by Annie Knox
“What’s that?”
“They’re crosses between American short hairs and exotics like Persians, Burmese, and Russian blues.”
“They just look like cats to me,” Jack muttered.
I elbowed him in the ribs.
The judge removed a cat from its kennel and announced its name—Tigerbrite Lex—and set it on the table. First the judge ran his hands over the cat, then peered into its broad, flat face. He picked up a cat dancer toy and engaged the animal to see the way it moved and how alert it was. Finally, he picked the cat up, one hand under its front legs and the other under its back legs, holding him almost like a fat, furry rifle, and swiveled the cat around for all of us to see. He made a few comments about the cat’s lovely coloring and clear eyes, then whispered more comments to the clerk, who was filling out the ballots.
The judge repeated this act with each of the cats. When he was done with the final cat, he chatted with the clerk one last time, picked up a handful of ribbons, and began sticking them to the kennels seemingly at random. There were gasps and oohs from the audience, who apparently understood the significance of all the ribbons better than I did.
Jack and I left the ring quickly, before there was a mad rush to return all the cats to their individual kennels, and headed back to the Trendy Tails booth.
“I guess I don’t get why people do this,” Jack said.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do people care what other people think of their pets?”
I shrugged. “Why do people enter their big hogs in the state fair?”
“That’s different,” Jack asserted. “A hog is worth more if it weighs more. A pet’s a pet whether it’s pretty or not. People are supposed to love their pets, right? No matter what they look like?”
My heart went pitter-patter.
“Yes, but everyone thinks that their cat is the best, the prettiest, the most perfect animal out there. Something special. I guess cat shows are a way for people to prove that their babies are special. When you were younger, didn’t you tell everyone stories about how smart your dog was or how sweet your cat was?”
“I never had a cat or a dog. Or any pet, for that matter.”
“You’ve never had a pet? How is that possible?”
Jack shrugged, sending muscles rippling every which way beneath his well-fitting T-shirt. “When I was growing up, Mom and Dad both had jobs. They could barely juggle taking care of me. A pet was out of the question. And then, well, I was used to being petless. I never noticed there might be something missing in my life until Mom adopted Pearl after Dad died.”
“You’ve spent a lot of time with Pearl. I remember your mom saying that you’d gone on walks and runs with Pearl to help her slim down to a healthier weight.” Pearl, an elderly beagle, had been found behind a bakery, where she’d apparently subsisted on jelly doughnuts and day-old pie. She’d been positively rotund when Louise Collins brought her in from the cold.
“I did. And that was just fine. But it’s not the same as having something of my own. When Pearl and I get back from our little jogs, she runs straight to Mom. I’m just a playdate.”
I reached out to take his hand. “Do you want a dog? I could see you with an Australian shepherd, or maybe an English bulldog.”
He squeezed my fingers briefly, then ducked his head. “Despite all this nonsense”—he waved his hand to indicate the ballroom around us—“I think I may be more of a cat person,” he muttered.
“A cat person? Really?”
His face flushed a dull crimson. “Yes.”
I couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter that escaped my lips.
He tugged his hand away from mine. “I know. I know. Big guy like me ought to have a manly pet. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Oh no,” I squeaked, trying to recapture both his hand and my composure. “I’m not laughing at you.”
He met my gaze and cocked an eyebrow.
Another giggle tumbled out. “Okay, fair enough. But I’m not laughing about you being a cat person. I’m laughing because you’re so embarrassed to want a kitten. Lots of really tough guys dig cats. You know, there are whole Web sites devoted to pictures of heavy-metal musicians with their cats.”
“Really? That’s weird.”
Come to think of it, he was right. It was weird. But that wasn’t the point. “If you want a cat, I know just where to go. In the back corner of the cat-show floor, the Brainerd shelter has a table with cats up for adoption.” I clasped his hand tighter and tugged him along behind me as we once again traversed the sea of cat and humanity in the ballroom.
The Brainerd Animal Rescue occupied two tables in the back of the ballroom. In one crate they housed two adult cats, both exotic long-haired breeds. In the other . . . kittens. I counted five, but it was difficult to untangle the mess of legs and heads as they wrestled with one another. Finally, in the back of the kitten cage, an adult marmalade tabby quietly watched the kitten antics.
“That’s Jingles,” the woman manning the station said. “He’s about a year old, so he still might grow a bit.” That was saying something, because Jingles was already a great big boy.
“Jingles?” I asked. The name didn’t match the cat.
The woman chuckled. “When he first came to us, he was a scrawny stray, barely weaned. The name made more sense then.”
“You’ve had him that long?” Jack asked.
“Not exactly. He was adopted as a kitten, but his family moved and couldn’t take him with them, so they brought him back. He’s been pretty sanguine about it. He’s a mellow dude. Want to hold him?”
“Can we?”
The woman opened the cage and reached past the brawling kittens to pull Jingles out. She handed him to me, and for a moment I delighted in his warm, heavy body and rumbling purr, but then I passed him along to Jack.
He held the cat gingerly at first, shifting the cat around as he tried to figure out the best way to hold him. Finally, he opted for holding the tabby like a baby, cradled in his arms and tummy up. Jingles’s purr revved up a notch or two.
