by Ali Brandon
Her favorite wardrobe category, however, belonged to the twentysomething girls parading up and down the sidewalk and slyly glancing about to see if they were being noticed. The uniform consisted of short shorts, a dressy blouse falling off at the shoulder, and fuzzy boots better suited to northern climes than the temperate weather in Fort Lauderdale.
Now this is Reese’s kind of Fort Lauderdale, she thought with a smile.
Reese was NYPD Detective Fiorello Reese, with whom Jake had once worked. Darla had met him when Jake had brought him in to help work off-duty security at an event at the bookstore. He and Darla had clashed initially, mostly because he thought books were only good for propping broken furniture, and she thought he didn’t give enough credit to her and Hamlet for helping the police solve more than one unsavory crime in their neighborhood.
It didn’t help that Darla had never been into blond, blue-eyed guys built like a young Ah-nold, while Reese—a stereotypical Italian guy despite his corn-fed, Midwestern looks—had a decidedly retro attitude toward women. But over time, and with Jake’s admitted encouragement, their relationship had morphed into a friendship that, once or twice, they’d tried to take to the next level. The result, however, had been vaguely uncomfortable, to the point they had mutually decided that perhaps they did better simply as friends.
Still, a bit of a spark remained between them, making Reese the closest thing to a “boyfriend” that Darla currently had.
Making a mental note to pick up a tacky souvenir T-shirt for him, Darla turned to casually scan her fellow diners, wondering if any were cat-show attendees. No one seemed to fit the mold, however, she decided in disappointment. No cat jewelry, no stray fur on fabric. And Hamlet appeared to be the only cat enjoying al fresco dining. No doubt the other owners weren’t going to risk bringing their show cats out in public. But surely that didn’t mean they were all holed up in their hotel rooms with their furry charges.
Abruptly, she recalled that the cat-show itinerary she had been provided had said something about a welcome cocktail party on Friday night. Doubtless that was where the action was tonight.
She momentarily considered having her food packed to go, leaving Hamlet in the hotel room, and heading to the social instead. But after Hamlet’s high-wire act earlier, she figured it was better to keep him close. No way would she ever forgive herself if something happened to the curmudgeonly kitty.
The server interrupted her musings. “Tilapia for you, ma’am, and a shrimp cocktail for the, uh, gentleman. Can I bring you another drink?”
“One’s plenty. We have an early morning tomorrow,” she told the young woman, appreciatively eyeing the arrangement of delicate fish and colorful sauce on the plate before her.
Tempting as it was to dig right in, however, Hamlet came first. The scent of fish had quickly reached his sensitive nostrils, and he was sitting up in his chair, whiskers quivering. Darla plucked the half-dozen cocktail shrimp from their ice bed and lopped off their tails; then, feeling artistic, she arranged them in a neat pinwheel on a plate, which she set on the ground beneath his chair.
“Here you go, Hammy. Bon appétit.”
The feline needed no further prompting and leaped down and dug right in, making little nom-nom noises of appreciation as he chomped away. Darla did the same, minus the sound effects. And in short order, both she and Hamlet had cleaned their respective plates.
“That was wonderful,” Darla said with a sigh, pushing her plate away.
Hamlet apparently agreed with the assessment. Leaving his empty plate on the ground, he lightly leapt back up into his chair and began cleaning his whiskers with an oversized paw. Darla reached for the remains of her piña colada and took another sip before glancing at her watch. It was only six-thirty . . . a good hour and a half before Jake had expected to return. No way could she nurse the final two inches of her drink that long, and she didn’t really feel like wandering back up to the room yet. And with the cocktail party already nixed . . .
Feeling only a bit guilty, she sucked down the rest of her piña colada and flagged down her server for a second one after all. Hamlet voiced no opinion of her overindulgence, busy as he still was with his après-dinner bath. Once the drink arrived, Darla settled back into her chair and lazily sipped.
