Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “But you must have told the police about Lacey’s harassment after he was…after last weekend.”

  “I tried,” Aziza insisted. “But the officer I talked to—an absolutely unctuous man, by the way—didn’t seem very interested. Not when he found out I couldn’t actually produce the letters or the tapes as evidence.” With an indignant toss of her head, she added, “He acted as if I was making the whole thing up.”

  As much as I hated to agree with Anthony Falcone on anything, this time around I was leaning toward his way of thinking. There was no proof that Lacey was stalking Simon aside from Aziza’s version of what had gone on. And the fact that it happened to incriminate her rival for Simon’s affections made it extremely questionable.

  Then again, Kyle Carlson had also alluded to Lacey’s extreme behavior. At Monday night’s rehearsal, he’d mentioned that Simon had told him a lot about Lacey—“an earful,” was the way I remembered him putting it—over the last few weeks before he was murdered. Enough that Kyle had also concluded that Lacey Croft wasn’t a stable person.

  Still, the bottom line was that Aziza was accusing Lacey of killing Simon, while Lacey thought Aziza was most likely the culprit. I supposed that was par for the course in a love triangle that ended in murder.

  I would have liked to hear more about Aziza’s take on Lacey’s frightening behavior, but she suddenly put her teacup down on the table. “It’s getting late. I suppose you should take a look at Ophelia. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what you said all day. Ringworm is pretty awful, isn’t it?”

  She was right. Once Aziza and I were in the van, I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before touching Ophelia. She, meanwhile, stood on the examining table with her muscles tensed and her eyes darting around nervously.

  As I palpated the cat’s internal organs, I went through my usual list of questions. “Any change in appetite? Any vomiting or diarrhea? Any coughing or sneezing? Any changes in her water consumption?”

  Aziza answered no to all of them. “What about itchy skin?” I tried. “Has Ophelia been scratching a lot?”

  “No. The scabs don’t seem to bother her.”

  I put Ophelia on the scale and recorded her weight of 8.2 pounds. Then I took her temperature, which was a healthy 101.8 degrees. Next I checked her eyes. After switching off the lights, I examined her skin with a bar of ultraviolet light called a Wood’s lamp, which causes some skin lesions to glow.

  But it was when I checked inside her tiny ears with an ear videoscope that things began to make sense.

  There on the screen, dramatically magnified and in full color, was the interior of Ophelia’s right ear—complete with the horde of tiny crablike parasites living there.

  “She has ear mites,” I informed Aziza. “They can cause bacterial and yeast infections, as well as lesions in the ear. But they can also cause skin lesions on the body. It’s not common, but it’s possible that that’s what we’re dealing with in this instance. I have to treat the ear mites anyway, so for now let’s focus on getting rid of them and assume that they’re responsible for the scabs. If she doesn’t improve, then we’ll start looking for other causes.”

  Ophelia patiently allowed me to wipe out her ears with a cleaning fluid called OtiCalm. Then I poured a second liquid into her ears called MilbeMite, a one-shot treatment consisting of a solution of milbemycin oxime that kills ear mites.

  “Ophelia should be rechecked in three weeks,” I told her. “She may need a second treatment of milbemycin oxime at that point. In the meantime, I’d like you to clean her ears twice a day with OtiCalm. I’ll show you how. I’m also going to give you some ear drops to help get rid of the ear mites and yeast. It’s an antifungal, an anti-inflammatory, and an antibacterial.

  “And continue to keep an eye on her skin lesions. We still haven’t completely ruled out ringworm, so if you see what you think may be a flare-up, either your regular vet or I should have it cultured. That will give you a definitive answer.”

  I glanced around my clinic-on-wheels. It suddenly seemed extremely large, mainly because I knew that my next step would be cleaning the entire interior with bleach—a necessary precaution whenever there’s even a suspicion of ringworm.

  Maybe Sunny McGee is right, I thought grimly. Maybe I really do need an assistant.

  “Thank you so much!” Aziza gushed when we’d finished. “I promise I’ll do everything you say. You’re so good at this!”

