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

by Nancy J. Bailey

  I didn’t try to talk to him. But he turned to me and held up a violet dress and said, “Do you think this is my color?”

  The tiny dress looked so funny suspended in his meaty hands, and I started laughing. He told me the dress was his mother’s. I found this so endearing, and he was charming so I gave him my phone number. He called me that evening and we talked for hours. He did have the most wonderful sense of humor.

  His name was Jimmy Wilson, and our courtship was a whirlwind of bar hopping and drinking and hilarity. I was really feeling my wild side then. I danced all night and could barely make my job at the grocery store in the mornings. But I was so happy. He made me feel like a young girl again. He told me he loved me when we had only been dating for two weeks.

  The cats loved him. He didn’t attend shows with us, but he would help me bathe them and get them ready. On occasion when he showed up, he would have toys for them; catnip mice or rabbit’s feet or balls of twine.

  He loved to eat. He would bring barbecued ribs or chicken over on occasion. He would sit on the couch in front of the TV, watching football as the sauce dripped onto his shirt front. “Touchdown, Baby!” he would say to me in glee. He always tried to include me, always wanted me nearby.

  On our days off we would stay in bed until noon, and just lie around the house. If I got up to do anything, clean up dishes, or feed the cats, he would say, “Just relax, would ya? Come on over here and sit by me.”

  He would pat the couch with his big beefy hand, and I would go and climb up on the couch and be enveloped by him.

  And he was beautiful. He was going on forty years old, but his face showed no signs of age, being soft and chubby. His skin was golden like his hair. He really was a golden boy.

  I had quickly learned, however, not to disturb him when he was sleeping. He wanted to be left alone and became very irritable when he was awakened. “What!” he would shout, if I bumped him or moved about the room too loudly. Or he would sigh impatiently and roll over, covering his head with the pillow.

  I had never realized how much a big man could eat. I had to buy twice the amount of groceries it took to feed Liesl and me.

  Jimmy worked in a factory that made car parts. It wasn’t long before I found out that it was no accident that he was picking up his mother’s dress at the cleaners. He lived with his parents. He assured me that it was only temporary, while he recovered from his divorce and the huge debt of alimony, and worked to get on his feet.

  “We’ll get married someday,” he told me. “We’ll go to Las Vegas. I was thinking you might like to take a trip there. We don’t have to gamble. There’s a lot to see and do.”

  He had lots of ideas. One was to buy property in Montana. He said he wanted to take me to Germany again, and Liesl too, although I doubted she would have agreed to go with him. She had no use for him.

  “He’s just a lazy slob, Mom!” she used to say. “Why don’t you dump him? He’s just using you. Just like he uses his parents. They ought to toss him out on his ear. If he gave a damn about you he’d have his own place by now. He’s a loser.”

  But I couldn’t dump Jimmy. I loved him. And I couldn’t tell Liesl this part, but the sex was madness. It was sheer joy and lust and fun. We chased each other around the bedroom and jumped on the bed and laughed hysterically. With him I had no inhibitions. It’s like I was a different person; a kid all over again.

  The months, and finally two years went by, and we were still together. Jimmy celebrated his fortieth birthday at his parents’ house in the suburbs, a tiny brick ranch. It was one of those houses situated in a neighborhood where every house was identical. There was row upon row of these tiny brick homes, all with a small front porch with two steps, and a carport off to the side with a fenced backyard. They each sported some type of uniqueness. Perhaps there was a hedge under the front window. Or a small tree in the front yard. Jimmy’s parents’ home boasted an adolescent maple, with bursting green leaves misting its branches on that spring day.

  The side door led into the kitchen entry. The wallpaper was old and cracked, but the house was spotlessly clean. Mac, the family cat, was a big yellow tabby that lounged on the couch, dozing in contented oblivion, fat rolling out his sides in lumpy pouches. He was lying on top of a newspaper, coiled beneath his chest which appeared to be affording him some type of cushion.