“This is what we’ll do when we retire, Hammy,” she told the cat, listening in appreciation as the saxophonist switched gears to a more bluesy set. And then Darla noticed the sole occupant at a nearby table.
She sat perhaps a dozen feet from Darla, at the opposite end from where the sax player lurked. Her table was half-hidden by one of the columns but partially illuminated by a nearby street lamp. Now that the diners at both tables between them abruptly stood and began heading out, Darla had a relatively unimpeded view of the woman seated there.
She appeared to be about a good decade or more older than Darla, maybe in her late forties, her dark, bobbed hair liberally frosted and blown out to jaw-length perfection. She was dressed a few steps up from Darla’s South Florida casual, her beige linen shirtdress belted with a heavy gold chain that matched both the bangles on her arms and her gold strappy sandals. She clutched a martini glass in one hand while two other empty ones sat abandoned on the table in front of her.
Drinking alone.
The judgy thought flashed through Darla’s mind, though she promptly felt a bit hypocritical—after all, she was alone herself, and on her second drink. But the way the woman was protectively hunched over her martini seemed to indicate serious imbibing going on.
Not my business, Darla scolded herself.
Even so, morbid curiosity kept her sneaking glances that way. By now, the server had brought the woman drink number four and collected the evidence of the other three. Hopefully, the Martini Lady, as Darla dubbed her, was a hotel patron who wouldn’t be hopping into an automobile anytime soon.
Darla was contemplating walking over to offer a friendly word when she saw a girl in a ragged version of the twentysomething wardrobe wander over to the woman’s table.
The newcomer planted herself there and stood with hand out. Her back was to Darla, but from the aggressive stance and outstretched palm, Darla pegged the girl as a panhandler. No doubt she had seen the older woman sitting alone as an easy mark, likely because the latter had been drinking. Between the sax player and traffic noises, Darla couldn’t make out what was being said between the two women, but it was obvious the two were arguing.
The situation abruptly set off Darla’s hinky meter. Hamlet’s finely tuned feline radar must have sensed that something was off as well, for he paused in midlick and swiveled his furry black head in the direction of the woman’s table. Concerned now, Darla looked about for the server so she could point out the situation. Hopefully, the waitress could contact someone in hotel security to be on the alert in case things escalated.
As things abruptly did.
While Darla watched in shock, the girl snatched up the water bottle vase from the table, the water and hibiscus blossom tumbling out. Gripping its narrow end, she raised it in an intimidating manner.
Darla’s eyed widened. This was like a bar brawl in a bad movie!
To the older woman’s credit, however, she did not appear frightened by the threat. Instead, sloshing down another gulp of her martini, she pushed back from the table and rose, an admonishing finger pointed at the girl. But although the contentious pair were the same height, the girl still had the advantage of her makeshift weapon, while the older woman was backed against the hotel wall.
Darla glanced frantically around again. None of the other diners seemed to notice what was going on, and the waitress had apparently disappeared for parts unknown. If anyone was going to intervene to halt the fight before it happened, it would have to be Darla.
Hamlet, meanwhile, had abandoned his bath and raised up on his haunches so that his front paws leaned against the table as he kept his emerald gaze fix
ed on the pair. Darla hesitated, then determinedly slid her own seat backward. While she had some rudimentary martial arts training, she wasn’t equipped to go up against someone with a weapon. And, tempting as it might be to let Hamlet take the lead in this—she’d already seen the feisty feline in action once before—she couldn’t put him in harm’s way. But she did have one weapon of her own that she knew the panhandler couldn’t defend against.
FIVE
“IT MUST HAVE BEEN THAT SECOND PIÑA COLADA,” A chagrinned Darla explained to Jake a couple of hours later. “I know I should have waited on hotel security to handle the situation, but there wasn’t time. So I did the only thing I could think of to scare her away.”
Jake looked up from stocking the mini fridge with leftovers courtesy of Nattie, and grinned.
“Hey, you get points for originality, if nothing else. And I have to say, I would have given up my whole plate of crab croquettes—which were lovely, thank you very much—to see you jump up on that chair and yell at her to cease and desist.”
