Cattery Row

by Clea Simon

  We followed her down an aisle of cats—Siamese this time, if the quizzical vocalizations were any clue—past a group of round-faced Russian blues, and into another ring, where judging was already in progress.

  “Look at the bones on this boy. Nice heft to him!” The voice that rang out belonged to a squat little woman, and the cat she was lifting, a placid Maine coon, must have weighed close to twenty pounds. “Nice conformation to the body, as well.” She ran her hands along his solid form and up to his head, turning him to face the assembled crowd. “Notice the rectangular body and good, strong muzzle.”

  Unfazed the cat stared straight ahead and, when she placed him back in his cage, began to groom. All in a day’s work, he seemed to say.

  “Very beautiful tortie.” The judge moved onto a swirl-patterned cat, lush with the colors of caramel, coffee, and smoke. “Excellent coat. Look at that color.” Placing the cat on the white platform, she brushed the fur backward to expose the soft, rich undercoat, where shades of red glowed against the black. The crowd murmurred its approval.

  “You see, with judging like that, the crowd learns what to look for.” As Sally spoke, the judge examined teeth and eyes and ears, leaning her two chins almost into a fine set of whiskers. “Perfectly spaced eyes. Ears right on top of the head!”

  “Too many buyers just go for the name when a certain breed gets hot. Like Maine coons used to be, and Ragdolls are now. Or they go for a certain look, without thinking how the breeder has or hasn’t produced healthy, happy animals.”

  “You mean like kitten mills?” I was remembering Violet’s lecture.

  “Exactly, but there are degrees. The worst are the ones that you hear about as horror stories, the ones that make the news because they keep the poor cats in all kinds of filth. Sometimes at kitten mills they’ll breed the queens every time they go into heat, forcing the poor cats to produce two or three litters a year every year like clockwork until they just drop dead, sometimes with half their kittens. But there are also some unlicensed breeders who kind of barely toe the line. Maybe they don’t really know what they’re doing, but they’ll breed too often, and also pair cats up badly, interbreeding and not looking out for unhealthy traits. All they look for is what the customer sees—nice fur and maybe a cute face—but they end up with kittens who have deformed spines or congenital heart defects.”

  Violet made a face. “Half these show cats are freaks anyway.”

  “They’re healthy, happy animals.” Sally could defend herself. “Descended from your working mouser. Yes, some of them are genetic accidents. The Manx, for example, especially the completely tailless ones, probably came about from some mutation. And they can have spinal problems. But when they’re bred right, they’re fine creatures. You just need good, ethical breeders, and the way to keep breeders honest is to educate the public. Which Rose did.”

  “Look at this fellow,” the stout judge was saying now, holding a silver-gray Persian up high. “True to color. Excellent mascara around the eyes. Lovely head type and grand ear set. This is my best longhair premier.”

  “Premier?” Violet asked.

  “Neutered,” Sally replied. “Only unspayed or unaltered cats can be called champions.”

  “But isn’t the point to breed them?”

  “The point is to improve the breeds and raise breed awareness, not just create more cats.” Sally, I thought, was losing patience with Violet. I stepped in.

  “Some of these are older, right?”

  “Yes, and many of them have been bred. But you don’t want to keep breeding a cat, especially the females. It may not be as hard as for humans, but it’s still exhausting.”

  “And if you limit the supply…” Violet butted in.

  “It’s not about demand. There’s plenty of demand,” said Sally. “A show-quality kitten from a line of champions already commands a price of hundreds, if not thousands of dollars.”

  Violet whistled.

  “In fact, if anything it’s getting a little out of control. I breed Weggies—Norwegian forest cats—they’re like Maine coons but a little more compact, a more delicate, pointed face. And I can’t keep up with the demand. I mean, I personally check out every buyer. Even the kittens that aren’t show quality—I have them neutered before they leave my cattery and I make sure they’re going to a good home. But it’s getting harder. Show cats are becoming a big thing in Asia, Japan especially, and that makes checking out potential buyers more difficult.”

