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

by Nancy J. Bailey

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Cecilia Fox

  Sunday

  The end of the gymnasium was set up for the Best of the Best competition. There was one row of cages, wherein each breed representative in the championship competition awaited the final word on who was Best In Show. The judges had all changed into formal attire; the men in tuxedoes and the women in spangled evening gowns. Bright red curtains hung in valances from the front of the stage. Tiny white lights twinkled everywhere. There were vases of roses, their blooms unfurled and crimson as blood, lining the front of the judge’s table. There was more glitter and glitz than a soap opera Christmas party.

  And there were the cats. Groomed to perfection, they sat waiting to be presented, each one the shining representative of its breed, chosen the best in the group that had been judged all weekend. The dark and silky Bombay. The fluffy and contented Himalayan. The squalling and luxurious Tonkinese. The angular and elegant, striped Oriental Shorthair.

  And there was Kenya. He stood prancing in his place of honor, his tail up, feet going happily in their infernal rhythm, and no doubt purring, though I couldn’t hear him above the din.

  Electricity was in the air as the exhibitors gathered around to witness the grand finale of this long and arduous weekend. There was music playing, some big band show tune, I think it was Glenn Miller. And all the people were talking and laughing, gathering for the final celebration. This was the culmination of years of work for some of them. It was their moment.

  Each breed was announced and brought forth by a different judge. The breed description was read, while the judge held up the cat for all to see. The first one, of course, was the Abyssinian. There was an awkward silence, though, as Tracy Pringle’s Baloo was brought out hissing, with his ears flattened. It was especially ironic, as the description being read went, “The Abyssinian is known for its jovial and lively personality. A cat that is easy to handle in all situations, it is bold and curious and known for its happy nature.”

  Baloo was quickly whisked back to his cage, where his big red “Best of Breed” rosette was hung. He took an angry whack at it before turning in a circle and settling in the back of the cage. I felt a surge of gratitude that he was probably done.

  As each cat was presented, there was enthusiastic applause, but the applause began to wane as cat after cat was brought forth and held aloft. Pretty soon it had diminished to a small spattering, probably from just the owners who were left to cheer on their own. The judges kept smiling tirelessly as the hour dragged on. I admired their tenacity.

  But it was interesting to see the variety of cats that were present. The Devon Rex, unfortunately, was not Andrew’s Lucy. It was instead a fat little black male, but very pretty with his wavy coat and startling orange eyes.

  “Too leggy!” Andrew whispered to me as the Devon was returned to his cage with his red rosette. “Way too leggy!”

  I screeched when Kenya was taken out. I couldn’t help it. This moment was not going to go unmarked. We had worked so hard for this! And Kenya was enjoying it, too. His big fluffed tail wafted through the air like a flag as the lady judge, Posey Plummer, hoisted him up in the air. Posey was a beautiful blonde, wearing a dark green gown that complimented Kenya’s blazing sienna color perfectly. The gown sparkled in the lights and Kenya glowed too. Most judges just held the cats up while the description was read, but Posey placed Kenya on the table, and let him stand up there and strut. I could have kissed her. Over the loudspeaker, the announcer’s voice read,

  “With a flash of deep hot color and the signature flourish of a plumy tail, there is no mistaking a Somali. This medium-sized, longhaired version of the Abyssinian is identical in many ways to that breed. The Somali is leggy and elegant, with a glowing presence and ticked fur. Although it is not an overly large cat, it is solid and muscular. Its head is moderate in type, neither too long nor too short or round.”

  Here, Posey took Kenya’s head in her hands and ran her fingers along his whiskers. He squeezed his eyes happily and bumped her with his head.

  “A Somali’s eyes, which can be green or gold, are large, expressive, and almond-shaped. Complete with large, flaring ears and etched facial markings, the similarities to the Abyssinian are obvious. The coat makes the difference! The Somali is adorned with a ruff around the throat, fluffy britches, and a big brush tail that is carried with pride, like a flag. The coat is considered a medium length, with shorter hair on the shoulders and body.”

