by Annie Knox
Sean tilted his head to one side, brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I suppose so. In fact, I have a fairly full schedule these days and was thinking of referring her to my friend Rudy over in Wild Rapids. He’s got more experience working murder cases, and he wouldn’t be going into the case with the baggage of actually knowing Pris.”
“You mean he doesn’t already think she’s shady?”
Sean smiled. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, but I certainly know Hal and I don’t hold him in particularly high esteem. I’d like to think I’m a professional and could give Pris zealous representation no matter what my preexisting thoughts about her and her spouse may be, but why risk it?”
“Thank you.”
“Like I said, I’m not really doing it for you, though I’m glad the decision makes you happy. But why would you want me to give up representing Pris? What difference does it make to you?”
“Because, before this is all over, I may need your services more.”
CHAPTER
Seven
Rena and I arrived at the show bright and early the following morning. Once again, Jinx did her turn as fashion model while wearing hot-pink neck and mitt ruffs. The effect was a sort of seventies bell-bottoms-and-poncho look, and the hot pink set off my big girl’s black-and-white fur to perfection. Since she clocked in at nearly twenty pounds, I had her set up in a crate for medium-sized dogs because cat kennels were just too cramped for her to spend an entire day in.
I’d had Jinx for several years, having surprised myself by adopting her at an event at the Merryville mall. As she’d aged, she’d started slowing down, her body becoming more lean. Still the cat had swagger. She looked at me through the bars of the kennel, and I could swear I saw her wink at me. Unlike many cats who get skittish around strangers, Jinx lapped up the attention like sweet cream.
Rena offered to man our stall for the morning while I wandered the show a bit, trying to locate Gandhi. I took a handful of our cards to hand out as I hunted.
I made a complete circuit around the ballroom, watching the fanciers tending their furry charges and scanning the floor for a glimpse of Gandhi. I couldn’t decide whether I hoped he was in the room with all the cats—where he was prey, but where I might actually find him—or that he had escaped into some other part of the hotel—where he would be on his own, a life that seemed to work for him, until some disgruntled guest or health inspector got the little guy exterminated.
I’d finished a lap of the room, with one potential guinea pig sighting (it turned out to be a plush cat toy), and was on my way back to our booth, when someone tapped me on the arm.
“I remember you.” I turned to find I had just passed the outspoken woman from yesterday’s crime scene, the woman with the wire-rimmed glasses and the cribbage board. “You were the one who found Phillip’s body.”
“How do you—?”
“Know so much about what happened?” she finished for me. “Well, my table is right there.” She pointed to a table at the end of the row, just one in from the aisle where we’d set up the Trendy Tails booth. “And I pay attention.”
Hmmm. I wondered whether other people might refer to her “paying attention” as “meddling.”
I extended my hand, happy to welcome a kindred spirit. “Izzy—”
“McHale. Yes, I know. You design the cat clothes.”
“And dog clothes.”
She blinked at me like I’d suddenly started speaking another language.
Finally, she took my hand. A bracelet hung from her birdlike wrist, tinkling with charms shaped like hearts and cats. “Ruth Kimmey.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ruth. Which of these beautiful babies is yours?”
I followed Ruth the handful of steps to her station. Her kennel was made of black wire and draped with faux leopard fur. Inside, an oval cat bed exploded with fur the color and texture of dandelion fluff. As I bent down to examine more closely, the fluff rippled gently and one baleful blue eye popped open and latched onto me.
“Gorgeous,” I said.
“He is, isn’t he? This is Cataclysm Ranger.”
“Cataclysm?”
Ruth cocked her head and studied me curiously. “Do you know much about cat shows, Izzy?”
I shrugged one shoulder. “Not much,” I conceded. “I’m sure some of my customers show their animals, but it’s not something that comes up in our conversations over fashion.”
“Well, let me bring you up to speed. I love to share my love of cats with others. Show animals are known by their mother’s cattery—in Ranger’s case, his mama was from a cattery in Iowa called Cataclysm. He’s a peke-faced sterling Persian.”
