked, my interest piqued.

  “Oh, Simon got rid of them.” Once again, she waved her hand in the air in a gesture that was considerably more dramatic than what was called for. “He acted like they were nothing. He never did see her for what she really was. He had such a kind heart that he probably couldn’t even imagine anyone that malicious.”

  “So he never went to the police?”

  “No.” Shaking her head slowly, she added, “I tried to get him to file a report. Or even to get a restraining order. But he insisted that Lacey was harmless. I considered going to the police myself, but I knew that without his cooperation I wouldn’t get very far.”