Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat

by Nancy J. Bailey

  There were political issues, too. Which weekend should the show be held? One must be chosen where there were no other competing shows in the region. Advertising had to be done to tempt enough public to come, so the exhibitors could sell kittens and promote the various breeds. Should household pets be invited to compete, or not? And which judges would expect to come, depending on location, specialty, and other things. There were enough small matters to boggle the mind.

  We did manage to get through the first show with one club. Several things went wrong. The judge’s books got lost and didn’t turn up until Sunday afternoon. All the judges – except one – I won’t say who that was – were very nice and understanding and just wrote their results in notebooks instead. The one remaining told us that he would never judge for our club again. He was pursued by the show manager, fortunately a solicitous man who was very good with people, and the judge eventually calmed down.

  With all these issues at hand, and a group of people who loved cats, one would think there was enough in common to form a cooperative effort. Not so. The clubs bickered about everything, from who was going to transport judges to and from the airport, to what color the rosettes should be, to what time the judging should begin. Leisl and I had discovered that it was just easier to do most of the work ourselves. This inevitably led to resentment, and accusations that we were trying to “take over,” and that we had, “control issues.” These things hurt my feelings, but Leisl would become angry and so eventually we left both groups.

  It was better just being on our own. We maintained a club membership here and there, which only required us to pay annual dues, and that seemed the best way to contribute to our region.

  I had been applying for my judging license, but it was slow going. I had allergies and other health problems. My feet were swelling and I had varicose veins. It was getting hard to walk, and I couldn’t see standing in a judging ring all day every weekend.

  Liesl was named after the character in my favorite movie, “The Sound of Music.” Our cattery name was VonTrapp. I had all kinds of neat stuff from the movie to decorate my cage – photos of Julie Andrews and Chris Plummer, and the children. We even had a set of cage curtains that duplicated the drapes which Maria made play clothes from! We’d had kittens named after each child in the movie and in fact we had finally run out of names. We did resort to one pet kitten being named “Rolfe”, even though in the movie he was a traitor.

  I had thought about bringing in a laptop computer and showing clips of the movie, but then realized someone might steal it. And besides, Liesl and I couldn’t run a computer anyway. We were old-fashioned girls, the two of us, living alone in our apartment with the Persians. It was a lifestyle of convenience. We tried to keep things as simple as possible. For instance, Liesl had worn contacts for awhile but she had had to resort to glasses. Her eyes were bad, but the contact lenses had become unbearable in light of the cat hair everywhere. It was fine and it seemed to weave itself into the threads of our towels and sheets. It was like sleeping in cobwebs. But what were we supposed to do, lock them out of our rooms? They wanted to be under the covers with us, so we let them.

  Our current show star was VonTrapp’s Edelweiss, a white female who had just earned her winner’s ribbons and was now a Champion. I expected her to do well in the quest for her Grand Champion title. With her copper eyes, perfectly flat profile and full coat, she was practically flawless and the finest thing we had ever bred. Liesl and I had high hopes that this would be the cat we had waited for. We had a special bank account set aside for a National Win run. We thought Edel might be the one to start the first withdrawal.

  Liesl and I both worked at the bank. We had a busy work week and we liked to get away on weekends. So, our weekends were spent in the show halls, and the cat show people were our adopted family. We did everything we could to make others comfortable, and we helped newcomers get acquainted with the showing routine as best we could.

  That was how we’d met Roxanne Moore. She came by our cage one day, bending over to look in at our kittens as they slept in a pile in their cuddle bed, her long golden hair swept up in a big ponytail with ringlets hanging around her face.

  “I might like to try showing a Persian,” she said.

  Liesl just stared at her. I could tell right away that it was an instant case of dislike. Liesl had been treated cruelly in high school by girls who looked just like Roxanne: Tall, lots of makeup, dyed hair, tight clothing.

  Never one to judge a book by the cover, I spoke up. “Well, they are lots of fun to show. But they require probably more grooming than any other breed.”

  “Oh, I can see that!” Roxanne said, straightening. She held one hand out to me, and I took it and shook it. “Hi. I’m Roxanne. I would like to buy a kitten from you. How much are they?”

  She offered a hand to Liesl, but Liesl had strategically bent to reach for something in the show bag at that moment.

  I smiled at Roxanne, hoping to make up for my daughter’s rudeness. I didn’t want to blow the opportunity of placing a kitten in a show home. I nodded toward the cage. “Did you want to start out with a premier?”

  “Premier? What’s that?”

  “That’s a class for spayed and neutered cats.”

  “Oh! No, I want to breed it someday. Have kittens. Like those. They’re so darling!”

  Liesl had a peacock feather in her hand, the flashing teal end of which she swished gently across the bars. The group of kitten heads popped up, looking for all the world like a nest of owlets. Roxanne squealed in delight. “Look!”

  I saw a little smile play around Liesl’s mouth. She did love the kittens. They bounced up, the picture of split-second alertness, and with their tufted paws reached through the bars in a frantic attempt to bat the feather. Liesl swept the front of the cage with wide strokes, and back and forth the kittens ran, from one side to the other, violently stretching and leaping after it. The grey male was the most excited, by far the biggest. The little girl, all black, was a bit more recalcitrant, giving way to the male as he bounced aggressively from side to side.