  “You investigate the buyers yourself?” This rang a bell. Something Bill had said.

  “Of course. They’re my cats.”

  That was it: Rose. “Sally, maybe you can explain something to me. I’d heard that before she was killed, Rose was looking to sell all her cats, or a lot of them anyway. But she kept backing out, at least from what I’ve heard.” I didn’t want to mention the cops, certainly not the suspicions Bill had passed along.

  “Sell her cats? Oh how sad. She must have been harder up than I thought. I mean, despite the prices we can get, most of us are pretty much just making it, once you count in vet bills, show fees, food, litter, and everything. She must have needed money badly.” Sally paused and stared off into the distance. “She could’ve asked me.”

  “I don’t think she wanted anyone to know, honestly.” If the word wasn’t out about the extortion, I wasn’t going to spread it. I did, however, want to blow Bill’s theory out of the water. “But the way she was acting—offering the cats and drawing back—would that have seemed strange to you?”

  “Not at all. Poor woman, it would’ve been like selling her children. Hard enough to let the kittens go, but especially if you were selling your breeding stock, you’d want to be careful, extra careful where they went. Some of those unlicensed breeders present themselves as amateurs. You know, someone says, ‘Oh, I just want to get into showing. Try my hand.’ But then they won’t buy a neutered cat, even a show-quality one, and you just know they’re planning something. I wonder what was happening?” She fixed me with a stare. “Does this have anything to do with her death?”

  “I don’t know.” She didn’t blink, and I thought of the cats on the judging table. “Honest. I think it might, though.” I decided to take a risk. “Sally, I believe someone was threatening Rose.”

  “Threatening her? How?”

  “Someone wanted money, and they were scaring her.” Sally held my eyes with hers, but I’d said enough. If she knew anything, I’d given her a perfect opening.

  “Well, then, I’m especially sorry that she didn’t come to me.” She turned away and blinked, slowly shaking her head. If she was faking her grief, she was doing a grand job. “We’d have made a formidable front.”

  I was ready to give up. Maybe she didn’t know about the extortion or the cat thieves, but then she turned back to me and grabbed my arm, her grip strong enough to hurt.

  “Theda, if you’re right, then I’m involved.” I waited, but all she did was press a business card into my hand. “You hear any more about this, you let me know. She was my friend, too, and we women have to stick together.”

  “Amen, sister,” said Violet, and I think she was serious.

  ***

  We walked Sally back to her cats and made appropriately appreciative noises over them, which was easy with the elegant Weggies. Sally had her own competitions to get ready for, and seemed to put Rose’s situation out of her mind as she got to work, combing her cats’ luxurious long, gray fur. But it was that care, and the obvious love she felt for her furry charges, that dispelled any last suspicions. Sally’s involvement was emotional; she was on our side.

  Which wasn’t getting very far at all. I still hadn’t uncovered anything useful. Determined to find out something before the day ended, I led Violet down a few more aisles, pretending to look at cats. But when I started asking about security, about anyone’s fears of their cats being stolen or hurt, the breeders stopped being so friendly.

  “Theda, come on!” I was admiring a sleeping smoke-
pointed Burmese, dark nose tucked into dark paws, and getting ready to approach the proud young man by his carrier when Violet started pulling at me. “Now!”

  At the end of the aisle, a fussy-looking woman in pink was talking to a security guard, and pointing at us. I’d questioned her just minutes before. Taking my cue, I smiled at the Burmese’s owner and we beat it, weaving through several of the displays until we found ourselves back in the Mew Mart. The security guard was nowhere to be seen, but heading back into the breeders’ area seemed an iffy proposition at best. I was ready to give up. Clearly, any intrigues here were being well hidden. Plus, I was hungry.

  “You know, Violet, I don’t even know who else to question. Do you want anything from the snack bar? Or should we call it a day?”

  “Umm, snack bar! Let’s see what they have. I could spend more time here.”

  She turned and pointed. “Hey, that’s the Pet Set booth. Let’s head over there and then we can get some lunch.”

