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

by Nancy J. Bailey

  Blithely unaware of her faux pas, Roxanne raved on. “She looks like she swallowed a tapeworm. And she’s so shrill and obnoxious! I don’t know how someone like that ever got famous. She must have slept around a lot!”

  Liesl’s face darkened more and more with every word.

  “Liesl,” Ginny called. “Come here, please.”

  Liesl just ignored her mother, staring at my aunt in an angry way that was starting to be creepy.

  “Now, Cary Grant. There’s a real movie star!” Roxanne exulted.

  Seizing her change of topic, I said, “It’s too bad he never came out of the closet. He could have made great strides for gays in those days.”

  The Mouth Breather piped up. “In those days it would have ruined him. He was right to never admit it.”

  I saw Liesl then suddenly lose interest in our conversation. She tossed the garbage in the can, turned and shuffled back down the aisle to her cage. She heaved herself into a chair, reached down under her cage and pulled out a worn tan paperback. I wondered what she was reading. Probably Stephen King.

  “Cary Grant was not gay!” Roxanne brayed. “He was married! Several times, I think!”

  “Auntie, surely you know that doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe not to you!” she screeched. “Back then it did. Marriage was a commitment back then. People took it seriously.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right. It was no different. In fact, back then things were probably kinkier because of society’s Dictatorship of Decency.”

  The Mouth Breather, to my surprise, suddenly belted forth a loud laugh. She was looking at me appreciatively. At that moment, she was even sort of pretty.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. Here I was having a conversation with my aunt – probably the biggest slut I had ever known – about moral decency and the sanctity of marriage. It wasn’t the first time. We’d had a long history of arguments like this.

  “Things could not have been kinkier than today,” Roxanne sniffed. “Lesbians. Transvestites. Strange people not knowing whether they are male or female – ugh.”

  “None of that has changed, Auntie. They had lesbians, transvestites and sexually confused individuals long before you were born.”

  “Sure, but they didn’t flaunt it back then.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “No. Back then they believed in common decency. People went to church. Andrew, when was the last time you went to church?”

  “Don’t start talking about religion, Aunt. It’s unbecoming, and such a bore.”

  “Do you believe in life after death?” the Mouth Breather asked. She didn’t appear to be addressing either of us in particular, but Roxanne answered.

  “Of course I do! I believe in Heaven and Hell.”

  “Oh really!” I folded my arms and leaned backward. “And where do you think you are going to end up?”

  “In Heaven, of course. I’m not gay.”

  The Mouth Breather looked at me and shifted uncomfortably.

  “So what are you saying, Auntie? I’m going to burn in an eternal pit of fire because of my sexual orientation?”

  “It’s your choice. But all gays go to Hell. The Bible says so.”

  I snorted. “Oh, I see. So we choose to be gay.”

  “What, like it’s an accident?” Roxanne laughed.

  Her ignorance rang forth from her, like a bell. She had absolutely no consciousness of what an ass she made of herself. My only regret was that the witnesses had crept off when her tirade started. The other exhibitors around us had gone to the restroom or the judging rings or the vendor’s area. Our row was completely vacant except for the Big Wigs down at the end.

  “I believe in reincarnation,” the Mouth Breather offered.

  I ignored her. “The Bible says that all gays are going to burn in hell?”

  “Yes it does,” Roxanne sighed. “Just look it up.”

  “I’ve been owned by the same cat three times. He keeps dying and when he comes back he keeps finding me,” the Mouth Breather said.

  “Well, they do have nine lives,” Roxanne said. “He has to find you five more times now.”

  “Six,” I corrected.

  “Whatever,” Roxanne said.

  “He was black the first time. When he came back he was a tabby. Now he’s Kenya. Funny thing is, he’s always had this sort of orange tint,” the Mouth Breather said.

  “It’s probably in Genesis. Then God made Abel gay, so Cain killed him, and then he burned in hell,” I said.

  “He came back as Kenya?” Roxanne said, laughing.

