by Clea Simon
“Have you gotten any threatening phone calls?”
“Calls? No. But I do think someone tried to break in about a month ago. I was showing cats in Oregon, and when I came home my locks had been tampered with—that’s why I got the new alarm system. Thank god my partner was around. I stopped posting my show dates on our website after that. Why give the bad guys notice that you’re going to be away?”
It was a good question, and I remembered something from the news reports.
“The other break-ins, they happened when the owners were out of town, right?”
“Right. The latest was a judge who was making a special appearance.”
“So it had to be somebody who knew the circuit.” My brain was warming up.
Sally stopped it cold. “Not necessarily. I mean, a Google search can uncover a lot of this information. Even, probably, potential buyers! But the thieves have been careful. Nobody has been around while they hit these places.”
Not during the successful robberies anyway. But what if that had been the plan at Rose’s cattery, only she’d been home when the thieves came? Maybe the calls were designed to scare her away.
“So, you didn’t get any phone calls? Nothing to ask you to pay up or anything?”
“No, I don’t know anyone who has.” Sally’s voice rose, puzzled. “So someone was calling Rose and threatening her cattery? Why would someone do that? I mean, why would thieves broadcast their intentions?”
For the second time that morning, I had no answers. Before we rang off, though, Sally was able to give me a good quote about Rose—and some info to pass along to Rose’s sister. Although Rose’s lovely, lithe cats were no longer the height of fashion, they were represented by several breeding societies, of which Sally knew the names of three. I debated doing the legwork for Ivy, and came down on the side of getting my own work done.
Where had I put her number?
“Ivy?” The cool voice that greeted me was a recording. I repeated some of what Sally had told me about the cats’ value, but concluded by saying I had the contact info for several Turkish Angora breeder associations. Rose’s sister seemed to have the money sense that my friend had lacked, and I knew she’d call me back.
***
Without much heart, I made myself hack together some eight hundred words on Rose. I’d trim them back later, but cutting anything out now just felt too hard. Having something down on paper did give me a feeling of satisfaction, however, especially since the assignment wasn’t due until Friday, and I congratulated myself on my professionalism.
“Hey, kitty!” Musetta had made herself scarce for much of the afternoon. My writing, at least when it was uninspired—or unaccompanied by gestures—bored her. “I’m a pro. Did you know that?” No response was forthcoming and I realized that I missed having a real human to talk to. Not that Bill ever scoffed at my love for my cat. In fact, he said that the conversations I conducted with the black-and-white feline were one of my more endearing habits.
Okay, that way melancholy lies. It was time I left the house.
Darkness was falling by the time I finally got out, and we wouldn’t turn the clocks back for another week. Telling myself that dusk always came early on late October afternoons didn’t go far in making me feel less like a social reject. Hey, I had friends, didn’t I? On days like this, I almost regretted quitting my day job. With little thought, I headed toward the Casbah, where camaraderie of some sort could always be found.
***
I had the bar to myself at that hour, but Risa, the bartender, made for good company. Since it had just turned five, I let her draw me a Blue Moon and she pulled up a stool to chat while I waited for what I realized was going to be my first actual cooked meal in two days.
“So what’s up with you?” Risa hiked up the low-rise bell bottoms that threatened to slide even further once she sat down and fixed me with her kohl-rimmed eyes. She’d already told me about her latest studio class in life drawing.
“Nothing so interesting.” I reached for a lemon slice for my beer. “In fact, the only nudes I’m likely to see are in your next show.”
“Don’t look for that.” She smiled and reached for her own pint glass. “I’m working them all into abstractions. The lines are fascinating to me. There’s so much movement.”
I was used to Risa’s enthusiasms. A natural, if unfocused, artist, each semester had found her a new medium to love. The previous autumn, it had been video and the back wall of the bar had flickered for months with colored lights and shapes that she called an installation. A new tattoo—a coiled snake—wrapped around her wrist couldn’t quite hide the burn scar from her brief infatuation with soldered metal work, last spring. Drawing, at least, sounded safe.