  The Pet Set booth, almost a little room of its own under the colorful puppy and kitten logo, was set up like a miniature store. As I’d thought, the store was hosting an adoption area, with two rows of cages and a couple of loose-leaf binders with pictures and histories of each cat.

  “Hey, look at this fellow. Look at those thumbs!” Violet was using one finger to stroke the big paws of a marmalade tom—or ex-tom, as the bio clipped to his cage made clear—named Ginger. “What a sweet guy.”

  “He’s tested positive for kidney disease,” I read from his chart.

  “Poor guy. But he seems healthy. He could have years yet, if someone will just take care of him properly.” With longing in her eyes, Violet grabbed a sanitary wipe from the box by Ginger’s cage and moved on to the next enclosure, where three tabby kittens played with their tails and each other. A sign begged passersby: Please take us as a family!

  “Why people feel they need to breed more kittens, I’ll never understand.”

  “I wish Rose was here to explain her theories to you.” I missed my friend. “But you heard what Sally was saying: The show cats here aren’t just bred indiscriminately. They’re mated carefully, to bring out the best in a particular breed.”

  “And so darlings like these are left homeless?” Violet knew as well as I did how many unwanted, but perfectly grand animals were euthanized each year.

  I sighed. “These babies will probably find someone to love them this weekend.” My voice didn’t quite have the conviction I sought.

  “Well, what about those kitten mills, then? What about the people who aren’t careful, who don’t care about improving the breed? Did you see the prices listed on Sally’s flier? She’s getting, like, eight hundred dollars for a kitten—for kittens that aren’t even born yet! You know a lot of people have got to be into it just for the money.”

  “Violet, these people are more likely potential marks than kitten mill owners.” I wondered how many others out there had been threatened. “They’ve all got to know about those cattery thefts.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Theda. Where there’s cash to be had…”

  “Can I help you ladies?” Something about our rising voices, not to mention the topic of conversation, had alerted the Pet Set staffers. We turned and found ourselves facing a stylish brunette, her shoulder-length brown bob as sleek as the coat of a Burmese. Her perfectly made up face looked up at us expectantly, and I felt I knew her.

  “Oh, sorry.” I was suddenly aware of both our volume and our subject matter. Ah well, this store was helping unwanted animals. “We were just window shopping, actually. Cute kittens.”

  “Yes, they are.” She started to walk away.

  “Wait a minute.” I’d forgotten Violet’s quest, but she hadn’t. “Hey, maybe you can help me. Are you from the big New Hampshire store?”

  “Yes, I’m the manager.” Violet launched into an explanation of the missing receipt and her own tax-exempt status, and I searched my memory. Yes, this was the woman who’d been on duty the day we’d shopped there. Probably the one professional overseeing a staff of part-timers and teenagers who didn’t know how to take a job seriously yet.

  “I can’t imagine why I didn’t get your phone messages.” Her tone was conciliatory, but her expression—cool, a little frustrated, overworked—made it clear she could all too easily imagine any kind of memo going astray. “What was that date again?” Violet gave her the date, rough time and amount, and the manager, Denise her nametag reminded me, repeated it all, before going off behind the red-and-gold banner. She came out with one hand firm on the shoulder of a large young man, a ripening adolescent if his red-pocked skin was any indication, and steered him to face us. He was holding a cardboard box half open as she talked to him, and I suspected he was more useful for brawn than brain. He looked over and then nodded up at her, mouth half open.

  “Bruce will get a copy of the receipt out to you right away.” She rejoined us. He stood watching, his mouth still open. “I’ve told him where to look and given him your information. I’m trying to train him, you see. But I will check up on him.” If she was exasperated, she was keeping it in check. Bruce had disappeared again. “I’m so sorry, ladies.”

  “That’s great, thanks.” My stomach growled audibly—to me, anyway.

  “As an apology, I’d like to offer you ten percent off anything you purchase today.”

  “Really?” Violet’s eyes were lighting up.

  “Maybe we could come back after lunch?” Soon even kibble would start to look good.