  “Yes, the black cat I had when I was a child, he had happy feet and the same personality. He had this weird burnt tinge to his coat though.”

  “Like a Havana Brown?” Roxanne said. “They look black at first.”

  “No, not exactly, it’s hard to describe. It was like a tinge.”

  “Was he an outdoor cat? It could have been sunburn,” Roxanne said.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure where he came from, originally. He was a stray that I fed and he hid in our back shed. He was afraid of people but he trusted me. He used to hunt birds out in our garden and it drove my mother crazy! He was a really good hunter. Finally my folks called animal control and they caught him and took him away.”

  “Isaac was gay. That’s why Abraham wanted to slice his throat,” I said.

  “Then the tabby cat I found on campus when I was going to school. I smuggled him into the dorm room. Isn’t it funny? They were both secrets. He had happy feet too. He had been neutered though, so had been someone’s pet at some point in time. Not a total alley cat like my first one. And he was a brown tabby but had a very reddish coat.”

  ”What happened to him?” Roxanne said.

  ”We got found out eventually. The staff took him to the shelter. I followed up though and he did get adopted.”

  “And then, of course, there was Jacob, wrestling with the angel. I think they meant fairy. And they weren’t wrestling.”

  The Mouth Breather laughed suddenly, clapping her hand over her mouth. Then she blurted, “Gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’”

  I felt myself do a double take. Maybe the Mouth Breather had potential. That one wasn’t half bad. Unfortunately I was too angry and distracted at the moment to acknowledge it.

  Roxanne glared at me. “That’s sick. And you really – both of you – should not joke about such things. It’s bad karma.”

  “Now wait a minute,” I said. “Just what religion are we talking about, here?”

  “What?”

  I slapped my hand to my forehead. The Mouth Breather laughed again. I was aware that I probably shouldn’t continue setting up my aunt this way, as she would just continue to make an ass of herself. But I was too angry to feel any sympathy for her. Maybe it was old baggage. Maybe it went back to the times she teased and humiliated me in front of her boyfriends, when I was small. I didn’t know. And I didn’t care. Relative or not, I despised her. I despised her for the fool that she was and I despised her for the fact that the world accepted her, even catered to her. It was wrong. It wasn’t fair.

  “We’re talking about Christianity, of course,” Roxanne said.

  “Then why are you bringing up karma?”

  “Huh?”

  I shook my head. “Never mind. Just let me ask you this. Where exactly in the Bible does it say we’re all going to Hell?”

  Appearing to tire of the conversation, she made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I don’t know. Somewhere. The scriptures.”

  I rolled my eyes. I could feel my disgust building, but there really wasn’t any point in arguing with her. Besides, I had done my duty as a fellow exhibitor, keeping peace in our row, and Roxanne didn’t even realize it. I turned around and walked away.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ginny Robards

  Rambling

  When Liesl was a baby, her father and I had taken a trip to Switzerland. He had been military, and had friends that liv
ed over there. I wanted to have Liesl baptized at the foot of the Alps, and on one bright June morning, my dream had come true. We just baptized her ourselves, with a ceramic pitcher that we’d carried up the hill from Madeline’s kitchen.

  “I crown thee, Liesl Julie Robards!” Ed had trumpeted, holding her high in the air toward the shining peaks.

  Ed had since left me for another woman, but I still remember that very special moment. When I look at Liesl I still think of it at times, how cold the air was that morning and how she wailed as he lifted her aloft. But it was beautiful.

  We had spent the rest of that day touring the area, drinking thick dark beer and walking among the shops and restaurants, admiring the vast beauty that towered before us, the magnificent mountains. The air was so clean and brisk. The sky was a color blue that defined description – so deep and high and bright. It was almost like being in another time, another age. The buildings were ancient, with huge stone walls that spoke of generations. People walked around with shopping baskets over their arms. They carried cut flowers, bright flashes of color against the rough weave of the baskets, and fresh vegetables. The old folks moved like youngsters, their step quick and industrious on the flat cobblestone streets. Everyone seemed happy. There were little dogs in all the restaurants, Schnauzers and Dachshunds, curled up at the owners’ feet while they dined. And the food! The air was thick with the smell of sausage, wonderful warm heavy beef, and spicy fried potatoes and sauerkraut. Every eatery we passed was an invitation to the olfactory senses. I was thoroughly charmed and thought I could have stayed there forever.