  I felt a hand on my back, patting me gently. I turned and saw Andrew smiling, and his eyes were filling, glittering with tears. He nodded, mouthed the word, “Congratulations.”

  I smiled and turned back. Now Kenya was chasing a sparkler on a stick, as Posey led him back and forth across the table.

  “Light and quick, on tiptoe, the Somali is athletic and swift as a fox, and every bit as intelligent. The beauty of this cat is second only to its personality.”

  Now Posey was picking Kenya up, holding him close and letting him rub his nose all over her face while he kneaded the sides of her head with his paws. The audience began to laugh. The announcer even chuckled as he finished reading the breed description. “Friendly, funny and with an imitable sense of humor, there’s no other cat quite like a Somali. And no other judge quite like Posey Plummer, either! Looks like she’s got a new friend.”

  The crowd went wild. I began to cry. Posey held Kenya up for one last moment and then carried him gracefully back to his cage, with his red rosette streaming out behind her.

  I looked up at Andrew and saw tears coursing down his cheeks. He was clapping his hands together, hard, shaking his head, applauding with the audience, and he said, “That’s a show cat, Honey! That boy of yours is a true show cat.”

  I nodded, wiping my eyes. I didn’t say anything. There was no need to. Kenya had made the statement. His moment with Posey was the real reason we all – well, most of us, anyway – continued to do this.

  It wasn’t long afterward that the Best of Breed award and exhibition ended, and now it was time for Best of the Best. There were ten cats to be chosen. Ten purple and gold rosettes hung on the stand by the judging table. Ten trophies lined the table near the rose vases. As we waited, the breeds were called out whose owner needed to come and get them. There would be ten cats left in the row.

  I stood waiting for them to call, “Somali”. I couldn’t wait to grab my boy, hug him and tell him how wonderful he was. But as they listed off the breeds, “Russian Blue, Scottish Fold, Siberian,” and then “Tonkinese,” it began to register that they weren’t going to call Kenya. They were going in alphabetical order. Andrew started screaming.

  “You made it!” he shouted. “Kenya’s in!”

  The next thing I knew, he was grabbing me, lifting me in the air and twirling me around. He kissed me full on the lips. I couldn’t believe it.

  And then he set me down, and I looked, and sure enough, there were ten cats remaining. An American Shorthair, a Maine Coon. The white Persian. Six others. And Kenya.

  It was too good to be true! We were going home with a trophy! And – could it be? Was there the slightest possibility? I didn’t dare hope!

  “With no further delay,” the announcer said. “Here are our top ten cats.”

  Each judge stood with a rosette, and the first cat was called, “Our Tenth Best Cat In Show is the American Wirehair.”

  Again, the spattered applause, and a judge walked over to the Wirehair’s cage and placed a purple rosette on it.

  “Our Ninth Best Cat is the Oriental Shorthair.”

  Again, the applause, the judge walking over and placing the rosette on the Oriental’s cage. The Oriental, apparently tired from all the activity, hissed grumpily at the judge.

  “Our Eighth Best Cat today is the Birman.”

  The Birman stood with its little white toes peeping out from beneath its dark silk stockings. It watched as the rosette was hung before it.

  “Our Seventh Best Cat is the Siamese.”
r />   “Wow,” said the Siamese, when it received its ribbon.

  “Our Sixth Best Cat in show is the Devon Rex.”

  “Leggy bastard!” Andrew whispered.

  “Our Fifth Best Cat is the Maine Coon.”

  By now, I was hopping on my toes. Kenya had made the top five!

  “Our Fourth Best Cat is the Cornish Rex,” the announcer said.

  “Oh my god,” Andrew said. “I can’t stand this. I’m going to piss my pants.”

  “Our Third Best Cat is the American Shorthair.”

  The judge walked over and placed the rosette on the cage. The American was sleeping and didn’t stir when the rosette was hung. Now there were only two cats remaining, and one was Kenya. The other was the white Persian. I held my breath. There was a long silence.