  “Of course. I may be heading out, but just remind Bruce who you are. And he’ll carry whatever you purchase out to your car for you.”

  Even if the food stand was limited to shriveled franks and neon nachos, I knew then, we’d be spending the rest of the day at the show.

  ***

  “Musetta, I didn’t get any answers and my dogs are barking.” I headed for the sofa as soon as I got home, having dropped Violet and a trunk full of kitty paraphernalia off first.

  “Neh!” Those round green eyes looked up into my face as she replied, and I realized I was being rude.

  “I’m sorry, kitty.” I stopped in my tracks and reached down to pet her. “How was your day?” In response, she twined around my tired feet and then started toward the kitchen, pausing to rub her velvet jawline against the end table on which the answering machine rested.

  “Okay, Musetta, I’ll return some calls, once I’m sitting down. But would we like a can first?” She stared at me. Trust humans to have a firm grasp of the obvious. Still, when I held the small can a few inches above her pink nose she obligingly stood up, balancing on her stout hindquarters like a prairie dog. “Very good!” She shot me a look that said one moment more and she’d have batted that can right out of my hand. All grudges were forgiven, however, as I set the full bowl down by the counter. “You know none of the cats there were as lovely as you.” She didn’t bother to respond as she licked lustily at the moist food. “Or as intelligent.” As if on cue, she sat back, satisfied, and with great concentration began to wash her face.

  ***

  I hit the sofa and the answering machine button in that order, but none of the messages were anything special. Lynn Ngaio, the clothing designer, had called to say Tuesday would be fine for an interview, suggested a time, and left her cell. Monica Borgia touched base to see if I needed anything else, and, by the way, had just downloaded some tunes from an Austin outfit she was sure I would love. Bunny—sounding more exhausted than I’d ever heard her—reported that “the dress” had been found and ordered, and that she and her mother hadn’t killed each other, despite a few close calls. Nothing from Rick and, maybe more to the point, nothing from Bill. I didn’t know how we stood after last night, but in the silence after the messages ended I knew it wasn’t good.

  Just then two small white paws reached up to claw for attention. I hauled Musetta onto my lap. “You want me to call him, don’t you?” She kneaded my leg, which hurt. But she looked so happy I couldn’t
dislodge her, and soon she was purring like a bellows, all her needs met. “Kitty, if only my life were that simple.” But it wasn’t, so I reached carefully over my supine feline for the phone and settled in for a long gab with Bunny.

  “So, tell me about it. Is it satin? Does it have frills?”

  “Surely, you jest.” My friend sounded more like herself than she had on her message. She credited the glass of Sauvignon Blanc from which she took frequent sips. “I gave in on wearing white, because Mom looked like she was going to cry and she’s been as good as she could be about our having a handfasting, and not a church ceremony. But the gown is pretty, I’ll admit. Ivory, rather than that flat sugar-icing white, with a high lace collar, like something out of an antique postcard.”

  “Are you going to put your hair up, Gibson girl style?” I was joking, knowing Bunny’s disdain for all things traditional. Truth is, with her pretty, round face and glossy hair she could pull the look off.

  “We’ll fight that battle when we come to it.” A pause, during which I heard more wine being poured. “Speaking of which…”

  “Oh no.” I had seen this coming. “I’m not doing the bridesmaid thing. In the name of all the years of our friendship, please don’t ask.”

  “You’re in the clear!” Bunny was laughing now. “You and Bill are going to stand up front with us, remember?”

  Mention of my MIA beau killed my mood. “Bunny.” I took a deep breath, causing the cat to jump down. “There may be some problems with that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Bill and I. We’re, well, we’re not exactly fighting. But we’re not seeing eye-to-eye these days. Maybe it’s just that the honeymoon period is over, but maybe not, you know?” Before settling in with Cal, Bunny had taken a cynical view of relationships, often stating the belief that cutting your losses was the best option when things got rough.

  “Does this have anything to do with Rick being back in town?”

  “Why do you have to blame him for everything?”