by Karen Pullen
“Will it help if I see to it that no one else ever has the same problem?” I ask her.
She’s sobbing now, but she nods into her handkerchief. As Henri’s assistant comes over to lead me back to his station, I give my poor DP an encouraging smile and nod as I walk away.
My appointment continues as Henri works his magic on my hair. He’s jovial until a stylist nearby drops a bottle of their exclusive, overpriced conditioner on the floor. He erupts into an expletive-filled tirade, grabs a hair dryer, and throws it at her. She jumps, I’m shaken, but no one else reacts. They must be used to his tantrums.
Three hours and a maxed-out credit card later, I’m ready to go. My hair has a funky asymmetrical, slightly punk bob and a mixture of about fifteen colors ranging from ash blonde to coppery red. I’m not convinced that it’s very “me,” but I make sure I tell Henri he’s a true artist. Don’t want him getting mad at me. No sir, I don’t.
* * * *
Time to find Charlie.
Charlie is back at the station. He’s got Reverend Gary and Mr. Irving in different interrogation rooms, letting them sit there to contemplate their sins. “What’s up? You do something weird to your hair?”
Something weird, he says. Men are insensitive asses.
“Which one do you think did it?” I nod toward the interrogation rooms as I perch on the hard chair opposite his desk.
“My money’s on the good reverend. It’s always those holy types.”
I prop my elbow on his desk and rest my chin in my palm. “You want to know what I think?”
Charlie immediately perks up. “Whatcha got? C’mon. Give.”
“You’ve got the wrong guys. The perp is—” Just to torment him, I insert a dramatic pause while I listen to the Final Jeopardy countdown music in my head: la-la-la-la, la-la-la…
“You want me to arrest you for obstruction of an investigation? Who is it?”
“Okay, okay. I think it’s Juliette’s hairdresser, Henri. She made very public threats to sue him and ruin his business. I’ll bet if you check, those unsub prints on our buddy Beethoven will turn out to be his. If you talk to Henri’s staff, I’m sure you’ll find that he was missing from his shop at the time of Juliette’s murder. And they’ll tell you all about his temper. It’s ferocious. You might also check where he was when Mrs. Chichioni was murdered—you remember her?”
He nods. “You mean—?”
“Yep. Turns out Mrs. C. had her own run-in with Henri the morning before she was bonked.”
“Thanks, Sis. I’ll take a look at that case file,” he says. “But maybe you should do something about your hair.”
I smile sweetly as I get up to leave. “The cost of Henri’s services will be included in my invoice. And I’ll expect a bonus for wrapping up the Chichioni case too.”
I ignore Charlie’s sputters as I saunter out the door. I spot my reflection in the window. I’m getting used to my funky new look. My hair looks great. Money well spent as far as I’m concerned, especially because it’s the PD’s money. But having a bad hair day—now, that can lead to all kinds of consequences. Like just a little murder.
A ONE-CAT WOMAN, by Antoinette Brown
Holy Hannah. Mom hadn’t said anything about all these cats. Five carriers, lined up in her mother’s living room. Cori knelt to examine their hissing occupants: a tuxedo, a yellow mom with three matching kittens, an agitated tabby, and an enormous white longhair. The fifth carrier contained a tiny kitten, no more than a few weeks old, fluffy and gray with white feet and ears. At the sight of her, they each cowered and hissed. Ferals. Where did they come from? And where was Blue, her mother’s Abyssinian show cat?
“Blue! Kitty, kitty?” She heard a mournful cry from the kitchen. There he was, perched on top of the refrigerator. Cori shook treats onto the counter. The cat would come down on his own time.
Cori Stanton was on cat-sitting duty this week, caring for Blue while her mother judged a cat show in Wisconsin. Mom hadn’t said anything about feral cats. Cori searched the house. The front and back doors were locked. No sign of forced entry but the security system was unarmed. Not like Mom to forget.
Cori pulled her phone from her jeans pocket and left her mother a voice mail. Five cages of feral cats in your living room? Call me.