  “Oh, cut the drama already!” Andrew hissed. “This is killing me!”

  “And now for our Best Cat In Show. Second Best Cat goes to the Somali. The Persian is our Best in Show! Congratulations!”

  “Oh, shit!” Andrew shouted, but there was so much screaming it was drowned out.

  I stood still, clapping my hands for the winners. For some reason, the first thought I had was of the ancients. When the Persian people attacked Egypt, legend says that they seized the Egyptian cats and held them up as shields. The Egyptians refused to fight and were thus conquered.

  And so it had gone, in the Best of the Best competition: Kenya the Egyptian had lost to the white Persian, the Sound of Music kitty. The two Bigwigs, as Andrew called them, jumped and screamed and hugged each other. The Persian gave no indication that she knew she had won. She just hunkered quietly in the cage until the younger Bigwig ran over to get her out.

  I really felt no disappointment. We had come farther than I had ever expected, especially having a minority breed. I was grateful for the award, and especially grateful just to have Kenya back. I turned to Andrew. “Thank you!” I said. “Thank you so much.”

  With Kenya in one hand, and my ribbon in the other, I made my way back to the benching area. Andrew followed carrying our trophy. I was greeted by “congratulations” of other exhibitors as they passed us on their way out. For the most part, the show hall was already empty. A lot of people hadn’t stayed for Best of the Best.

  Looking down the aisle, I noticed that Jack had packed up Tracy’s possessions and left. I could see why, with his harem so violently disbanded. But he had left the cat, Baloo, sitting alone in an empty show cage. Baloo cried piteously, turning in the cage, looking out the sides. It was heartbreaking to see.

  “That is disgusting,” Andrew said. “Who would leave a cat like that?”

  “You’re right. That is disgusting. But Jack is a disgusting person. Anybody who’d screw Roxanne – ugh. Oops, sorry!” I caught myself, realizing my faux pas. After all, she was still a relative of Andrew’s.

  “No need to apologize. I couldn’t agree more. Roxanne is a wretch. I’m not going to visit her in the hoosegow.”

  We were walking over to stand by Baloo. He squalled again, stood up and looked at us expectantly.

  “What will happen to him?” I said.

  “Not a clue.”

  “Is there a show regulation for something like this?”

  “I doubt it. They’ll probably just contact the owner and tell him to come get him.”

  “He doesn’t deserve him!”

  “I’ll take him!” We turned to see Kim, the security guard approaching. She was bringing a carrier that she had evidently just purchased from a vendor. She went by us and opened the cage. To our surprise, the usually stand-offish Baloo jumped rather suddenly into her arms. She dropped the carrier to catch him, and laughed. She quickly put him inside it. “He’ll have to be neutered, but I am sure Bill and George will like having another buddy around. It’s getting pretty boring with just the two of them.”

  “He should be neutered, with those leg bars,” Andrew said. “Ugh. He was never really happy at the shows anyway.”

  “Here!” I said. “Here are some special treats for him!” I grabbed a carton of Chicken Niblets and put it in a plastic bag.

  “I’ve got a couple of toys for him too.” Andrew reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a couple of tiny furry mice and dropped them into the bag. I handed the bag to Kim.

  “This is probably stealing, you know,” Andrew added.

  I whirled on him. “Shut up!”

  He laughed. “It’s okay. I’m the last person to judge something like that!”

  I turned to Kim. “Well I’m sure as hell not going to say anything!”

  Kim grinned. “He’s an owner surrender. He’s officially impounded to my house. Thanks, you guys. I’ll leave him with Security since I’ve got to close up tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him.”

  “We’re not worried,” I said.

  “Bless you for taking him,” Andrew said.

  I was surprised to hear him say such a thing. I turned to look at him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve as Kim carried Baloo’s crate away.

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Wesley Taft

  Sunday

  “You want to bring a dog into the show hall? You can’t! That will never fly! These cats will completely freak out!” I said.

  Max held up a finger. “Just watch.”