  I shrugged modestly. To me, taking care of animals is pretty straightforward. Ask the owner some questions, examine the animal, maybe do a few tests. The answers are usually pretty clear.

  If only it was that simple dealing with humans—especially the ones whose emotions got so out of hand that they committed murder.

  As I jogged across the parking lot of the Bayside Bistro, where I was meeting Nick and his parents for dinner, I glanced at my watch anxiously. I hadn’t paid attention to the time while I was at Aziza’s.

  It was only ten minutes to seven. I was early.

  Yet when I reached the doorway of the restaurant, Dorothy was already standing inside the foyer. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she looked extremely perturbed. Henry, meanwhile, was lounging on a bench that was pushed against one wall.

  “You made it,” she announced in a shrill voice. “Henry and I were getting worried. In fact, we were wondering if we’d have to eat by ourselves.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. After all, what was the point?

  “How was your day?” I asked. “Did you enjoy the wineries?”

  “A lot of those places charge for their tastings, you know,” Dorothy replied tartly.

  They’re businesses, I thought, gritting my teeth, not charities for tight-fisted tourists.

  I tried changing the subject. “Did you enjoy the scenery?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not big on fields.”

  “How about you, Henry?” I asked, turning my focus to the less offensive half of the Burby duo.

  It was only then that I noticed Henry was slumped over in his seat. His eyes were closed and his breathing was raspy.

  “Henry?” I cried. “Are you all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Dorothy assured me. “Between all those animals in your house and all that…that nature out east, his allergies have gone berserk. He took a double dose of Benadryl. As usual, it’s made him a bit drowsy.”

  Drowsy! I thought. The man is practically comatose!

  “We might as well go inside,” Dorothy muttered. “If they haven’t already given away our table.”

  She leaned over Henry’s extremely relaxed body so that her face was next to his ear. “Henry?” she hissed. “Naptime is over.”

  “Wha-a-a?” He opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, looking so disoriented I felt like asking him what year it was and who was president. “Where are we?”

  “The overpriced restaurant Jessica picked out,” Dorothy informed him. “It’s time for dinner, so up and at ’em.”

  As we walked inside with poor Henry shuffling behind us, she glanced around. I did the same, enjoying the restaurant’s sophisticated decor. With its clean lines and subtle use of color, it captured the ambience of an upscale Manhattan eatery.

  “Goodness. This place certainly looks…interesting,” Dorothy observed with a look of distaste on her face. “They’re obviously in the middle of renovating. That would explain why everything looks so plain.”

  “I can smell the spices,” Henry mumbled.

  Grateful for his show of support, I volunteered, “Yes, this place is known for its wonderfully spiced food. In fact—”

  “Can’t stand spices.” If he was trying to imitate a zombie, he was doing a darned good job. “At least, my guts can’t. If I eat anything with the least bit of spice in it, it goes right through me.”

  I was doing my best not to dwell on that particular image when Dorothy asked, “How exactly did you come to choose this particular place, Jessica?”

&nb
sp; “Actually, it was Nick’s idea,” I replied, trying not to sound defensive. “It’s one of our—his—favorite places.”

  “I see.” She looked around again before adding, “It seems so…trendy.”

  She said “trendy” as if Webster’s Dictionary defined the word as bizarre, badly decorated, and filthy enough to be closed by the Board of Health.

  “Speaking of Nick,” I said through clenched teeth, “I wonder where he is.” For the twentieth time in about thirty seconds, I checked the front door.

  “Poor Nicky works so hard,” Dorothy said. “Knowing him, he’s probably so busy studying he lost track of the time. He doesn’t have all that free time that you—”

  Fortunately, my fiancé chose that moment to materialize in the doorway of the restaurant.

  “Nick!” I cried. “Over here!”

  Throw me a life raft! I thought. But having him finally join our chummy little party was the next best thing.

  “Hi, everybody,” he greeted us breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Me too, I thought.

  “Not at all!” Dorothy cooed. “You’re right on time. We’re the ones who are early. For some reason, Jessica insisted that we get here way before our reservation time.”