“I look forward to them.”
“Next month, you’ll get an invitation.” The college celebrated the end of classes with a big show and sale. “Bring your boyfriend. I like him.”
So much for my buzz. “Well, there may be a problem there. I’m not sure we’re still seeing each other.”
“Bummer.” Risa rolled her coaster around on its edge to avoid meeting my eyes, but she recovered quickly. “Plenty more where he came from, though, huh?”
I nodded an agreement I didn’t feel.
“There’s that guy you used to see. Blondie, what’s his name?”
“Rick.” She was trying at least.
“Yeah, he always had that sexy farm-boy vibe going on.”
“Among other things.”
“Hey, I didn’t say you had to marry him.” She made a face. Risa was barely pushing twenty-five, so it might have been the idea of a permanent union that got her, but I suspected it was the subject himself. Bartenders see a lot.
“I don’t need Mr. Right…”
“Just Mr. Right Now,” she finished the line and pushed off the stool. Someone from the kitchen had put a plate on the bar’s far end, and I could smell tomato, garlic, and onion as she brought it over. “Bon appetit.”
“Thanks.” Even the rice, steaming and flecked with parsley, looked scrumptious. When had I last had a real meal?
“Oh, someone else was asking for you.”
“Huh? Not Rick?”
“Not the farm boy. Some big lug.”
Who would look for me at the Casbah? Without thinking I swung around. No, nobody was behind me.
“You okay?”
“Just hungry.” Appetite and loneliness were getting to me.
She handed me the pepper mill without my having to ask. “Anyway, he looked kind of young for you.” This was an odd moral position for a bartender, which Risa belatedly realized. “But, hey, who am I to question? I mean, as long as he’s legal, that is.”
I smiled.
“Anyway, I thought he might be in one of those new emocore bands, and wanting you to write about him. So I told him if he had a package or a CD, he could just leave it for you here. He didn’t.
“I hope he wasn’t from some band that you trashed.” She looked up at me, worried. I guess she hadn’t noticed that I hadn’t been writing about music lately. “I mean, he was big. Scary big. You ever have problems after that happens?”
“Nothing too serious.” Critics become used to being cursed out on stage. Female critics, in particular, get sexual threats at times. But it’s just noise, some boy in a band verbalizing his pain. It was all part of the life, and I’d take the hassle if I could get the gigs again. “Thanks for not telling him where I live, though!”
“Hey, I’m young, but I’m not stupid.” Just then, a couple walked into the bar. The after-work rush was starting. Without asking, Risa topped off my pint and moved to serve them. I lost myself in the pleasure of well-seasoned pasta, and for a little while my life was good.
Chapter Fourteen
The next day dawned too quiet for my comfort. Despite my determination to have an early night and a good sleep—I’d turned off the phone’s ringer—there were no messages waiting. So much for virtue rewarded. Even Musetta seemed dist
ant, having abandoned her usual spot on my pillow for the windowsill before I got up.
“Okay, kitty, I can take a hint. Time to get my own house in order.” Calling Bill again would be a good start. So would finishing up what I could on the City story or reaching out to more florists for the I Do assignment. Then there was cleaning the apartment or getting in shape…given the choices, a run beckoned. I creaked a bit as I reached for my sweats and retrieved my sneakers from under the sofa, but once out in the crisp air the effort began to seem almost worthwhile.
“Ah one, two, three, four!” I sang aloud with the Beatles, and within three blocks my legs began to thaw. This was the first time I’d exercised since I’d been attacked and it took a good while before I began to feel like I had muscles again. A contagious beat helped, and before I was a mile from home I could imagine myself a jaguar, racing through her jungle territory—if jaguars sang out loud, that is. At least my jungle was still a colorful one. Following the recent rains, the last of the season’s bright foliage had been battered down, and leaves lay plastered on the sidewalk below me. They made the running treacherous, just damp enough to slide when you least expected, but preserved the bright reds and oranges as a tapestry carpet.