“Hey, buddy,” Jack murmured.
The sight of my strapping boyfriend cuddling this wee beastie in his arms twisted something inside of me, shifting something I didn’t even know was out of place into its proper alignment.
And it was clearly love at first cuddle with Jack and Jingles. I could see the tension slip from his shoulders and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen.
“Do you want to take him?” I whispered.
He chucked Jingles under the chin. “What do you say, little man? You want to come live with me? I promise we’ll find a more butch name for you.”
Both the woman from the shelter and I laughed. “I don’t know,” I said. “Jack and Jingles has a certain ring to it.”
He frowned down at the cat. “Nah. He looks like more of a Steve to me. Simple, strong. Isn’t that right, little man?”
I caught the shelter woman’s eyes. “I think we’re taking this cat.”
CHAPTER
Eight
As soon as we were able to shut down the Trendy Tails stall at the cat show, I sent Rena back to Maple Avenue to help Wanda take care of any spillover customers and then close up the shop. Wanda was only seventeen and I didn’t like her being at the store alone in the evenings . . . even if it was still light outside.
I jumped in my eight-year-old Honda and drove out to Quail Run, the posh housing development where all the Merryville elite dwelled. Pris Olson had once been the reigning queen of Quail Run, owning the largest of the large lots and the biggest of the big houses. But lately, despite her husband’s rise to the seat of mayor of Merryville, Pris had become the local Cinderella. I felt bad for her, knowing how much prestige meant to Pris. Still, it was hard to feel too bad for her when I parked my old but serviceable car behind her m
idnight-blue Mercedes.
I hoisted myself out of my car and approached the wide, ornately carved double doors. The bell played a stately chime, the sort of note progression used by grandfather clocks and bell towers. It used to play Beethoven’s Fifth, and I wondered momentarily why Pris and Hal had changed it.
Pris herself opened the door, her cat, Kiki, draped over one shoulder. Kiki lifted her hugely furry head from Pris’s shoulder and hissed at me. For reasons only the cat understood, Kiki had never liked me.
“Dear God, Izzy. I really don’t want to talk business right now. I’ve got more than enough to worry about.”
“I didn’t come about business—though, now that you mention it, just give me a yell if you need any help at the cat show. Rena and I are happy to pitch in.”
Pris took a step outside, scanning the street as though someone might be watching our exchange. “Come in,” she commanded.
Entering the Olson house was like stepping into the pages of Architectural Digest. The travertine tiles of the palatial entryway were topped with a traditional burgundy and ecru Oriental carpet, gold-framed mirrors flanked the entryway into the überbeige formal living room, and the light from the crystal chandelier picked up the hints of gold in the ivory damask wallpaper. I didn’t see any personal items at all. We could have been standing in the foyer of a model home.
Pris fit here perfectly, but I had a hard time imagining her husband in this environment. Hal Olson was a big, blustery man, a former football player sliding from muscle to fat as he aged. Sun and wind had pickled his skin to a permanent ruddy tan, and he tended to lead with his head when he walked. I could imagine Hal enjoying a mile-high cold-cut sandwich dripping with Russian dressing, but I couldn’t imagine him enjoying it in this house.
“Thanks for the offer,” Pris said, “but I think my girls can handle everything. I just made them promise they wouldn’t let Dee Dee Lahti touch the money. Or interact with customers. I mean, I feel sorry for the woman, but I’m not stupid.”
“Well, if anything comes up.”
“Will do.” Her features softened. “Really. Thank you.”
“Of course,” I said. I scuffed the toe of my sneaker against the tile and shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans. Her sincerity made me uncomfortable.
“Well, if you didn’t come to talk business, what brings you all the way out to Quail Run?”
There was no point beating around the bush. “I wanted to talk to you about the collar dangle and Phillip Denford.”
All hint of softness fled as Pris’s face hardened into an enamel mask.
“And why on earth would I talk to you about any of that?”
“Because I don’t think you did anything wrong. Because, from what I’ve heard, you don’t have many people to confide in anymore.” I took a deep breath. “And because I’m determined to find out who the real perpetrator is.”
She rolled her eyes. “You and your wacky pack are planning to solve another murder?”
“You have to admit we have a pretty good track record.”
Pris laughed, and some of the tension drained from her posture.
“I don’t understand why you’re interested in helping me. Sean Tucker dumped me, so now I have to go out of town to find a decent criminal lawyer, and I suspect you had something to do with that. So far it looks like you’re doing your best to see me convicted.”
I shook my head. “Absolutely not. The thing with Sean is . . . complicated. And didn’t he recommend someone in Wild Rapids to represent you?”
“He did. And the new attorney has quite a solid pedigree. But I’m puzzled why Sean wouldn’t want the case for himself, and I tend to think he gave it up because you asked him to. Which raises the question of why you would care about who my attorney is. Only answer I can come up with is that you want to throw me under the bus.”
I know I was trying to get Pris to spill her guts to me, but I didn’t want to tell her about my glaring motive if I didn’t have to. It just wouldn’t be prudent. “Trust me when I say that I’m as motivated to find the real killer as you are.”