  “I like the black one,” Roxanne said.

  I turned to her quickly. “You have a good eye. The female is the more correct. She is shorter bodied and has the better head. The male, though, will have the coat.”

  I opened up the cage door and reached for the female, pulling her out and stretching her for Roxanne’s perusal. I held her close then, cupping her head in one hand and running my finger up the bridge of the kitten’s nose. “See this? Just a perfectly flat profile. That’s what you want.”

  I nodded toward the male. “He has more of a nose.”

  I held the kitten up to Roxanne and she took her and flipped her on her back. The kitten, whom we had named Sister Margaretta, lay still with her legs splayed out like a Raggedy Anne.

  “She’s lovely,” Roxanne said. “How much?”

  “What are you doing, Auntie?” a voice said. I turned to see a tall, energetic young man looking over my shoulder at the kitten.

  “I’m busy, thank you very much,” Roxanne said.

  “I thought you were going to buy a shorthair kitten.”

  “Like one of your ugly Devons? Ugh, I don’t think so.” But then Roxanne caught herself and smiled at me. “This is my nephew, Andrew.”

  “Hello,” Andrew said. He smiled at me. “For the record, my Devons are not ugly. You’ll have to excuse my Auntie, here. She has some strong opinions.”

  “To say the least,” Roxanne agreed proudly.

  “Let me see that little brillo pad!” Andrew reached out and took Sister Margaretta from Roxanne, and snuggled her close. “Oh, you are just a dear little flat-faced thing!”

  “Give her back,” Roxanne said, reaching, but he pulled away.

  “No, she’s mine!” he said, with a pretend pout.

  “Not for long,” Roxanne said.

  Andrew held the kitten up to his face. “Aren’t you just a widdow waffle? Huh? Aren’t you just a wid
dow baby baby ba ba ba boo?”

  Roxanne rolled her eyes.

  I looked at Liesl, but she was watching the young man and smiling.

  And so our friendship was born.

  We fixed Roxanne up with cage curtains and helped her with all the other show amenities. Liesl found her a used dolly that eventually became her grooming cart. For awhile Liesl maintained her crush on Andrew, but then it became apparent that Andrew was gay.

  Sister Margaretta developed a tail kink right about the time Roxanne became interested in Somalis. So she was sold as a pet, and Roxanne moved on to another breed with our blessing. We were there when her first real show cat, Rusty, made his first final. We cheered and Liesl threw her trademark confetti. When Rusty granded, we brought in a cake with his name on it, and shared with the crowd.

  Roxanne was a dear, sweet girl and a good friend to us. She always came to us for grooming tips – who knows better how to groom than Persian people? Liesl actually went to her house one day to demonstrate the bathing and blow-drying technique. As a result, Roxanne had the best groomed Somalis in the country! That was no doubt part of the success of her cats.

  Chapter Seven

  Kim Norwich

  Saturday Afternoon

  Larry Cox’s ring was empty, except for the clerk who was sitting at one end of the long table, writing in a notebook. She looked up as Detective Reynolds and I approached. She smiled brightly and slapped her book shut. She was short and overweight, with big blonde hair and dimples. I recognized the girl, having seen her at this same show the year prior. I noticed she had one eye that drifted inward. It bothered me. In my experience, folks with crooked features had a crooked nature to match. I hated to stereotype, but it always seemed to be that way.

  She pushed her chair back, stood up and brushed off the front of her sweater. She was wearing a tight red v-neck that I thought didn’t become her at all. She came strutting over, and that was the only way to describe the way she walked – a strut. She was wearing pumps and they clicked authoritatively across the floor as she approached. Her blonde curls bobbed. She was shorter than I, standing about five foot three. She beamed up at Reynolds, her dimples a forming a dark comma on each cheek. “Hello! Can I help you?”

  Reynolds was scanning around the ring, and I noticed his eyes fall upon the group of rosettes that were displayed on the far end of the row of seats. “I’m Detective Reynolds.”

  The girl held out her hand. “I’m Tracy. I’m Larry’s ring clerk.”

  Reynolds took her hand and shook it, and smiled back at her. It was obvious that he thought she was cute. Okay. Maybe cross-eyed broads appealed to him. I glanced over my shoulder, looking for the judge.

  “Where is the judge?” Reynolds asked at that moment.

  “Oh, they are having a meeting over at the show manager’s table.” Tracy nodded toward the far corner of the show hall.

  “A meeting?” Reynolds said.

  “Yes.” Tracy spoke with all-knowing authority, blustering with self-importance. “Apparently they are trying to decide if the show should continue.”

  She said the word “apparently” with special emphasis on the “parent” part. She really was annoying.

  Reynolds squinted, an expression that was becoming familiar to me. “Do you mean to tell me that they would actually go on with this show, when there has been a murder here?”

  Tracy squeezed her lips together. “Well, the club means no disrespect to the victim, but we have a lot invested here. It would stir up quite a bee’s nest if the show had to be canceled. People come from all over to attend this. One of the judges has flown all the way from Japan.”

