by Elaine Viets
“Red seems to love the attention,” Helen said. “My cat wouldn’t sit still for this.”
Jan gently combed the fluffy fur on Red’s belly.
“I can’t believe this sweetie ate her own kitten,” Helen said.
“Tried to,” Jan said. “We stopped her in time. It’s rare, but it happens. Red produced spectacular kittens, but she wasn’t a good mother. Dee bred her the same time as Chocolate, who’s a terrific mom. Red had small litters—usually two kittens—and Chocolate would nurse her kittens, too.”
“And Red didn’t mind?” Helen said.
“She was happy to let Chocolate do her work,” Jan said. “Motherhood isn’t natural to all humans, either.”
“I’m not interested in babies,” Helen said, “though I enjoy my niece and nephew.”
“You were smart enough not to breed,” Jan said. “Red didn’t have a choice.”
Helen was a bit startled by Jan’s analogy, but she understood it.
“Now, lazy old Mystery there”—Jan pointed to the soft, pale gray Persian sleeping on the window shelf—“is a good mom, and she’ll play auntie to the other cats’ new kittens.”
“What’s that mean?” Helen asked.
“Mystery will groom them, play with them and, when the kittens get older, let them jump on her tail and pretend it’s a snake.
“The real surprise is Midnight. Our handsome stud is a good daddy. He’ll visit his kittens and groom them. He looks a little startled when they try to find a nipple to nurse, but he’s no tomcat.”
“Does he hang around with Dee?” Helen asked.
“Mostly. Or reigns in the living room.”
Red patted Jan with her paw. “Sorry, girl,” she said. “We should focus on you. Next, check the nails. Red’s were clipped yesterday. I even remembered the little dewclaws on her front legs. Unclipped claws can really slice.
“Now use the ear-cleaning solution on cotton makeup rounds.”
“They look like the ones I buy at the drugstore,” Helen said.
“They are,” Jan said. “And you’re a good kitty.” Red sat still while Jan delicately cleaned her small, feathery ears.
“She doesn’t like getting her teeth brushed. This cat toothbrush is smaller and softer than a people brush. Its pointed end can reach in back. I load it with chicken-flavored toothpaste.”
“You don’t use people toothpaste?”
“Never,” Jan said. She held Red firmly and gently scrubbed her teeth. “Good girl.”
“Can you show Red if she loses her teeth?” Helen asked.
“Depends on the association,” Jan said. “Some cat owners get dental implants.”
Red shook her head impatiently and Jan said, “There, pretty baby. Almost done.”
She gave Red a Greenies dental treat. “She loves those,” Jan said. “Now comes the fun part: degreasing.”
Jan filled the empty stainless-steel sink with warm water, then gently lifted Red into her bath.
“She’s not fighting or scratching,” Helen said.
“You have to start when they’re young,” Jan said. She scratched the beauty’s broad head, then pulled out a gallon jug of Goop, pumped a generous handful and smeared the creamy gunk all over the cat’s fur.
Helen stared. “That’s a hand cleaner for mechanics.”
“Yep. Works for cats and dogs, too.” Jan worked the Goop into the coat. The fluffy fur was now a flat, sticky mess.
“You’re kidding me,” Helen said. “Thumbs would amputate my arm.”
“She learned to like it as a kitten,” Jan said. “Persians have thick fur, and nature intended cats’ coats to protect them from rainy weather, so you have to work to get them wet. The challenge is getting the water through the dense fur all the way to the skin. If you don’t wet the cat thoroughly, the shampoo won’t get there, either. So you start with the Goop, working it into the coat with water. The Goop washes the cat, and then you have to wash out the Goop.
“Notice how much smaller she seems when her fur’s wet.”
“But strong,” Helen said. “She has a proud chest and sturdy legs.”
“Red has good muscle tone,” Jan said. “She’s a little jock. Don’t forget the tail and the back end.” She rubbed more Goop on the cat’s hindquarters, and Red’s tail plume deflated into a straggle of white-smeared fur.
“Now rinse her completely. Any residue attracts more dirt and her fur will look cruddy.”
Red rested her head on the edge of the sink and closed her copper eyes while Jan rinsed the cat with the warm spray.