  “There’s the sports section,” Jimmy’s father said. He bent over, his pot belly protruding from his natty t-shirt, and pulled the paper out from under Mac. The cat gave a grumpy hiss and moved to the other side of the couch, where he promptly dozed off again.

  Jimmy’s mother was a wizened little woman with a happy smile and an energy that belied her age. She was recovering from a broken ankle but she stumped around the room on her cast without hesitation. She thrust steaming plates of spaghetti, Jimmy’s favorite meal, before us.

  “Garlic bread?” She clumped her way to the oven and pulled out a long wonderful-smelling loaf. She sliced it on the countertop, and painted butter on it and served it to us.

  “Sit down, Ma,” Jimmy said. But he did not look up from his plate.

  “Can I help you do something?” I asked.

  “No, no you just eat that up while it’s hot, dear,” she said.

  She smiled and made conversation while we ate, and as each plate was empty she scooped it away from us and took it to the sink. She moved about in the kitchen, poking bright candles into the surface of a homemade cake with lumpy white frosting. She struck a match and with trembling fingers tried to light the candles.

  “Ouch!” She dropped the match and shook her fingers through the air before thrusting them into her mouth.

  “Here, Ma,” Jimmy said, flipping open his cigarette lighter.

  She took the lighter and used it to light the candles. Then she turned with a proud smile, holding the cake, the flickering candles giving her wizened face a ruddy glow, and began singing in a reedy falsetto. I joined in.

  “Happy Birthday to you,

  “Happy Birthday to you,

  “Happy Birthday dear Jimmy,

  “Happy Birthday to you.”

  I looked at Jimmy for any sign of embarrassment, but he was smiling. He inhaled deeply and blew all the candles out with a long huff. His mother crowed laughter and applauded.

  .Jimmy’s father had let the newspaper drop to the floor and he was standing in the doorway now, looking at me. His manner was solicitous. “Can I get you anything else? Would you like a glass of water?”

  “No thank you,” I said.

  Jimmy’s mother jumped up, despite the cast, and left the room. She came back in with a thick photo album. She laid it on the table before me and flipped it open. “Would you like to see pictures of Jimmy’s first birthday?”

  “Ma, no!” Jimmy said.

  “Oh yes, I would!”

  Inside the book were yellowed Polaroids of a chubby boy wearing a sailor’s hat, in a high chair, his face and hands sticky with white icing.

  “Oh, here he is at two,” his mother said. “That’s his Aunt Betty there with him. And here’s one of him in the wading pool!”

  I noticed the same brick siding, and the maple sapling in the photo must be the young tree out front now. Then there were pictures of teenaged Jimmy, sitting at the same table – the place of honor, blowing out candles on what could have been the same cake.

  I turned to Jimmy. “You have always lived in this house?”

  “Well, not always.”

  “He moved out when he got married,” his mother added helpfully.

  “Other times too, Ma! I had an apartment for awhile! Remember?”

  “That wasn’t for long though,” Jimmy’s dad said. “Remember when Tom and Tim helped you move your stuff back into the garage out here?”

  “Yes,” his mother said. “This house is home to us.”

  I looked up into the smiling, hopeful eyes of his parents. The birthday candles lay, bright bits of wax and charred stem, on the edge of Jimmy’s plate
. He sat planted in his chair, eating cake, with the little rolls of fat edging out around his shirt hem.

  I thought it was very elegant the way the Baroness released Captain Von Trapp from their engagement. She did it with such dignity; explaining it away. “I need someone who needs me,” she said. “Or at least needs my money.” Or something like that. But the children didn’t love her. And the captain didn’t either. And she knew it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kim Norwich

  Saturday Night

  There was a little coffee shop just a block down from the show hall and when my shift was over I walked down there through the beginning of a misty rain. A bell tinkled as I swung the door open. The room smelled of deep fried food, a greasy smell that clung to the cheap paneling on the walls. I was going to get a cup to take home, but heard a voice say, “Norwich!”