  Reynolds stood and stared at her. His mouth was not open, but it might as well have been. I stepped forward. “Has this ring had any finals yet?”

  Tracy looked me up and down, with the haughty expression of one who thought I was speaking out of turn. I merely stood and waited. Reynolds said nothing.

  “Well,” she said finally. “Yesterday we did the championship finals. Allbreed premiers and kittens were scheduled for today. Why do you ask?”

  “Did you have a rosette missing?”

  There was that pause again. She looked at Reynolds. I wanted to slap her. But Reynolds made no excuse for me, and instead just stood there watching her expectantly. He scored big points for that.

  Tracy threw her hands up in a dramatic gesture. “I really don’t know. I think all rosettes were present and accounted for. But it was not my job to keep track of rosettes. The ring stewards do that. I had my hands full taking care of the judge’s book and make sure everything was marked. Plus I had to see to it that Larry had his fresh coffee delivered. He loves his coffee.”

  “You and the judge are on a first name basis?”

  “That’s not unusual!” she snapped. She turned back to Reynolds and her tone immediately changed to solicitous. “How is the investigation going?”

  He smiled and patted her arm. I couldn’t believe it.

  “It’s going just fine, thanks for asking,” he said. “We’ve got it under control.”

  “Well, if you need more information, or help with anything. Anything at all!”

  She was not flirting so much as kissing his ass. I wasn’t sure she knew how to flirt. But she sure had the ass-kissing nailed.

  “Thank you,” he said. Was he really falling for this crap?

  She turned and walked back to her table, and when she sat down, she looked at him, tilted her head and smiled in a way that was obviously rehearsed. He smiled back at her. I thought I was going to need an antacid.

  “Let’s go find Larry Cox,” Reynolds turned and walked away.

  I followed him. I wasn’t sure what to think of Reynolds. He wasn’t so easy to figure out. I usually had everyone analyzed during my first moments with them, but he was different. I couldn’t read him yet. The way he had smiled, touched her arm. He may have been just pacifying her. Maybe that was giving him too much credit. He was, after all, still just a man. They all were pigs.

  We walked past the rows of cages, past the vendors with their big kitty umbrellas and cat statues and racks of cat sweatshirts. Every group of people that we passed fell silent and watched us. The gaggle of judges that were clustered in the corner reacted the same way, turning to watch us approach with somber faces.

  “That’s Larry, there, the skinny one in the ugly jungle tie,” I whispered.

  Larry turned, his naturally dark complexion a bit ashen. He was a wormy sort, thin with long tapering arms and a stretchy, craning neck. His eyes drooped downward sadly at the corners. His Adam’s apple bobbed distractingly when he spoke, a knobby orb out of place with the angular rest of him.

  “Hello officer,” he said.

  “Mr. Cox,” Reynolds stepped forward, reaching out, his wide palm dwarfing Larry’s spidery digits as they shook hands. “I’m Detective Reynolds. How are you? Can I have a word?”

  “Of course.” Larry nodded toward his ring. “I was just about to go back over. Nobody really knows what to do.”

  “Understandable,” Reynolds said.

  They turned and walked back. I said nothing, staying just a couple of steps behind them. Reynolds stopped suddenly, turning toward me, holding his hand out. “Mr. Cox, do you know Miss Norwich? She’s head of security here.”

  Larry nodded back to me, his eyes dilated, their whites threaded with red. He really looked a most unhealthy man. I felt Reynolds’ hand on my sleeve, guiding me gently forward, positioning me between them. I had the impulse to jerk my arm away, but when I looked up he was smiling at me. We walked back to Larry’s ring, the three of us, side by side.

  When we reached the ring, Tracy looked up from her notes and smiled. “Hello there. Everything okay, Larry?”

  “Just fine,” Larry said absently.

  Reynolds gestured to the rack of rosettes. “These match the rosette that was found with the victim. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  Larry nodded. “Certainly
.”

  I looked quickly at Tracy, whose head was bent over her catalog, suddenly appearing overzealous in her record-keeping task. I knew she was listening.

  Reynolds continued. “Do you remember any rosettes missing from yesterday?”

  “No, the championship final had all rosettes present and accounted for.”

  “The one we found with the victim said, ‘Tenth Best Cat’ on it. Do you remember who your tenth best cat was?”

  “It’s easy enough to find out. It’s all recorded,” Larry said. “Tracy, honey, pass me that notebook, would you please?”

  Tracy smiled and brought the book over. Larry flipped quickly through it. “Ah. Here it is. Tenth Best was Tracy’s own cat, here, the blue Abyssinian.”

  Reynolds looked up at her, grinning. Larry glanced her way nervously.

  Butter wouldn’t melt in Tracy’s mouth. She stood before us calmly, smiling.

  “Someone swipe your rosette?” Reynolds said.

  Again, the dramatic hand gesture. “I really wouldn’t know. I’ve been busy here with my clerking duties. I haven’t had two seconds to spend with Baloo all day. Plus, we usually don’t keep rosettes. We donate them back to the club.”