“Why did Dee make a big deal out of my noncompete contract?” Helen asked. “She recorded me and called in Gabby as a witness.”
“She did the same with me,” Jan said. “When Mort and I got engaged, I also had to sign a pet-nup—a prenup agreement that if we split, Mort would get custody of any pets he owned prior to our marriage. He didn’t want a repeat of his expensive fight with Trish over Justine. I like Chartreux, but I really want to breed and exhibit Persians. We agreed I could keep any Persians we acquired during our marriage.”
“Were you planning to open a cattery in Lauderdale?” Helen asked.
“Yes,” Jan said. “Mort said he’d cover any legal costs if I wasn’t willing to wait five years. Well, those plans are gone. Just like Mort.”
She sighed and kept working her fingers through Red’s wet fur, gently massaging her and getting out the Goop. A tear slid down Jan’s creamy cheek and splashed in the water.
“Dee’s cautious because she was badly burned by a former employee, Vanessa, who never told her she planned to show Persians. Vanessa quit without notice at the start of the show season. Mystery was on her way to becoming a Gold Cup national winner. But Vanessa’s Elusive Elsah, another Persian, kept racking up more points. When the show season ended, Elsah was the national winner. Vanessa had worked for Dee long enough to learn her tricks, and Vanessa’s nice, besides.”
“What does Dee do that’s so good?” Helen asked.
“Lots of little things,” Jan said. “See the scratching posts?”
She pointed to the slim metal poles. The tight sisal wrapping started about a foot off the floor. “When the cats are small, Dee wraps the bottom of the columns and trains them to use it as their scratching post. As the cats get bigger, she raises the sisal and the cats have to stand up full-length to sharpen their claws.
“Ever see a cat-show judging table?”
“No,” Helen said.
“It’s actually a rectangle about the size of a restaurant table for two,” Jan said. “The judging table sits on a bigger folding table draped with a skirt for the show. Many judging tables have two posts holding up a fluorescent light fixture. One post is usually wrapped with sisal. The judges love it when the cats stretch their full length to claw that sisal. They can see their bodies easier. That’s a risky move for short-bodied Persians. Stretching up a pole can emphasize a fault. Since so few Persians do it, it may catch the judge’s attention and show Dee’s cat has a well-shaped body.”
“Clever,” Helen said.
“So are Dee’s pet carriers.” Jan pointed to the row of ordinary beige plastic carriers. “Bet you use the same one for your Thumbs, and he fights when you put him in it.”
“Like a wildcat,” Helen said.
“Dee keeps her carriers out with the doors open. Inside are comfortable cushions, toys and treats. The cats go in and out. The carriers are their caves.”
“So they don’t fight the carriers,” Helen said.
“Yep. Dee also uses water bottles instead of bowls,” she said.
Above each metal food dish hung a plastic water bottle with a long thin tube. “See Chessie licking water from that tube? The bottle keeps her fur nice and clean. Persians put their flat little faces in bowls and get their fur wet.
“All the Goop’s gone, beautiful girl,” Jan said to Red. “Now for the nice warm Orvus.” Jan plastered the cat with the shampoo, then rinsed her again.
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br /> Helen was getting bored. “Is that it?” she asked.
“Oh no,” Jan said. “Next she gets washed with TropiClean papaya and kiwi shampoo and conditioner.”
“Two shampoos and conditioner?” Helen said. “I don’t use that on my hair.”
She caught her reflection in the window, her dark hair limp and frizzed. “Of course, my hair doesn’t look as good as the cat’s.”
Helen tried to hide her impatience when Jan lathered Red’s sunset orange coat with the sweet-smelling shampoo. “Use the warm washcloth on her face. Be sure to get the gunk out of her eyes and nose.”
After rinsing the cat for the third time, Jan said, “Now we float the coat.”
Tonight, Thumbs gets all the treats he can eat, Helen thought. I had no idea he was so low maintenance.
“Helen, warm those towels in the dryer, will you?”
Jan washed out the sink, filled it again and carefully placed the clean, damp Red in the warm water.
“See how her coat floats? Now I gently squish it and check for bubbles. That means there’s still soap in the coat. Good! It’s gone.”
