I didn’t know if she was talking about my cat, or the murder, but she walked away then.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Andrew Gilbert
Saturday
It wasn’t difficult to break into Roxanne’s van. Like my grandmother, she always kept a key taped inside the wheel well. My mother had done the same thing. That was the advantage of being family.
He was crated inside, mewing piteously, and padding with those infernal front feet. He really did have the most serious case of happy feet.
Poor Cecelia, she was so grateful, she just burst into tears. She kept hugging me. It was ridiculous, but kind of sweet.
Dennis, of course, was furious with me. I told him this was the best thing I had ever stolen, and I had done it for all the right reasons.
“Don’t you realize there’s a murder investigation on? And you’re breaking into the victim’s car?”
“I don’t care. After all, I didn’t kill the bitch. I bless the person who did. He or she was a sacrificial lamb. The world is a better place.”
Dennis just stared at me like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Oh, get real,” I turned and walked away from his photo booth, back to my benching area.
The show was going on.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ginny Robards
Drifting
Liesl hadn’t come back to the hotel room. I’d had the most horrible dream that Liesl was running through the mountains and the Nazis were after her. I woke up sweating. The cat stirred irritably and moved away from me.
But she was at the show hall that morning when I went in.
“Where have you been?” I said.
She just shrugged and took the crate from my hand, took Eidel out and began grooming her. And then I saw the crowd around the restroom.
“What is happening?”
Liesl did not answer, but the woman across from me with the Himalayans said, “Roxanne Moore was murdered this morning.”
“What!”
I looked at Liesl. She continued grooming the cat, showing absolutely no reaction.
I sat down and noticed that the picture of Julie Andrews in her nun’s habit had fallen on the floor. I picked it up, smoothing it with one hand, and began to cry.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kim Norwich
Saturday Night
I volunteered for night watch that night. Nothing funny was going to happen on my watch. I realized that Roxanne had been killed after the show started that morning, but with cats disappearing under bleachers and people being violently murdered, I couldn’t trust the night watch to that gum-popping idiot again.
Reynolds, to his credit, stayed too. He strolled up and down the aisles that evening looking at the photos of cats, framed in ornate garb on top of the cages. “Look at this one. It has no ears.”
“It’s a Scottish Fold,” I said. “It has ears. They are just folded down tight.”
“Look at that! He looks like an owl!” Reynolds said. “He’s pretty cute! What do they do, tape the ears down when they are babies?”
“No, they breed for it. Something to do with the cartilage.”
Reynolds straightened and moved farther up the aisle. “Oh look at this one, it’s a fluffy version of the Scotland Fold.”
“Scottish,” I said.
“Sor-REE.” He looked back at me, smiling. “Get up here, will you? I know it’s a sign of respect, and all, but you don’t really have to stay two steps behind.”
I moved up next to him. He looked down at me, patting the top of my head with one hand. “Hey, Shorty.”
Normally a gesture like this would have made me furious. But I felt my stomach instantly go all smooth and creamy, like warmed butter.
“Knock it off,” I told myself.
He turned and moved up the aisle again. I followed. He waved to me. “Come on over here. Look at this one.”
I bent over and looked. “Oh, that’s a Siamese.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, that’s an aardvark. Look at the snout on it.”
“That’s what they look like nowadays.”
“I guess that’s progress.”
We approached the Somali cages and Reynolds was suddenly quiet. He knew that this was the murder victim’s benching area. There was an empty cage, and in the one next to it there was a single cat, a very deep rust color. The sign on the door said, “Moorover’s Zephyr”. The Somali looked up at us with sleepy eyes.
“Hi Zephyr. Poor thing,” I said. “Where’s your momma now, huh?”
“Do you think they know?” Reynolds asked.
“Absolutely. An animal will grieve just like a person.”
The cat suddenly rolled its head sideways, uncurling its front paws and reaching up toward us playfully.
“You’re right. His heart’s broken. Poor thing.”
I felt my face getting hot, but he turned away. He strolled up the aisle. I followed. He turned and said, “What is that guy doing over there on the floor by the bleachers?”
“His cat is hiding under them.”
“Why don’t we just pull them out?”
“We’re afraid we’ll hurt her.”
He hesitated, squinting into the dark corner where Wesley was barely visible, covered with his blanket. “He can’t be spending the whole night like that. He’s got to be miserable. Let’s send him home. We’ll get the cat if it comes out.”
“I’ve tried. He won’t leave her.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
He just shook his head again. “I don’t know about these cat people. And I don’t think I want to know.”
“Didn’t you ever have a cat?”
There was a chair at the end of the benching row. Reynolds gestured to it and then pulled another one up for himself. He settled into it, looking completely relaxed, and nodded his head. “Sure. I had a cat when I was a kid. It got hit by a car.”
I shuddered as I sat down. “Ugh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “That is what always happened to cats in my neighborhood. We never even dreamed of this kind of foof.”