Blue’s cry brought Cori back to the kitchen. No wonder the cat was complaining. His food bowl was empty. She scooped him up and examined him. No sign of fleas or scratches. She decided to take him home tonight. She would examine him more carefully, and bring him with her to the Piney Woods Animal Hospital tomorrow if necessary. With the Mid-Atlantic Abyssinian and Somali Cat Show two weeks away, Blue needed to look his best.
In search of Blue’s carrier, Cori opened the door to the garage, switched on the light, and was startled to see at least thirty carriers stacked on top of one other. What on earth? Flat out bizarre. She pushed through the piles looking for Blue’s distinctive silver one.
“Hey, watch it.”
Cori jumped. “Who’s there?”
A stout older woman dressed in a peasant skirt and a faded t-shirt, clutching a flowered tote bag, stepped from behind the carriers. “I’m Hollis Hogarth. Joan said I could use her garage while she’s away.” Hollis had cropped gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and a face full of furrows and ridges sharp as mountains. “The bird people have been rounding up cats and euthanizing them. I’m trying to save as many strays as I can.”
Cori put the pieces together. “So those are your cats in the living room?”
“Not exactly. After my kids put me in an institution they took my two cats—Siamese—to the shelter. These guys are from a colony I feed.”
Cori sat down on a big bag of kitty litter. This might take a while. Had the woman escaped? “Where do you live?”
“Bayview. But they won’t let me have my cats.”
Bayview was an exclusive senior residence, not a memory care unit and definitely not an ‘institution.’ “So you brought them here.”
“I had to. There was nowhere else. If I take strays to the shelter they’ll be put down.”
“But the shelter doesn’t euthanize. It’s trap, neuter, and release.”
“Not if Elise is successful with her petition.”
Cori had no idea what petition Hollis was talking about. But she did know her mother would not be pleased to come home to a house full of caged feral cats. “May I please have Mom’s house key back?”
Hollis took a step back, her eyes darting around the garage. “Why?”
“I’m sure Mom doesn’t want a lot of cats in her house. As it is, I’ll have to spray for fleas before she gets home.”
“No.” Hollis grimaced, tightening her grip on the flowered tote.
“I don’t want to have to change the locks. And you can’t leave those cats here.”
Hollis sighed and dug through her tote until she found the key. She shoved it at Cori. “Guess I have to take them back to the Wayfarer’s Motel. They’ve been living behind dumpsters.”
“I love cats too, so maybe I can help you with them,” Cori said. She gave Hollis her phone number, and they loaded the cat carriers, both occupied and empty, into Hollis’s SUV.
Glory be, Cori thought, that problem was solved, at least momentarily. She put Blue into his carrier and headed home. It had been a long day in her grooming studio, and she was ready to warm leftovers in the microwave and watch Castle reruns. But the minute she flopped into a chair, her phone rang.
“After I let my cats out of their carriers, they ate something poisonous!” Hollis sounded hysterical. “Someone’s poisoned them and they’re dying!”
“That’s horrible! Where are you?”
“Wayfarer’s Motel. In back, by the dumpster.”
“Stay where you are. And don’t touch anything.”
“I can’t stay. Got to follow ‘em.”
Follow them? Hollis hung up before Cori could ask what she meant. Punching numbers on her cell phone to alert Animal Control, Cori drove t
o the motel.
The scene was appalling. Cori recoiled at the sight of three dead cats, dried saliva and foam around their mouths. Nearby, in the waves of heat rising from the scorching asphalt, flies buzzed around two open cans of cat food. She glimpsed movement under an azalea bush—the gray kitten with white boots, crawling toward the cans and wobbling with each step. Cori’s heart lurched. She needed Animal Control right away. And where was Hollis?
She snapped photos with her phone as the Animal Control truck approached. She waved it down. “Over here!”
Jim Hawkins swung out of the truck. He was short, stocky, bald, and the kindest man Cori had ever known. “What have we got here?” he asked.
Cori pointed to the dumpster. “Three dead cats. Hollis Hogarth called in the report, says they were poisoned. She feeds this colony. I told her to wait for me, but she took off.”