  I looked and he was sitting in the corner with a newspaper. He had his feet propped up on the booth seat across from him, but he put them down and beckoned to me. “Have a seat.”

  I slid into the seat across from him. He folded up the paper and shoved it to one side. He looked tired, but he grinned at me, stirring his cup of java with a casual air that I was beginning to recognize as typical of him. “Heading home?”

  “I was, yah.”

  “You were, yah, eh?” He grinned. “You sound like a Finlander.”

  “That’s Finn. My mother is.”

  “Where are you from, Norwich?”

  “I’m from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A little town called Manistique.”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “That’s not surprising. What about you?”

  “I grew up in Colorado.”

  “How’d you end up here in the Midwest?”

  He smiled. He sure did smile a lot, for a cop. “My ex wife is from here so we moved here. I stayed after we split up, so I could be close to my daughter.”

  “I see. How old is she?”

  “She’s twenty now. She’s studying journalism.” He pulled out his battered wallet, thumbing through it, and pulled out a small photo. He laid it on the table, toward me, and I watched as his fingers tapped it lovingly, unconsciously as he spoke of her. “She’s so grown up. It’s kind of funny. She loves to cook and she has her own ideas about things. She’s very independent. But I still want to be around for her.”

  I looked at the picture, the daughter beaming on a blue background, her hair pulled up on one side, her face shining with youth and intelligence. She was blonde and to my surprise quite plain-looking. I had expected someone dark and beautiful, more like Reynolds.

  “She’s very cute, but she doesn’t really resemble you,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. She’s the spitting image of her mother.”

  I nodded. “What is her name?”

  “Her name is Emily.”

  I nodded again.

  “Do you have children?”

  “No, I wanted to, but it wasn’t in the cards I guess.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Nah, don’t be. It was a matter of choice. I think in some ways it’s a biological thing for women. We look for a mate who will make babies like himself. I didn’t want babies like my ex.”

  Reynolds laughed. “Why, did he have two heads or something?”

  “Yeah, he was a shape-shifting mutant. A freak. I didn’t want any freak babies.” I was chuckling now, too.

  “Nothing wrong with a little freakness here and there,” he winked at me unabashedly, grinned and sipped his coffee.

  The waitress came up to the table then and stood, one knee bent, toes pointed awkwardly inward. She was probably about the age of Reynolds’ daughter. She was wearing a long grey smock top, buttoned up the front, and she pulled a note pad out of the pocket. She had a fake tan, her skin brushed with some kind of bronze liquid makeup. A bright bit of light sparkled near one nostril, a diamond or maybe a fake diamond. Her hair was highlighted in streaks, bright blonde among the chestnut that was her natural color. She regarded us both without hesitation. Though her body was gangly, nearing the end of adolescence, she spoke calmly and with confidence. “What would you like?”

  “Coffee,” I said.

  “Hey, does this affect your breathing?” Reynolds said to her, pointing at the side of his nose.

  Her eyes darted to him, then back to the note pad. “Only when I sneeze. Sometimes it comes flying out. That happens when I’m in the kitchen. I’m allergic to pepper. I’ve had to dip my jewelry out of the soup several times. Are you two eating tonight?”

  Reynolds was grinning a little. He looked over at me.

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said.

  “Well,” he turned back to the waitress. “I was going to have soup, but you just talked me out of it. Sounds like I could crack a filling.”

  He was flirting with this kid! I felt a surge of revulsion. The waitress did not smile, nor show any reaction at all. “We have sandwiches too. The French Dip is pretty good.”

  I saw Reynold’s eyes crinkle.

  “Don’t even,” I warned, then kicked myself. Good God, what was I, his mother?

  He sat back in the booth. “I’ll take it.”

  She turned to me, the diamond glistening. “You sure you don’t want anything? Some chips? Salsa?”

  “No thanks.”