“Here comes the sun.” As if on some celestial cue, the song I needed just then came on. And if the sky didn’t exactly follow suit, the cloud cover did lighten a bit.
Half hour later, I rounded my own corner and bounded up the stairs feeling loose, fit, and charitable. I’d even call Sunny, I’d decided while pounding down the home stretch. My agreement with City magazine to coordinate this story with the annoying photographer had barely been honored, and I knew that was largely my fault.
“Hey, Sunny! It’s Theda.” As soon as I was showered, I’d dialed her number and stood in my bathrobe waiting for the inevitable machine. Instead, I heard a grunt and then a shuffle.
“Oh hey, wait a minute. I’m here!” All perky myself, I’d neglected to check the clock. Clearly, I’d woken Sunny.
“Sunny,” I said, talking slowly and clearly. “It’s Theda. Should I call you back?”
“No, no, I’m awake.” She sounded doubtful. “It’s just my head. A bunch of us went out last night.” I remembered my quiet dinner and felt a twinge.
“Where?”
“Oh, some loft party. Jessica from the Mail thought it would be a scene.”
“Was she doing a column on it?” My column, that is.
“No, Ralph went with me.” That explained the hangover. “She sent us both. She’s assigning stories now. They just named her to be the permanent deputy arts editor.”
I whistled silently while this bit of news sunk in. Had Bunny known about “baby Jessica’s” promotion and just not wanted to tell me? Did this mean they’d finally be looking for someone to write the column that I had proposed? Maybe that girl had more than her bustline going for her. And maybe I shouldn’t have burned my bridges quite so thoroughly.
Enough crying over spilled tempers. At least I still had a few clients.
“Wow, well, actually I’m calling about the City gig.” I waited for Sunny’s grunt of assent. Good, she was still awake.
“I’m going to interview Lynn Ngaio this afternoon. Want to come? You can shoot after I’ve talked with her, or maybe just scope the place out.”
“What do you mean by that? Why would I need to scope it out?” God, Sunny’s namesake disposition did not hold true this morning.
“I mean, just get the lay of the land. See what you might want to photograph.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry. What time?” I gave her the info, and directions to the designer’s South End loft space, and heard her shuffling about to write it down.
“Just let me do my interview first, okay?” Already I was regretting my generosity.
Once we rang off and I’d dressed, I turned once more to the brief profile of Rose. If I could finish this up today, at least get it done in some form, I’d feel I’d accomplished something. But as I looked down at my own words—detailing Rose’s establishment of her cattery, her care and study of the Turkish Angora breed, and her determination to become a judge—I also remembered Sunny’s pat dismissal of her. What had she said? Was it that Rose was too old, or didn’t make enough money to be important? That was the kind of thinking that could backfire on all of us. I mean, Rose was easily into her fifties, so she had a good two decades on me. But already, at thirty-three, I’d been passed over for that enfant terrible Jessica. And if you were looking at financial success as some kind of benchmark, well, Sunny was the one always cadging drinks. Usually, anyway. Honesty compelled me to admit that Saturday, when Violet had played, the thirsty photog had turned down my offer of a free beer. Maybe she was trying to be less of a parasite. And maybe I should try to be a little less judgmental.
“Am I getting old and cranky, Musetta?” Now that I’d settled down at my computer, she’d taken her usual place on the chair behind me.
“Meh!” She yawned, showing her pink tongue and sharp white teeth. I’d have to be content with that.