“Aw geez,” Jim said, pulling on thick rubber gloves. “This is terrible. Could be poison, but I wouldn’t rule out feline distemper.” He slid the dead cats into a plastic garbage bag. “And none of these cats has a clipped ear that would indicate it’s a trap, neuter, release colony, so they won’t have had a rabies vaccination.”
“Hollis was afraid that if she took the cats to the shelter they’d be killed.”
“Does she think it’s better to die of rabies or a feline virus? Allow the females to produce more strays?” Jim tied up the plastic bag and placed it into the back of the truck, along with a second bag containing the open cat food cans and drinking bowls.
“There’s a kitten over there.” Cori pointed to the azaleas. “It looks pretty frail.”
As Jim approached the gray kitten, it hissed weakly. He took it gently by the back of its neck. “I’ll take this guy and the others to the vet school and let you know what they find.”
Cori had to track down Hollis. If rabies had caused any of these deaths, and if Hollis had been exposed to the disease from a scratch or bite, she’d have to start the shots right away. Cori looked up Bayview on her phone. “Hollis, why didn’t you wait at the motel?”
“Had to follow the trail. Come over. I’ll show you what I found.”
Cori sighed loudly. This woman’s mysterious act was wearing thin. “After I take a shower and feed Blue, I’ll be there.”
* * * *
At nine p.m., Cori knocked on Hollis’s door.
“Took you long enough,” said Hollis. Her nightgown was pink flannel printed with—what else—cats.
“What do you have?”
“A license plate number.” Hollis waved a cat food label. “A black car pulled out of the parking lot real fast as I called you for help. I tried to follow but lost it after a few blocks.”
Cori sank into the nearest armchair, closed her eyes, and wished she was in bed with the new Margaret Maron novel and a glass of merlot.
“Your mom would want you to help me.”
“Hollis, we don’t know yet if the cats were poisoned. It might be rabies, in which case you’re in danger.”
“It was poison. I know it. The crazy bird people. Had to be them. The ones who pushed for the ban on feeding strays.”
Cori dug paper and a pen out of her purse. “We’ll make a list of suspects. Number one, if it’s poison: bird lovers. Anyone specific?”
“Elise Weatherbee.”
“Weatherbee. Is she related to the new vet in town?”
“Yeah, his mom. Elise started a petition for a trap-and-euthanize policy.”
“Why the petition? Who stands to gain by a euthanize policy?”
“Just the birders,” Hollis said.
If there’s a motive for poisoning cats there, I’m not seeing it, Cori thought. “So who else should be on the suspect list?”
“The Wayfarer Motel. They’re always threatening to call the cops on me.”
“I imagine they don’t appreciate the stink of male cats spraying all over everything. Or the noisy cat fights in the middle of the night.”
Hollis opened her mouth, probably to defend the cats, so Cori continued. “Two: Wayfarer Motel. Anyone else?”
“No.”
“What about your kids?”
“Fiona and Matt?” Hollis frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.
“You’re spending all your money on cat food and vet bills, and violating the stray cat feeding ban.”
“My kids would never hurt my cats.”
“Didn’t you tell me they took away your Siamese before they moved you to Bayview?”
Hollis clamped her mouth shut, her lips nearly invisible.
“Number three: Fiona and Matt,” said Cori. “Who else?” Silence. “What about the other cat feeders?”
“No, we stick together,” Hollis said.
“Don’t most of them feed TNR colonies? Round up the strays, neuter and vaccinate them? Makes it harder for them when the cats from your colony reproduce, sending new feral cats to their colonies, spreading disease. Who has most of the TNR colonies?”
“Marsha Block.”
“Number four: Marsha Block.”
Hollis hunched down into her recliner and turned her face to the wall. Cori placed the list on Hollis’s lap and headed toward the door. “I’ll leave this list with you. If the test results come back positive for rabies, I’ll let you know right away so you can get started on the shots. And you might want to share that license plate number with Animal Control.”
* * * *
The next morning, the phone awakened Cori from a nightmare of cats giving birth to hundreds of kittens, piling up in front of her windows and doors, trapping her inside. It faded quickly as she checked her phone screen. “Mom. What a relief to hear your voice.”