  Ed carried Liesl in a basket, much like the flowers and groceries which were carried there. She was covered in her pink and blue downy quilt that I had sewn before she was born. Ed was jovial, showing the baby to passersby and laughing. He even bought me a gift that day; a silver locket, “for Liesl’s picture.” It was a heart, with small flowers engraved on it, and a delicate silver chain. I had since passed it on to Liesl, but she never wore it.

  That was the most special day of my life. I held the memory like a treasure in a box. It was before Ed’s drinking had ruined us; before we had filed bankruptcy and he left us. Liesl was only a toddler then.

  Those were hard times, but when he left, they got better. It was a challenge, raising and supporting a daughter on my own, but Liesl was good company for me. She was a quiet child, uncomplaining, and even as a teenager she had never been one to cause trouble. Her mind was like a little adult’s, always working. She did crossword puzzles and read thick books – mystery novels mostly — and never went out with friends. In fact, she never seemed to have any friends. But she had always loved animals, especially cats.

  I had always wanted to go back to Switzerland, but it wasn’t meant to be. One day maybe Liesl would go back. She had no memory of her baptism day; that brief time when we were a real family.

  I know Roxanne didn’t understand how upsetting her words were to Liesl. Julie Andrews was her idol. Liesl had had throat cancer, and survived it, two years before Julie coincidentally had her own throat surgery. We couldn’t believe it happened to Julie. It really seemed like fate. To hear someone malign her publicly was hard to take.

  Liesl said nothing, which was her way, but I could tell that she was upset. She didn’t eat anything for the rest of the afternoon. She just kept staring at Roxanne. It was a little unnerving, actually.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kim Norwich

  Saturday Afternoon

  After the slapping incident, Reynolds decided to go back when things calmed down and talk to Larry Cox more. We waited for a few minutes and then strolled back. Larry was no help, not surprisingly. I’m sure he was wondering why we had reappeared. He answered a few questions, but he seemed nervous and kept playing with his tie. It was as wide as his abdomen, nearly, and decorated with ferns and leopards and panthers. The tie tack glistened, a golden lion’s head. This guy was really a case.

  During the interview, which went as expected, he answered every question with the word, “No.” No, he hadn’t seen anything. No, he didn’t know Roxanne personally. No, he couldn’t imagine why this would happen.

  Tracy Pringle bustled back and forth around us, pretending to be busy, at a distance that was undoubtedly within earshot. She kept her eyes down, but I wanted to smack that little smirk off her face. I could understand Larry’s impulse from earlier.

  Reynolds paid her no heed until she walked right up and tugged on his sleeve. I stepped forward, about to grab her, but she pointed across the room.

  “Detective, that other officer is trying to get your attention.”

  Reynolds looked and, sure enough, one of his deputies was waving to him. “Excuse me,” he said to Larry, and then turned to Tracy with a little grin. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome!” she said, giving him a huge smile which would have been pretty had it not been for that distracting, drifting eye. Reynolds didn’t seem to mind. He smiled back, nodded to her, and then whirled and walked away. I felt an unexpected and unwelcome surge of – what? Jealousy? God, I hoped not.

  “Is the show going to be canceled?” Tracy asked.

  “I would think it should be,” I said.

  Her face fell. I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t anyone care that someone was dead? Not even Reynolds, who was supposed to be investigating but instead he was flirting with this wooden blonde.