  “’Kay,” she said. She tucked her note pad into the pocket of her smock and strolled away.

  “Refill for me, if you would please,” Reynolds called after her.

  She didn’t turn, but waved a casual acknowledgement. He turned to me, chuckling. “Diamonds in the soup.”

  I tried to keep myself from glaring at him.

  “She’s cute,” he added unnecessarily.

  “She’s a smart ass.”

  “That makes her even cuter.”

  “You give her grief about her nose piercing? I’m sure she hears that from everyone in our generation. Very unoriginal, Reynolds.”

  “She handled it.”

  I shrugged. “She is cute, if you like that type.”

  “Ah, she’s a kid. What type do you like, Shorty?”

  I hesitated. I had never liked nicknames, and this was kind of demeaning. But coming from him, it was friendly and seemed okay. Why was I so willing to put up with things from him that I wouldn’t take from others? I knew all too well the reason. What type did I like? His type. Damn him!

  But I just shrugged again.

  “How long were you married?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “That’s a pretty long time in this day and age. Didn’t work out, eh?”

  “Nope.”

  I didn’t offer up any more information, and he said, “Well, mine was my fault. She was a good woman all right. I just worked too much, too many hours. I took her for granted.”

  This warmed me to him immediately. I already knew his wife hadn’t been pretty. There was something so attractive about a beautiful man who married a plain looking woman. Something that spoke to me of depth.

  I nodded. “I was married to a cop.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, a loud, appreciative, thunderous guffaw that caused the other customers to turn and look. “Oh, now that is good! You poor thing! That explains more than you know!”

  I paused. Was he laughing at me, or himself? I didn’t quite get this guy. He bordered on cocky but he was so affable.

  “Now, don’t get that look,” he said. “It’s not fun being married to a cop, I know that. Men and women have a hard enough time as it is.”

  “Men and women are basically incompatible.”

  “Oh, do you really believe that?”

  “What moron doesn’t? Men operate from the gut. Women from their heads.”

  “Women operate from their hearts,” he corrected.

  I bridled. “That is not true. We are thinkers.”

  “Emotional thinkers.”

  “Are you saying that men aren’t emotional?”


  “No, not at all. Men are extremely emotional, often more vulnerable than women that way.”

  I snorted. “Men are cads. They’re obsessed with bodily functions.”

  He smiled. His cheeriness was starting to get to me.

  “It’s all about self-gratification with a guy,” I added. “Where the next meal is coming from. Where the next beer is coming from. Where the next fuck is coming from.”

  Reynolds whistled, a long, low incredulous one. “Throttle back on the hostility there, Shorty. It’s not becoming.”

  “I don’t give a shit what is becoming! That’s another thing. Women have all this pressure to be always ladylike, always ‘becoming’.”

  “Now there’s an opening, but I’ll restrain myself.”

  “Please!”

  “Do you really think we’re so incompatible? We all have the same needs.”

  “Men need their egos stroked. Their stomachs stroked. Their heads stroked. Their cocks – “

  “Wow!” He laughed. “This guy really hurt you, Norwich!”

  “No one can hurt me unless I allow them to.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  I felt my face getting warm. Why did this guy get under my skin like this? I needed to calm myself, to get off this topic. It was far too personal. So I asked him a question. “What do you make of this murder, Detective?”

  He paused a moment, a little thrown by the sudden change in momentum. But then he smiled. “You can call me Rob.”

  “So what do you make of it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s pretty confusing. The people I’ve interviewed have led me to surmise that this victim is universally hated. Everybody seems to have plenty of motive.”

  “Universal hatred isn’t unusual in the cat fancy,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed and he looked at me. That little smile continued to play about his lips. “You don’t miss much, do you, Norwich?”

  “I miss plenty.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve watched you around people. You follow about two steps behind everyone. I can tell by the way you move, and you watch, that you don’t miss a trick. Most people don’t even know you’re there. But you hear everything.”