He looked around at the show cages, all decorated in lace and glitter, with an expression of bewildered amusement.
“I have two cats. Bill and Georgie. They are just household pets,” I said.
“I think that’s what they’re supposed to be. Cats should be at home by the fireplace, or out in a barn somewhere hunting for mice. I mean, it seems kind of unnatural dragging them out and subjecting them to foof like this.”
That was the second time he had said the word, “Foof”. It sounded absurd coming from him, but I said nothing.
“A dog, now,” he continued. “That’s a different story. Dogs are meant to do any stupid thing we want them to. They are bred and molded into what we want. Hunters. Guide dogs for the blind. Police officers. In fact I’ve worked with a couple of canine teams. Those dogs are amazing. You’d swear they could almost talk.”
“They’re still just dogs,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but it’s different. They are not like cats at all. They are more gratuitous.”
“That’s a pretty big word for a cop.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Dogs want to please us. They don’t have the dignity that cats do. Unless a cat is a really good sport, like a dog, a cat isn’t going to put up with this kind of-”
“Foof?” I said.
He laughed. “You sound as if you like this stuff.”
I shrugged, feeling around for my cigarettes, but then realized I probably shouldn’t smoke in here. I was itching for one, but I decided to wait. I rested my hands nervously on my legs and sat up straight in my chair. “Well, I’ll tell ya. I feel sorry for some of the animals that don’t like showing. People just dr
ag them out and force them to do it. You can tell they’re just miserable. Pringle’s got one like that. And what I really hate is when they just let their kids run around like wild animals. Those kids go totally unsupervised all weekend long. It drives me crazy. I wouldn’t want my kids hanging around these people.”
“You have kids?”
“No, but if I did, I wouldn’t want them hanging around some of these characters. They have dirty habits and they use the most filthy language. Talk like sailors.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t seem to stop myself from slapping my pockets. I needed a smoke. “Then the kids pick it up. When I was little if I talked that way, my mother would squirt dish soap into my mouth.”
“No kidding! Ya know, in this day and age, that could be considered child abuse.”
“My folks did all kinds of other shit that would be, too. That was the least of it. They kept a big wooden paddle hanging on the wall by the back door. That thing looked like it belonged in a damn canoe.” I was wanting a smoke. My fingers rapped an impatient little tattoo on my leg, but I stilled them.
“Did they use it, or was it just a visual deterrent?”
“Another big word. You’ve been studying the dictionary. Uh – hell yeah, they used it! I got my butt warmed more than once by that thing.”
“Is that right!”
Yep, but most of the time I probably deserved it.”
He smiled a little. “Let me ask you something, Norwich.”
“Yeah?” Where were my cigarettes, anyway? Had I left them in my car? I usually carried them in my coat pocket but they weren’t here.
“Would you ever do this?”
Maybe they were in the inside pocket. I unzipped my leather coat and felt inside. “Do what?”
“Show cats.”
“Fuck, no!” I blurted.
He burst out laughing and slapped his hands on his legs. He had caught me off guard and he knew it. I was a little irritated.
“I’ve got to go find my smokes,” I stood up and walked away, leaving him sitting there laughing.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cecilia Fox
Saturday Evening
Kenya was back! Thank God nothing bad had happened to him. And the show was back in full swing. I even showed Zephyr. I didn’t know what his future was going to be like, with his owner dead, but I saw to it that as long as he was entered, he was going to be shown. He allowed me to handle him with no problems. He really was a very nice boy.
I felt sorry for the poor Bobtail people whose cat had blown up. What a bad stroke of luck they’d had in the fancy. On occasion I glanced over to see one of them sitting by the bleachers, trying to tempt the cat to come out. I meant to go ask if I could help, but I had my hands full that afternoon with showing two cats and keeping track of two classes.
Zephyr being a Grand Premier was making finals left and right and he kept getting called back to the rings. His cage front was covered with rosettes. It was a bit cumbersome having to tie his bib on every time I brought him back, only to remove it again so I could groom him. The bib was weighted in the front so it stayed in position. It was covered on the outside with sequins, which I thought was kind of dumb, because cats are so prone to swallowing things, and if one of them had come loose, well… I didn’t want to think any more bad thoughts though. I was having such fun with him. It was exciting hearing his number called every time they announced a Premiership final. And he was scoring high! Best Cat, Second Best Cat, always in the top five, even in the Allbreed rings.
Zephyr was having a good time, too, and was easy to show. He really loved it. He’d sit like a stone in the judging cage, but then pop up when the judge came to take him out. He was an old pro. When he was placed on the table, he’d sit down and wait patiently until a toy was selected. And then as if on cue, he’d jump up like lightning, exploding into motion, reaching for the toy, batting and twirling and rising up on his hind legs. He was truly a star.
It was too bad he didn’t get along with Kenya, as it would have been great fun to continue his career. But my first priority was my Kenya Kitty, my fuzzy britches, my bread making boy.