“Mrreorrrr,” Red said. It sounded like a complaint.
“I know, baby girl, this is taking too long,” Jan said. “I need a towel, Helen.”
Jan wrapped the cat in the warm towel, and the Persian gave a full-body purr.
“Now do you hit her with the hair dryer?” Helen asked hopefully.
“At last,” Jan said. “We use special dryers for cats.” She squeezed the water out of the cat’s coat with a warm towel. “The coat needs to be blown out to separate all the hair and get it standing away from the body. A Persian coat is too thick to air dry. In warm, humid Florida, we have to dry Persians quickly and thoroughly. Otherwise, we risk ringworm. Besides, a wet cat licking her coat would smear our work with saliva. Red’s rough tongue can pull out her fur, and when she swallows it, that leads to hair balls.”
“Yuck,” Helen said. “How long does the drying take?”
“Almost as long as the bathing,” Jan said.
Helen tried not to sigh.
“If you do it right, the cat enjoys it,” Jan said. “A cat hair dryer isn’t as hot as a people dryer. Start with her tummy and feet, combing and drying, then slowly work up the cat’s body, blowing against the lay of the fur, and combing to separate the hair.”
The furry sybarite lay on her back, paws flung out, while Jan carefully combed her legs and dried her tummy.
“That is one trusting cat,” Helen shouted over the dryer roar.
“That trust had to be earned,” Jan said. She gently turned Red over and began blowing out her fur. Soon her long coat was a blazing mix of red, orange, and brick.
“With her copper eyes, she looks like a bonfire,” Helen said.
“She’s gorgeous, no doubt about it.” Jan turned the dryer down a notch. “Now, when I do her face, I have to be extra gentle so I don’t dry out her eyes.”
Red shut her eyes, like an actress facing into the wind. “We’re almost finished.” Helen wasn’t sure if Jan was reassuring her or the cat.
“Why do you think there was something funny going on with Mort and a Gold Cup judge?” Helen asked. “Did he date her?”
Jan laughed. “Lexie Deener? No, she’s about twenty years older than Mort. She’s divorced and splashes money around on clothes, boy toys, a classic Jaguar, and her pedigreed Persians.
“Last January, we were out of Orvus and the next shipment wasn’t due for two days. I picked up some at a pet store. Who did I see two aisles up but my Mort with Lexie. I recognized her from past shows and wondered if he was seeing the glamorous judge. I slipped into the next aisle to listen.
“I heard her say, ‘It’s serious. I need at least five thousand dollars to save Blackie.’
“‘I can make you a lot more than that,’ Mort told her. ‘You’ll be able to keep him in style.’
“‘You’d better be right,’ Lexie said. ‘I love him. He’s part of my image.’”
“So Blackie is a cat?” Helen asked.
“That’s my guess,” Jan said. “Cats can run up huge medical bills. Dee spent nearly ten thousand dollars when a Chatwood cat developed polycystic kidney disease.”
“Does Lexie live near here?” Helen said.
“No, she’s an eastern regional Gold Cup judge, but this region covers most of the East Coast. Lexie lives in North Carolina. Cat shows often bring in judges from other parts of their region. That way they don’t socialize on a daily basis with the exhibitors and breeders.”
“So what was Lexie doing in Fort Lauderdale?” Helen asked.
“On vacation, probably. A pet store is a safe place to meet. But you can see why I thought it was funny.”
CHAPTER 11
Wednesday
Helen came home looking like something a cat dragged in—but not a Chatwood Champion.
Those pampered Persians wouldn’t touch anything as bedraggled as Helen. Her shorts were smeared with suspicious brown streaks. Her pink T-shirt was damp, wrinkled, and dotted with clumps of Red’s hair. Her body ached from lifting and bending, and her nose itched. She felt cat hair clinging to unseen, unreachable places.
She parked the Igloo in the Coronado lot, brushed more cat hair off the seat and saw Margery in the backyard on her knees, ripping out weeds and cussing.
“Come on, ya buzzard,” she said, yanking on a green, stringy plant with silver-dollar-sized leaves. Her purple gardening gloves were streaked with sandy mud.
Margery looked up, wiped the sweat off her face and asked, “Since when did you start accessorizing with cat hair?”