  Before I had a chance to protest, he winked at me. “That’s my girl!” he exclaimed. “If it wasn’t for Jessie being so organized, I don’t know how I’d get through a single day.”

  “Now, Nicky, you’re extremely organized,” Dorothy insisted. “I remember when you were in the third grade. Every day, you’d come home from school and—”

  “I think our table’s ready,” I interrupted, anxious to get this family dinner of ours over as quickly as possible. “Isn’t the maître d’ waving at us?”

  Actually, he seemed to be gesturing over something he was telling one of the waiters. But I made a beeline for the only available table in the restaurant, figuring the staff was going to have to use physical force to remove me from my chair if it turned out not to be ours.

  Before I’d reached the table, however, the maître d’ came rushing over.

  “Excuse me, we have another table for you,” he said, so politely that, at any other time, I would have reacted as if we were having a normal conversation.

  But this wasn’t any other time. This was now, when my blood was dangerously close to boiling, thanks to Ma Burby’s supernatural ability to get under my skin and somehow turn up the thermostat.

  “I want this table,” I demanded. “I need this table.”

  “This is the Burby party, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Is it ever, I thought. “Yes.”

  “The reservation is for six people. You’ll be sitting at that larger table, over in the corner.”

  “Our reservation is for four,” I insisted. “I made it myself.”

  “But someone called earlier today and added two more.”

  “That’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”

  I’d barely gotten the words out before a familiar face at the front of the restaurant caught my eye. A lovely warm feeling rushed over me, instantly lowering the temperature of my blood back to normal.

  “Betty!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

  I noticed then that Winston was right behind her. “We’ve come to join you for dinner,” he announced as they walked over.

  “The more the merrier, right?” Betty added, casting me a conspiratorial look.

  I had to resist the urge to hug her right then and there. “Definitely.”

  In fact, I was already feeling considerably merrier as our group moved toward our table for six. Unfortunately, it was a round table, one that was small enough for everyone to converse at the same time instead of breaking up into little groups.

  Still, I waited to see where Dorothy sat before choosing my own seat. Happily, I was able to situate myself between Betty and Nick.

  This seemed like a good time to fill Nick in on the latest canine crisis.

  “Nick, Mitzi stole Max’s pink plastic poodle,” I quietly told him as the others were busy taking their seats. I tried to make my tone of voice reflect the severity of the offense. Instead, I sounded like I was whining.

  That didn’t mean I wasn’t annoyed when Nick looked at me as if I’d lost contact with reality. “Jessie, that’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. I noticed before that she was eyeing Max’s favorite toy.” I took a deep breath before adding, “I think she’s evil.”

  Nick sighed. “Have you been watching the DVD of The Omen again?”

  “I’m telling you, Nick, Mitzi’s taken on your mother’s personality.”

  “Ah. So now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. This is really about my mother. It has nothing to do with her dog.”

  It was true I had issues with Mitzi’s mother—uh, owner. Major issues. But this was entirely unrelated.

  “Nick, the poodle is gone. Vanished. And poor Max is beside himself.”

  “Then go out and buy him another poodle!”

  “You’re missing the point!”

  “Jessie, you’re imagining this! Dogs don’t do nasty things to other dogs for no reason. They’re not convicts, for heaven’s sake—or junior high school girls!”

  I could see this wasn’t going anywhere. Nick refused to see Mitzi for what she really was. Come to think of it, ever since his parents had moved in with us, he’d forgotten all his past warnings about how difficult his mother could be. He and I suddenly seemed to be on different teams. Nick, along with Dorothy, Henry, and Mitzi, were the Top Dogs—and my pets and I were the Underdogs.

  As for Mitzi’s caper, I knew exactly what she was up to. She had planned this whole thing, not only to antagonize a fellow canine but more importantly to create problems between Nick and me.

  As if we didn’t already have enough of those to deal with.

  By that point, everyone had gotten settled. I’d barely had a chance to put my napkin in my lap before Dorothy fixed her eyes on Betty. In a sharp voice, she asked, “Who are you?”