“And what makes you so certain it wasn’t me? Do you think I couldn’t kill someone?”
“Oh no. I think if you were pushed hard enough, you would absolutely kill someone.”
Pris laughed. “I’m glad you have such a high opinion of my character.”
I could feel myself blushing. “It’s not a criticism. Believe me, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that just about anyone can be pushed to kill. But I don’t believe you killed Phillip Denford because I saw the body. Lots of blood. If you wanted to kill someone, you would poison them. Maybe shoot them. But you wouldn’t get all up close and personal and get blood on yourself.”
“Excellent point,” Pris purred as she ushered me into the formal living room. All of the furniture was in shades of white and ecru with only the occasional pop of burgundy from a potted plant or a throw pillow. The vaulted ceiling made the room feel like the set of a movie, not a place actual where people lived.
At Pris’s direction, I sat on one of the ivory sofas. I perched on the edge of the cushion, self-conscious about the possibility of getting fur or dust on the pristine seat.
Pris sat in an oversized armchair, a veritable throne. A low mahogany table with gently curved Queen Anne legs separated us.
“So what can I tell you?” Pris asked. “What magic bit of information is going to help you clear my name?”
“I don’t entirely know. But it would help to know what the police think happened.”
“Your boyfriend hasn’t told you already? No crime-fighting pillow talk?”
Once again, my cheeks burned. “No. Jack’s official line is that it’s an ongoing investigation. I think he’s keeping mum for more personal reasons, though. He really doesn’t want me involved, so he hasn’t shared any of the good stuff with me.”
“Aha. He’s trying to rein in the inquisitive Izzy McHale. He’s a brave man.”
“Yeah. I guess he is. But will you tell me what the police think happened?”
“Why not? It can’t really hurt me any more than that stupid collar dangle did.”
She leaned back, slipping off her ballet flats and curling her toes around the top of the coffee table. I’d never seen Pris so relaxed and casual.
“They said that Phillip was killed early that morning. By the time you found him, he’d been dead at least a couple of hours, so he wasn’t killed during the blackout. Their theory is that Phillip and I arrived early. We relived our fight from the afternoon before. I grabbed a pair of my grooming shears and stabbed him while he was standing close to the prize table, then shoved his body under the table.”
“By yourself.”
“Yep. Then, since I would have been covered in blood, I managed to get to my car without anyone seeing me, drive home, change, and get back to the show in time for the official opening at nine.”
“Okay. What about the theft?”
“Again, I’m apparently quite clever. And speedy. I managed to slip out of the ballroom and throw the breakers on the lights, slip back in through the door by my stall, make my way through the pitch-black to the prize table, grab the jewels, and get back to my stall before the lights came back on.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I shook my head. “No offense, but that sounds pretty complicated.”
Pris narrowed her eyes. “I think I’m smart enough to have come up with the plan, Izzy. But there’s no way I had time to do all that. The lights were out for only a few minutes before Jack managed to prop open the front door and shed light on the inside of the ballroom. I was back by my stall in the corner during the entire blackout.”
“Actually in your stall?”
“No. I was out front.”
“But I looked everywhere
for you and couldn’t find you. I didn’t see you at all until a good hour after the lights came back on. If you weren’t even in the room that morning, you should tell the police. If you weren’t there, you couldn’t have stolen the dangle. I’ll back you up.”
Pris’s lips thinned. “Well, that would be lovely. But I was there. You must have missed me. Right before the lights went out, I’d been talking to this kind of crusty old broad. Gray fuzzy hair, wire-rimmed glasses—the one who offered to play cribbage while the police investigated the crime scene.”
“Ruth Kimmey.”
“Right. Ruth. We’d been talking about how sad it was that Pamela Rawlins wouldn’t be involved with organizing the shows in the future. Frankly, I’m not sorry at all. I don’t like that Pamela woman very much. She’s a little snooty.”
Said the pot to the kettle.
“Next year, Marsha Denford will be in charge.”
“I thought Phillip was the one associated with the M-CFO.”
“He was. But it’s like a dynasty, and Marsha is next in line. She’ll carry on Phillip’s tradition of coordinating the show. At least, she’ll be the figurehead over the whole enchilada. Assuming Marsha keeps her on, Mari will probably still be stuck handling the details. But it’s great for me. Marsha and I get along brilliantly. Assuming I’m not in prison, I should be in a great position for next year’s show.”
“Did you tell the police all this?”
“Are you kidding? I know enough to keep my mouth shut when it comes to the police. I didn’t say a word.”
“Pris, I have to say you’re very calm about your situation. I’d be losing my mind.”
She reached up a hand to smooth her hair. “I’m innocent. I have to believe that means something. And, besides, I’m following the advice of counsel to the letter. Before he severed his representation, Sean said I did exactly the right thing by keeping mum about Pamela’s ouster from the M-CFO planning committee. ‘Don’t ever talk to the cops,’ he said. ‘Not ever. Even if you’re telling them something that may seem to help you, it could come back to bite you later.’”