“A what-what?”
“Peke-faced means his profile is vertical, without a muzzle sticking out to ruin the line. Sterling means his fur is white with just the very tips shaded in gray. That’s what makes him sparkle like that.”
“Interesting.”
“Ranger is a grand premier. He’s actually racked up enough wins that he’d be a grand champion if my son-of-a-gun ex-husband hadn’t had him neutered. He’s nearly flawless. Just a hint of tarnishing around his nose.”
One thing I’d learned during my days of planning for the cat show is that unaltered cats competed for champion and grand-champion status while neutered males could only achieve the status of grand premier.
As the cat lifted its head and opened both eyes I could see just the faintest hint of yellowing in the fur between Ranger’s nose and upper lip. If Ruth hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed.
“You can barely see that,” I said.
Ruth shrugged. “The judges are paid to see that. Even when I use Ducky White on his muzzle, the judges seem to spot it.”
“Ducky White?”
“It’s a coat chalk. My personal favorite. It’s used to whiten the coat and absorb any stray oil on the cat. Like I said, it hides Ranger’s tarnish well, but not quite well enough. He more than makes up for that coat flaw with his straight back and perfect little cobby body. He also shows well. His temperament is perfect. When he’s in the judging ring, being handled by the judge, he’s alert but still. And when the judge brings out a toy, he sits up on his back legs, showing off his body structure, and reaches up and out to bat at the toy so he doesn’t block his beautiful face. He nails it every time.”
“Wow.” I studied the giant fluff ball in the crate. Jinx was a long-haired breed, and her fur was winter-ready plush, but it was nowhere near as full and dense as Ranger’s. I thought about how much time I spent combing out Jinxie’s lovely locks. “What does it take to keep Ranger’s fur so nice?”
“Daily comb-outs to start. Then, the day before the show, Ranger gets a full bath: four lathers with complete rinses between each, then a blowout, followed by a bit of grooming just to make sure his coat is perfectly symmetrical: ear tufts, whiskers, and eyebrows. Day of the show, I comb through the Ducky White to freshen him up and try to cover that tarnishing a bit.”
“So that’s what Pris would have done? The full bath?”
“If I trusted a stranger with my Ranger, then yes. But I don’t. I always groom him myself, tip to tail. Though I seem to have forgotten my grooming kit, so that criminal will get some money out of me before the day is done. Or, at least, her business will.”
That criminal. Poor Pris. We’d both been hoping that this show would help our businesses really take off. I’d hoped to gain some more Internet business, and Pris had hoped that she could secure invitations to other M-CFO events where she could set up mobile grooming stations. But with the cat fanciers referring to Pris as “that criminal” instead of “that groomer,” I feared she—and Prissy’s Pretty Pets—might be doomed.
“I won’t be happy about it, though,” she continued. “Pris doesn’t carry my brand of grooming shears. I only use Guttenheim shears. The kind that Mr. Denford s
ells on his Classy Cat Web site.”
Ruth reached a finger through the bars of Ranger’s kennel and stroked the area beneath his mouth, what would have been his neck if Persians had real necks.
“I’m surprised you’re not out watching the agility show. Ranger here only does conformation judging; I wouldn’t risk him getting grimy or falling on the agility course. But it is wildly entertaining to watch.”
Ruth beckoned to a statuesque woman in a crystal-studded leopard tracksuit, her hair bleached beyond blond, her eye makeup more appropriate for a cabaret than a cat show. I recognized her as the breeder who’d gotten into a tizzy about her tabby’s markings on the day before the show was scheduled to start. She’d been in head-to-toe leopard then, too. Apparently, she had a very distinct sense of style.
The woman squeed and rushed to our side, a happy little waggle in her walk.
“Izzy, this is T. J. Leuzinger, owner of Cataclysm Cattery. T.J., Izzy owns Trendy Tails, the pet boutique here in town.”
T.J. reached out and grasped one of my hands in both of her bejeweled mitts. Her hands smelled like coconut.