That security guard in the black leather jacket was hovering around all the time. She watched me. I vaguely wondered if I was a suspect, but well, she was only a security guard. Probably had a little Supercop ego thing going.
I felt bad after thinking this, because she had always been nice to me. She asked a lot of questions about cats. Here she came again, watching me groom Zephyr’s tail. I was rubbing some Fuller’s Earth into it.
“What’s the powder for?” she asked.
“He’s got stud tail.”
She grinned. “What the heck is that?”
“It’s greasy right along the top here. They call it Stud Tail because it happens to male cats who are hormonal, but Zephyr here is neutered. But he has it anyway.”
She watched as I brushed and fluffed out the tail. “Yes, I see how it seems to dry the coat right out.”
“Yes it does.”
“This is the murder victim’s Somali, no? And you just kept showing him?”
I hesitated for a second, then nodded. What was I supposed to say? I didn’t want to appear callous, but after all the cat was entered. But she said nothing and strolled on up the aisle, stopping by Tracy Pringle’s cage. Tracy wasn’t there, but Jack was sitting reading the paper. He looked up when she approached.
“Is this an Abyssinian?” she asked, peering into the cage. “What an unusual color.”
“Yes, he’s a blue Aby,” Jack replied. He folded the paper and sat upright in the chair, with his knees pressed together like a schoolgirl.
“Is he a champion or – “
“He’s a Grand Champion.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Well, he’s done better,” Jack looked into the cage. He seemed nervous, I thought. I wondered what home life was like now that his lover was dead. I could see his hands trembling. He was so pathetic. She couldn’t seriously suspect him of killing someone.
“He doesn’t look too happy.”
“He used to like shows more than he does now.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Oh, it might be hormones…”
“Hormones again!” she said.
Yeah, I thought. How are your hormones, Jack? But I turned away from them, realizing they would know I was listening.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Wesley Taft
Saturday Evening
It was a long and horrid day. No Max. Kim was trying to come up with all sorts of ideas to help me get SuMe out from under the bleachers. We tried all kinds of toys including her favorite, a laser light, to no avail. She wouldn’t budge. As the show wound to a close that day, it was going to be another long night for me.
I was getting angry with Max. Where was he when we needed him? For all I knew, he could be on a plane to Spain by now. He was always talking about Spain. If he had killed Roxanne, God forbid, that’s where he would go. He spoke a little Spanish and he sort of had that look about him, too. In fact he was looking at a book about Spain, the day we met in the Barnes and Noble, four years ago. It was four years and three months we had been together. Reva had taken to him like a duck to water. That was how I knew it was real.
Reva! I hoped he was looking after her. We had left her in the hotel room with the TV on for background noise, to make her feel less lonely. She had her favorite toys with her, but I knew she would prefer not to be alone. And she had a bladder of iron. There would be no accidents in the hotel room. She would hold it until she burst.
After Godspell, I stayed home like a good little boy, but things never were quite right. I knew it wasn’t because of me. Max still made jokes once in awhile. He took Reva for long walks in the evening. But I could tell he was very depressed. It wasn’t merely the absence of Rusty. It was the thought that anyone could do such a thing; that we knew people who were capable of such cr
uelty. And it was torture not knowing where he was, and if he was all right.
SuMe had brought Max around a little bit. His face would light up when he came into a room and she was sitting on the window sill, wagging her stub tail frantically as a bird hopped on the ground outside, or if he caught her suspended on the curtains. SuMe loved climbing the curtains. Max said we could let her destroy them, and then replace them with vertical blinds. He couldn’t bring himself to interrupt her fun.
I pulled my blanket up closer around me and slid down against the wall.
“SuMe!” I said softly, pleading.
She gave no response.
Chapter Forty
Andrew Gilbert
Saturday Night
Hotsy was getting dumped in one ring after another. It was pitiful. She was a little low on coat, perhaps, but I couldn’t understand the problem. It was too bad I hadn’t entered the Somali kittens. Then at least I would have something else to do.
Dennis and I were having a quiet dinner in a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant not far from the show hall. Normally it was the type of place we would have really enjoyed together. There were lots of little details; tiny white lights wound around the pillars in the ceiling, which gave the place a soft and pleasant glow. A fresh carnation on every table. Candles. The music was great – a soft piano, not the typical blaring unbearable Spanish vocalists that you hear in Mexican restaurants.
Our table had the most unusual salt and pepper shaker set – it was quite beautiful. They were porcelain, in the shape of little Spanish horses, one white and one black. I picked up the black one, feeling its cold, smooth weight in my hand. I lay it on the table on its side and rolled it back and forth between my palms. I took it and spun it, and it became a black blur, whirring in tight circles. I smiled. Hotsy would love this. I suddenly laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Dennis said.
“I was just thinking about something Hotsy did today.”
Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat Page 13