  I turned away from them and saw Reynolds running toward the big garage door at the end of the building; the one they used for the trucks to haul in the equipment. The door was opening and an ambulance was ushered in slowly. Its lights were on, flashing. Reynolds waved away the gathering crowd. I started toward him, but thought better of it and stood back. Let him have his show. It was ridiculous to make such a fuss, but he appeared to be enjoying himself.

  They backed the thing up to the door of the restroom, apparently to thwart the gawkers. Then they hauled her away.

  As the door rolled shut, the announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker, “Ocicats number 318 through 325 to ring 6, please.”

  The show was going on.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cecilia Fox

  Friday Morning

  The voice over the loudspeaker was female and belligerent and could only belong to Tracy Pringle. “Calling all championship Somalis, numbers 389, 390, 391, 392, 393 and 394. Somalis in Championship to Ring 2, please.”

  I looked around. Roxanne was nowhere in sight. Kenya was sitting on the grooming cart. I grabbed a comb and quickly fluffed his tail and britches. Around me, I could see various people carrying Somalis up to Larry Cox’s ring. I picked up Kenya and stretched him, holding him carefully away from me so as not to muss his fur. He lay comfortably in my two hands. I could feel my breath coming in quick gasps. My heart pounded.

  “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” Roxanne was suddenly there, whisking him away from me. She held him up and checked his britches. “He looks fine.”

  She darted up the aisle ahead of me, holding Kenya in the air above her head as she jostled past people. “Excuse me!” she blared. “Cat coming through!”

  I followed her, a little nonplussed. Roxanne did not acknowledge her nephew Andrew as we passed him. He was sitting at his cage flipping through the catalog. He looked up and smiled at me as I slid by him. “Too bad ol’ Jack doesn’t have more staying power,” he said in a stage whisper. “You would have gotten to show your own cat!”

  I ignored him and kept going. Roxanne flounced up into Larry Cox’s ring and placed Kenya into cage 389. Right next to him was number 390, a Grand Champion red male named High Five’s Tigger. Tigger was a huge cat with deep red color and enormous flaring ears. His ears were his crowning glory, I thought. The rest of the cats paled in comparison to him. There were two other red cats, both champions, and two blue champions. If Kenya was chosen as Best Champion, he would get four points toward his Grand Championship title. In my opinion, he had no hope of beating Tigger. Judges automatically
put the Grands over the Champions.

  Roxanne gave Kenya’s tail one final shake. She turned and caught the judge’s eye, giving him a big smile as she walked out of the ring. I noticed that she pointedly ignored Tracy Pringle.

  There was a group of spectators already seated, and a dearth of empty chairs, so I stood in the back row and watched. Roxanne spotted one empty seat in the front row, right by the judging table, and sat in it. She flipped her hair back and said something to the woman next to her, who I recognized as another Somali owner. They giggled.

  “Giddyup, giddyup, giddyup! Joo-bil-LAY-shun, she loves me again! I fall on the floor and I’m laughin’…” A voice behind me sang the verse from the Simon and Garfunkel tune. Of course I knew the song, “Cecilia.” It had haunted me my entire life. At least I liked it.

  Andrew was the singer, naturally. He had sneaked up behind me again. He seemed to have a talent for doing that.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “I have Somalis, remember? I have an interest. Not to mention it’s only fitting to cheer on your family members.” He smirked.

  I turned to watch the judging. Larry was finishing up the Siamese class. There were lots of them. He had a rhythm going: Take out cat, place on table, shake toy. Step back, look at cat’s structure. Pick up cat, hold under lights, examine closely. Put cat back in cage. Pick up disinfectant spray bottle, squirt table lavishly, wipe hands. Take pen and bend over book, make a mark. Turn back to cages, take out next cat.

  This examine – squirt – wipe pattern was repeated over and over all weekend. It was so ingrained that the judges seemed to be in a zen-like state while they did it.

  “I see the bimbo’s clerking this ring,” Andrew nudged me. “You think she’s caught on yet that Aunt Roxie is charming the spitting cobra?”

  I looked around nervously but no one appeared to be listening.