“So great to meet you, Izzy. I’ve seen some of your designs in the showroom. You’re quite a hit.”
Her comment did my heart good.
“T.J., could you watch Ranger for a bit? I don’t want to leave him alone, but Izzy here’s never seen a cat-agility competition so I want to show her what we do.”
“Of course. Be happy to. I haven’t had a chance to get caught up with this handsome fella in quite a while.”
We left T.J. making cooing sounds to Ranger as Ruth led me out the side door of the North Woods Hotel and into a giant parklike setting. Although you could hear cars passing by, lilac bushes blocked the green space from any view of Beechnut Road. In the distance, I spotted a gazebo where many a Merryville wedding had taken place. Closer, though, a generous white tent had been set up about fifty feet from the door. A huge crush of people gathered tight around the perimeter of the tent. From the cheering, I guessed that the agility show was already in progress.
Despite the crowd, Ruth managed to strong-arm her way to the front, securing the two of us spaces to stand just outside the velvet rope that marked off the course. I felt guilty about both our barging and my height, so I crouched down a little for the people behind me.
I quickly took in the lay of the land. The agility course had been “carpeted” with a cheap green Astroturf, likely to protect the tender pads on the cats’ paws from dirt and rocks. At one corner of the course, a pudgy man in jeans and a “Cats Rule, Dogs Drool” T-shirt was getting a lean Russian blue situated to start.
“In case you were wondering,” Ruth said quietly, subtly pointing her pinkie toward the judging table, “Pamela Rawlins is not a fan of agility. She’s a conformation snob.” Pamela sat at a small table, wedged between Mari Aames and Marsha Denford, her pitch hair glistening in the bright August sunlight. None of the women appeared particularly happy to be there, but Pamela’s face was set in an obvious pout.
“My gracious,” I said, “how can three women manage to have their backs to one another while still sitting in a straight line?”
Ruth hooted. “You got that right. Those ladies would literally bend over backward to avoid one another.”
“Why? They were all clustered together like baby chicks yesterday while the police were processing the crime scene. There was plenty of space in the ballroom, even with the taped-off bit. I assumed they must have wanted to be together.”
“Oh, sure,” Ruth said. “But I don’t think they were offering one another sympathy. I think they were each keeping an eye on the other two. See, all three of them wanted a piece of Phillip Denford, and there just wasn’t enough of Phillip to go around.”
“Really?” I prodded.
“Absolutely. Marsha and Mari have been at it for years. Marsha needs Phillip so she can be Marsha Denford and Mari needs Phillip so she has a job. Each sees the other as a threat. Then, last year, there was a rumor that Denford and Pamela had had a little fling. This, of course, did not make Marsha happy. I don’t know whether she was genuinely hurt by the affair or just embarrassed by it, but either way she’s given Pamela the cold shoulder ever since. And Pamela pushed her way into acting as cocoordinator of this silver-anniversary event, edging Mari farther to the side and threatening her job. I’m not sure what Pamela wanted out of the whole deal—if she was happy playing a bigger role in the M-CFO or if she saw herself as some genuine love interest—but Phillip definitely planned to placate her with the event coordinator title . . . Even then, it was just a title. Mari’s still the one who did all the heavy lifting.”
“It all sounds so . . . complicated.”
Ruth laughed again. “This is nothing compared to the old days. The world of cat shows, or at least those sponsored by the Midwest Cat Fanciers’ Organization, has always been a hotbed of intrigue. I have to admit that the murder takes things to a whole new level, but it’s still tame compared to the days of off-the-books kitten swapping and key parties.”
I tried to imagine mousy-looking diminutive Ruth Kimmey, garbed in a cat sweatshirt, tossing her keys into a bowl, and I just couldn’t get there.
“Oh, he’s ready to start,” she said. “This should be good. That’s Jeffrey Brockman. Some people call him ‘the cat whisperer,’ because he can get his animals to perform the most amazing feats of agility on courses far more difficult than this.”