Determined to start treating myself better, I took myself out for lunch on my way to the South End. The weather was just cold enough so a big bowl of mushroom barley soup at City Stop Café hit the spot, and their news rack gave me an opportunity to peruse both the local papers. Settling in first with the Mail , I spotted Ralph’s byline right on the arts front. Clearly, he was on his new beat. The story, complete with pictures of famous faces, was a puff piece on a Hollywood actor who was shooting a new movie north of the city, in one of the sailing crowd’s favorite resort towns. He must have loved that, hanging around the set just to get quotes like the one that was blown up large over the photo: “We’re looking for that authentic New England atmosphere. That’s why we had to build an entire nineteenth-century seaport here.” But then if editor Jessica was also sending him to loft parties, maybe he’d find a way to work back into music writing.
I decided not to waste too much sympathy on Ralph and turned instead to the news section. Nothing about Rose, which could mean that the cops had nothing to report or just that there wasn’t anything that they cared to make public yet. At least there were no stories of new cattery thefts. It seemed a little strange that after eight or so break-ins in the last few months, the crime wave would have stopped completely, but I was sure that Sally and her compatriots wouldn’t complain. Maybe all the breeders had upgraded their security systems just as she had.
Switching over to the tabloid Independent , I let myself linger over the page-six photos: some movie hunk had been caught with his married co-star. The fact that I didn’t recognize the names of any of the players couldn’t keep me from enjoying the photos. Obviously staged, their glares of shock and anger as fake as the story, they looked as posed as stars of the silent screen. And as pretty. Perhaps, in that world, you leave your bungalow every morning in full makeup? Well, good for them, if this is what they needed to do to raise publicity.
The pull-out arts section was a good idea, one the Mail would be smart to copy. It almost fell into my lap as I flipped through the rest of the paper. And right there, on the bottom of the arts front, was the Violet Haze Experience! One of the tab’s columnists had been at the show, and he liked what he heard. The column seemed to be a round-up of local bands, but Violet’s was first, with her name and the band’s in bold type. “Psychedelic guitar driven by relentless rhythms, the Violet Haze Experience updates the ‘riot grrrl’ sound for the 21st century.” I’d have to call her as soon as I got home, though I bet her phone had been ringing off the hook since this issue hit the streets early in the a.m. In addition to the plug for my friend, it was nice to see that someone was paying attention to local music. Now if I’d gotten the go-ahead for my column, the Mail would be giving the Independent a run for its money. Their loss.
Warmed by the soup, as well as Violet’s write-up, I turned back toward news. Graft, politics, war, all covered as usual in the tabloid’s florid prose. Then I saw it: “Local
woman’s murder tied to crime ring.” “Rose Keller, 57, of Watertown, murdered last week in a brutal home invasion, may have been linked to a big-money crime circuit,” the tabloid’s lead began, and from then on got worse. Keller, as the reporter called her, was known as an “ambitious but cash-starved up-and-comer in the notoriously cut-throat world of cat breeding,” it said. Notorious? Cut-throat? Bad enough that the story made ambition sound like a bad thing. “Sources say that police are investigating her murder in light of a series of stolen show cats, expensive purebreds that could have been sold illegally to put the struggling Keller back on the map.” Where did the reporter get this stuff? Who were these sources? Nobody was named, but the information—including that Rose had been trying to sell the majority of her cats, and quickly—echoed what Bill had told me. I found it hard to believe that something so gossipy could have come from the cops. But who else could have leaked it? For the umpteenth time that day, I wished I could talk to Bill.
I could, however, talk to the reporter. He must be a regular on the cop beat, covering crimes like this. Maybe he had sources that I didn’t. Regretting, for the first time, that I’d given up my cell, I ran out to the street. There, on the corner, was the last working pay phone in the city. A handful of change got me the Independent newsroom and, finally, the reporter.
“Hi, my name is Theda Krakow. I’m calling about your story on Rose Keller today.”
“Oh great, another one.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded young, and bored. “Let me guess, you’re a cat lady?”
I wasn’t going to say yes. Besides, in journalist terms I had something better to offer. “I’m the friend who found her body.” Sure enough, the voice perked up.
“Oh really, Ms. Krakow? And would you care to answer a few questions?” I heard the ping of a computer roused from its sleep mode.