  “I’m Betty Vandervoort, a friend of Jessica and Nick’s,” Betty replied. Her blue eyes twinkling, she added, “I’m also their landlady, so it’s important that they stay on my good side. And this is my fiancé, Winston Farnsworth. You must be Nick’s parents. I’ve heard so much about you!”

  “No one told me we were having extra people at dinner,” Dorothy grumbled. “Did you know about this, Henry?”

  Poor Henry was slumped down low in his seat, looking dazed. I had a feeling he’d be snoring long before our waiter brought out the appetizers. I only hoped we’d be able to keep his forehead out of the clam chowder.

  All the more reason to make a short night of it.

  “Did you say Winston is your fiancé?” Dorothy asked. She snapped her linen napkin and spread it over her lap. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be making major life changes?”

  “But look at you and Henry!” Betty returned. “You’re the perfect example of people our age who have a happy marriage!”

  Dorothy’s mouth dropped open. Of course she wasn’t anywhere near Betty’s age, but even she wasn’t insensitive enough to correct her.

  One point for Betty.

  “Tell me, Dorothy,” she said, leaning forward and speaking in a chatty, conspiratorial tone. “How do you and Henry manage to keep your marriage so lively?”

  All five of us turned our eyes toward Henry. He had leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, and he’d begun to emit a rasping sound that I suspected was about to escalate into full-scale snoring.

  Another point for Betty, I thought gleefully. Maybe this evening won’t turn out so badly after all.

  “Henry happens to be heavily drugged,” Dorothy returned through clenched teeth. “He’s having a very difficult time with all those…those animals around.”

  “Aren’t they wonderful?” Betty cooed. “Max and Lou and Cat and little Tinkerbell…And Jessica is
so good with them. Of course, she’s a professional, so she’s used to working with all kinds of animals. When she treats her patients in that marvelous clinic-on-wheels of hers, many of them are feeling stressed or in pain.” She looked over at me and beamed. “She sees them at their worst, then makes them feel their best. That’s our Jessica!”

  “Maybe we should order,” I suggested. Even though I was actually having fun now, I felt sorry for Henry. I was also afraid that the maître d’ who kept glancing over at us nervously would throw us out—and I was hungry.

  When a waiter came by to take our order, Dorothy went first. “These sautéed scallops on the menu—what are they sautéed in?” she asked.

  “Butter, of course,” the waiter replied, looking confused.

  “Ugh. No butter for me. How about the onion soup? Are there a lot of onions in it?”

  “A fair amount.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly. I looked over at Betty and rolled my eyes. She responded with a sympathetic smile.

  After Dorothy ordered grilled swordfish, laying out the detailed directions for customizing the entire entrée so that it would meet her standards, the rest of us ordered our meals with amazing speed. I was hoping the arrival of a basket of dinner rolls would keep everyone distracted, at least for a little while.

  But as soon as our waiter left, Dorothy zoomed in on Betty. I got the feeling that while the rest of us were ordering, she’d been planning her attack.

  “Tell me, Betty,” she said, “do you have any children?” Her question might have been completely innocent under different circumstances. But from the way her eyes glittered, it was clear she had an agenda.

  “I’m afraid I never had any of my own,” Betty replied. “But I’ve come to think of Jessica and Nick as my children. You don’t mind if I borrow your son, do you?”

  The look on Dorothy’s face said she clearly did mind.

  “How tragic that you never experienced the joy of motherhood,” she cooed, shaking her head sorrowfully. “How ever did you manage to fill up that long life of yours?”

  Betty smiled. “With an exciting and fulfilling career on Broadway, doing the one thing I love most, which is dancing. Traveling all over the world, seeing its wonders and meeting the most fascinating people imaginable. Going to marvelous parties and salons, hobnobbing with the greatest minds of the twentieth century.” She reached over and took Winston’s hand. “And after an extremely happy and passionate marriage that ended all too quickly, finding the greatest love of my life.”