Sure enough, the man with the Russian blue was standing on his tiptoes, a cat dancer toy in one hand. A bell rang, and he started to trot along the side of the course, leading the cat with the wand. The blue ran up a ramp, then down the other side, made its way through nylon tunnels that curved in gentle arcs, slithered its way through a slalom of orange cones, and then did a graceful leap over a low hurdle. As he landed, though, his tail caught the crossbar of the hurdle and knocked it off. The whole crowd gasped.
Ruth moaned softly. “Too bad. Ivan was a favorite for the course. His time was great, but there will be a deduction for knocking off the crossbar. Jeffrey must be crushed.”
It was true. Even across the tent, I could see the expression on Jeffrey’s face. He was stroking Ivan gently, letting the cat nibble treats from his hand, but he looked distraught.
For some reason it struck me hard as I took in the sense of longing and loss in Jeffrey’s expression: other than Mari Aames, no one had looked even half so devastated upon learning of Phillip Denford’s demise.
* * *
Jack brought Rena and me lunch that day, toasted cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, creamy tomato soup in a thermos, and a half-dozen tea cookies from my friend Taffy’s Happy Leaf Tea Shoppe.
“Any luck finding Gandhi?” he asked as he handed over the canvas lunch bag, a teasing smile gracing his lips. I’d filled him in on our tiny escape artist’s newest trick: a rodent navigating a room filled with cats.
“Not yet. Any luck finding Phillip’s killer?”
He glared at me and shook his head. “Look. I realize the evidence so far is circumstantial, but all of it points to Pris. We know she had a fight with Phillip the day before he died. We know she had access to the type of tool used to kill the man. And we know that she stole the jeweled collar piece.”
“Dangle.”
He sighed. “Dangle.”
“But how do you know that the theft and the murder are related?”
“We don’t know for sure, but the odds of these two major crimes being committed so close together but by different people? They’re pretty slim.”
“It’s possible, though.”
“Yes, anything’s possible.”
“It’s just that I can maybe imagine Pris stealing, especially given her current financial situation, but the murder doesn’t fit. And if you look at the crimes as two separate incidents, it changes the scope of the possible suspects.”
“Trust me when I tell you that the police are exploring every option.”
The tone of his voice told me it was time to move on. Jack was done talking about the cat-show crime spree.
“Have you taken a look around the show yet?”
“Not really. I’d just arrived yesterday morning when you found Phillip’s body. The techs wandered around the ballroom a bit, but I was stuck taking statements.” He looked around. “Tell me all about it.”
“It’s absolutely fascinating. There are nine judging rings.” I pointed out the spaces around the perimeter of the room, each with a bank of empty kennels behind it and a long folding table at its front. “There’s a judge for each ring, and each judge sees all the breed groupings, one at a time. Except for the household-pet category. Those cats get seen by only a single judge.”
“Household pet?”
“Yeah. If you have a cat that you think is pretty special but it doesn’t have pedigree papers, you can still show him off in the household-pet division. That’s near the end of the show. I can’t wait.”
Jack tore a corner from my cheese sandwich and popped it in his mouth.
“Hey!”
He shrugged. “I brought you lemon cookies to make up for it.” This man knew the way to my heart. Taffy’s lemon cookies erased a multitude of sins. “Did you think about entering Jinx in the show?”
I dropped my head down to get a better look at my gorgeous girl showing off a Fair Isle sweater-vest. “I thought about it when I heard about the pet category, but I figured I didn’t know that much about showing and, while Jinx is a good-natured cat, I wasn’t sure how she’d hold up to being picked up and prodded by strangers.”
As I stood back up, I realized that a crowd was gathering around one of the judging rings. “Oh! Let’s go watch.”
I tucked my sandwich back in its waxed-paper wrapping and dragged Jack by the hand to the judging ring. The judge, a middle-aged man with a pale blond comb-over, was moving from cage to cage to get an overall impression of the animals while his clerk shuffled the ballots. The grouping appeared to be exotic short hairs.