  He left, heading for the exit, nodding to one Maine Coon lady as he passed. She tapped another woman on the shoulder. They stood up and began beckoning to others. Pretty soon there was a line of cat fanciers, sodden, pale and pudgy, all dressed in glitter and covered in tufts of shedding hair, looking like a mug shot for Freaks Weekly. A string of them lined up from one side of the bleachers all the way to the door, standing side by side, forming a human wall. I was beginning to understand. Max was a genius.

  The door opened and in came the old dog, followed by Max. Reva snuffled her way across the gym, paying no mind to the cat people, lunging at the end of the leash. Thanks to our cooperative Wall of Freaks, not a single cat in the building could see her. She was practically dragging Max to the bleachers. She knew exactly why she was there. Before she even reached the bleachers, SuMe popped out and was running to her surrogate mother, rubbing against her legs and purring. Reva was licking her, snuffling her gently. Max was beginning to tear up a little, and I was too. I looked around and didn’t see a dry eye in the group of people who had come to help us.

  Our happy reunion was interrupted by an ungodly screaming. Thinking quickly, Max grabbed SuMe and held her close. “Good God! What is going on?”

  With all the talk of murders and the horrible events of the weekend, this was a most unwelcome sound, and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. We all turned to see what it was, although we knew it could only be a cat in the worst form of distress or excitement.

  The wail lifted to the rafters, and we saw that Cecilia was desperately trying to hold on to Roxanne’s Somali Grand Premier, Zephyr. She was standing at the end of our row of helpers, where she had apparently come to see what was happening. Zephyr flipped and struggled, screaming the whole time, and then despite her efforts he projected himself from her grasp and shot across the room toward us.

  Before any of us could react, he was standing with his front paws up on our beloved dog, rubbing desperately against her. To our utter astonishment, Reva lay down, tail wagging, and greeted Zephyr with moans and whining, as if he were an old friend.

  And then he began sucking on her ear.

  “Oh my God!” Max, now, was crying, sobbing into SuMe’s neck. “Wesley! It’s Rusty!”

  I bent over and picked the cat up, and yes, I then knew it was our long lost friend Rusty – the very same dear face, the same full coat, just a little more mature and well, with lots of artificial coloring. That was why, even when seeing him from across the show hall, we hadn’t known him. But he knew Reva.

  He whirled and rubbed in my hands, purring, ramming his face into my chin. And our wonderful old dog stood up and ran back and forth bet
ween us in delight.

  The cat people around us were weeping, wiping tears from their faces and hugging each other.

  “Thank you,” I called out to them. “Thank you so much!” I buried my face into Rusty’s dyed fur.

  We were a family again.

  Chapter Fifty

  Andrew Gilbert

  Sunday

  It was amazing. Baloo had a home. Zephyr had revealed his identity to us all. And now the wrongs of the evil Roxanne had been righted in some ways. I watched the crowd disperse from a distance, as the two partners led their old dog out the door.

  “I’ll bet they’re done with cat shows,” I said.

  Dennis was leaning up against Hotsy’s cage, munching on an éclair.

  “I can’t believe it,” Dennis said. “That cat was dyed. She dyed her cat.”

  “Believe it,” I replied.

  “Boy, I really thought you had snuffed your aunt for awhile there.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Did you return that pen to what’s-her-face?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “Good boy! I’m proud of you!”

  He took a big bite from the éclair. Some of the white cream dribbled down his chin. He wiped it off, held up his finger and winked. “Does this look familiar?”

  I blushed. “Please!”

  He laughed and held out the éclair. “Here! Try it!”

  “No thanks.”

  “Really! It’ll do you good!”

  “No, thank you anyway.”

  “I’d like to see a little padding on that skinny arse,” he reached over to slap me on the behind. I dodged him and felt the puff of air from his hand as it blew by me. He laughed again, taking another bite from the éclair.

  I took the cats out and put them in their crates, SuMe in one and the two kittens in the other. “You know what, Den?”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “I’m going to take the girls here home now. And then I’m going to pack up some clean clothes. And then I’m going to go check myself into a motel.”