“How’s Blue?”
“He’s fine.” Cori told her mother about Hollis, the cats in her house, and the poisonings.
“How awful. Any idea who might be the poisoner?”
“I was hoping you might have a suggestion.”
“Half the Garden Club hates the feral cats, but my friends aren’t animal killers. You’ll help Hollis, won’t you?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Cori hung up and looked at the clock. Six-thirty. Mom always was an early riser, and especially before judging a cat show, like today. Judges at Cat Fanciers Association shows were expected to look sharp.
Too late to go back to sleep, Cori decided. She showered, dressed, fed Blue, and made coffee. She was in the yard filling the bird bath when her phone rang.
“Mornin’, Cori.” It was Jim. “The lab called. Definitely poison. Antifreeze. And I got a report about more dead cats out by the Kmart. I’m on my way there.”
Cori’s heart sank. Feral cat colonies were hated by some, she knew, but poisoning was a horrible way to deal with them. She thought about the list of names Hollis had given her. The Wayfarer Motel or Hollis’s children wouldn’t be poisoning cats at Kmart. That left Elise Weatherbee as the sole remaining suspect. Cori packed her lunch, topped off Blue’s water bowl and was headed for her car when her phone rang. Hollis.
“Marsha’s colony’s been poisoned.”
“I heard. Jim just called. Was hers a TNR colony?”
“Yes,” Hollis said. “That eliminates the other feeders. They may disagree with me, but they wouldn’t turn on each other.”
“So you still think it’s a birder? Elise?”
“Yep, and I’m looking for the black car I saw at the motel.”
The parking lot of the Pine Tree Animal Hospital and Spa was full when Cori pulled in at eight. Every chair in the waiting room was occupied. C.J., Pine Tree’s manager, looked frazzled. Cat hair covered her black jeans and green Pine Tree polo shirt. “Any chance you can help out for a few minutes this morning? We have a dozen clients waiting.”
Cori checked her schedule; she had twenty minutes until her first grooming appointment. “Sure, I can help.” She replenished bandages and antiseptics in the examining rooms, disinfected equipment, and entered a few credit card payments. On her way
to the supply room, she ran into the petite Vera Bertoli holding a kitten. Cori knew her from the cat show circuit—she bred and showed Devon Rex cats. As always, she looked perfect—her blonde hair expensively disarrayed, her teal St. John accessorized with her signature pearl necklace and earrings.
“Adorable kitten you’ve got there,” Cori said, admiring its elfin face and oversized ears.
“One of Kirlee’s offspring. He was such a wonderful tom.” Vera reached for a handkerchief in her coat pocket. “Picked up a virus. Dr. Weatherbee couldn’t save him.”
“I’m so sorry. Is that why the little guy is here? To test for a virus?”
“No, I want his ears checked for mites. Dr. Weatherbee’s my usual vet, but he cut back his morning hours now that his tech is busy with euthanasia and incineration.”
“So he has the town’s contract now?”
“Yeah,” said Vera. “Guess he had the low bid.”
Could there a connection between the contract and the poisonings? Cori wondered. More dead cats meant more incinerations, which meant more income for Dr. Weatherbee. That might explain Elise Weatherbee’s petition, maybe the poisonings.
Cori looked at her watch. Cats were waiting for her. She had a Persian, a Maine Coon, and two British Longhairs on her schedule today. Combing, baths, tangles, and nails made up her standard treatment, then each owner would ask for something special: volume, texture, curls, shine. Cat owners were picky but she worked hard to satisfy them.
At six, Cori stopped by the waiting room to see if C.J. still needed help, but it was finally empty. She checked her phone, saw a text. A few minutes earlier, Hollis had spotted the black car in the Walmart parking lot.
Cori called Hollis. “You’re sure it’s the same car you saw at the motel?”
“Yeah. And it has a CFA sticker on the back. Do you know what that means?”
“Cat Fanciers Association. Jim Hawkins needs more than that for a warrant,” Cori said.