“Since you started giving yourself mud facials,” Helen said. “You’ve got dirt streaked on your face and forehead.” She handed Margery a tissue from her purse. It felt good joking with her landlady after their last, dramatic encounter.
“Thanks, but I’ll finish pulling out this patch here and then clean up,” Margery said.
“What are you doing?” Helen asked, hoping she sounded casual.
“What’s it look like?” Margery said. “I’m not on my knees, praying for rain. Damned dollarweed thrives in wet lawns. This summer’s rains have turned my yard into a swamp.”
My yard, Helen thought. That’s encouraging. “But it hasn’t rained for four days,” she said.
“Too late,” Margery said. “The dollarweed moved in and put down roots. Now it’s nearly impossible to get rid of. It has seeds and runners—rhizomes, I think they’re called—that dig in and spread all over. Usually, I can pull weeds by hand, but I’ll have to use weed killer on this menace.”
“Poison?” Helen said hopefully. This was a good sign.
“Something nice and lethal,” Margery said. She grinned. “I want to watch it die, slowly and painfully.”
“But why do you care?” Helen asked. Please, please give me the reason I want for your weed whacking.
“What do you mean?” Margery reached for her Marlboro, balanced on the sidewalk by a puddle. The cigarette was nearly lost in her muddy purple gloves, but she managed a puff.
“If you’re selling the Coronado to a developer, why are you pulling weeds?” Helen asked.
“I changed my mind,” Margery said, and blew out a blue cloud of smoke.
“You did?” Relief flooded through Helen. She wanted to sit down, stand up, shout, sing, find Phil and celebrate. Their home was safe!
“I’m getting the rebar work done on the Coronado,” Margery said.
“Why? How? Where’d you get the money?”
“I’m cashing in a CD,” Margery said. “I told myself I was saving it for my old age. Well, I looked in the mirror. It’s here. When I started cleaning out more than fifty years’ of junk in my apartment, I knew I didn’t want to move. Where would I go? Assisted living? The work starts tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful! Let’s drink to that. I’ll tell Phil.”
“He’s upstairs in his office,” Margery said. “I’ve got no
business criticizing your clothes when I’ve been rooting in the mud, but you may want to change. How’s the cat house?”
“Cattery,” Helen said. “Full of spoiled cats. They’re better groomed than an actress on Oscar night. I’m going to reward Thumbs for being an easy-care cat.”
“Tell him to shut up,” Margery said. “He’s been howling since Phil went upstairs to his office.”
Thumbs is kind of loud, Helen thought, as she unlocked Phil’s door. “Hi, bud,” she said. “Did you miss me?”
He shut up and bumped her hand. Helen gave Thumbs a serious scratch while he sniffed her thoroughly.
“I know,” she said. “I smell like foreign cats. Will Greenies help you forget I was unfaithful?”
The big-eyed cat chomped three Greenies, then groomed his fur. “As a self-cleaning cat, you deserve an extra treat,” Helen said. She found a pound of shrimp in Phil’s freezer, defrosted two shrimp for Thumbs, then poured his dry food.
“Time to groom me,” she told the cat. Half an hour later, Helen had showered and washed and dried her hair. It’s almost as glossy as Chocolate’s, she decided. And I’m comparing myself to a cat. How pathetic is that?
She put on her slim white pants, turquoise silk blouse, heels and lipstick. There. She was ready for Phil. She skimmed upstairs to the Coronado Investigations office.
Phil whistled when he saw her. “You are a mirage in the desert,” he said, and kissed her.
She kissed him back. “Is that a gun in your pocket?” She giggled. It seemed right to say that under his framed poster of Sam Spade.
“No,” he said. “I’m really happy to see you. We never finished what we started this morning.”
“Why are we waiting when there’s a perfectly good couch?” she said.
Phil picked her up and carried her over, while Helen sighed. “My hero.”
He unbuttoned her blouse, she helped tear off his shirt and the rest was a hot frenzy of lovemaking. Much later she was resting in his arms, the tension from her long, cat-hairy day gone.
“I didn’t tell you the good news,” Helen said. “Margery’s going to fix the Coronado. We’ll still have our home. We’re supposed to celebrate with her.”