“Well, it worked. The panhandler didn’t even look my way. She just dropped the bottle and tore off down the street,” Darla answered in satisfaction. “And don’t worry, Hamlet had my back.”
From his spot atop the sofa back, Hamlet gave a small meow-rumph.
“Not that I got any thanks for making a fool of myself,” Darla continued. “Here I saved the woman from being beaned with a Perrier bottle by some crazy street person, and she acted like I was the insane one. You should have seen the nasty look she gave me before she ran into the hotel. And the other diners weren’t much better.”
Jake shut the refrigerator door and rose, nodding in commiseration.
“Like they say, no good deed, et cetera,” she agreed, popping a bite-sized piece of chocolate cheesecake into her mouth and offering one to Darla. “But don’t worry, you handled things the best way you could have under the circumstances.”
“Try telling that to the Martini Lady.”
Sighing, Darla accepted the cheesecake consolation prize, and added, “Poor Hamlet. I almost gave him a heart attack, shouting like that. I hope he forgives me.”
“Frankly, it sounds a little tit for tat,” Jake observed, slanting a disapproving look at the feline in question, who merely gave an innocent blink in return. “What you said he did to you on the balcony was pretty darned bad.”
“Well, Hamlet will be with us pretty much all the time, so hopefully there won’t be an opportunity for him to try his high-wire act again,” Darla said, mentally crossing her fingers that she was right. “And if I’m really lucky, I won’t bump into the Martini Lady again.”
“That’s the spirit. And even if you do run across her, once she’s sober, she’ll probably thank you for getting involved . . . assuming she remembers what happened.”
Darla gave a rueful nod. “So, stick a fork in this one, right? Now, your turn. How did things go with you and your mom?”
Jake snorted. “As usual, Ma has a hidden agenda to everything. The dinner part of it was fine, but turns out we finished up at the buffet just in time for her monthly condominium association meeting. There are some rumblings that someone on the board of the directors is skimming money from the association, taking kickbacks from the subcontractors, stealing pennies out of the poor box. You get the idea. The association is down a good fifty thousand dollars that they know of, maybe more. Ma wanted me to sit in on the meeting with her and see if I could ID the culprit.”
“Wow, fifty thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money! So, did you figure it out?” Darla asked, truly curious.
Jake shook her head.
“I’m a PI, not a psychic. Unless someone breaks down and confesses, these things can take a couple of years to sort out. You’ve got to go through the paper trail and see what’s there—and what’s not there—and then you can start building a case,” she explained. “I told Ma she needs to check the association bylaws to see what her rights are, then she can request records from the board and get a CPA to review them. But here’s the kicker.”
Jake paused to grab the sherbet-colored throw pillows from the sofa and, one by one, Frisbeed them into the corner before flopping onto the now-bare couch.
“It turns out Ma is the lone voice questioning the identity of the guilty party. All the other condo owners think it’s the condo association president, this guy named Billy Pope, who’s doing the embezzling. Ma claims that Billy’s being falsely accused.”
“Ouch. Not good.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Jake added with a grim smile as she arranged her long legs over the sofa arm. “Not only is this guy Ma’s good friend, he’s also the head judge for the Feline Society of America and the one who’s pretty much running the National Championship.”
“Double ouch,” Darla replied, wincing. “Plenty of room for all kinds of fraud and underhanded stuff there. So, did you meet him? What was your impression—crook or not crook?”
“Hard to tell. He seemed like a nice enough old guy—your basic white-haired, twinkly-eyed grandpa type. And he didn’t get all twitchy when she told him I used to be a cop. But on the other hand, that Madoff guy fooled a lot of people for a lot of years. And some of those other board members sure were giving him the stink eye all night.”
“So your mom wants you to spend your vacation doing a little PI work?”
Jake shrugged. “I reminded her that I’m here to keep an eye on Hamlet, at least until the cat show is over. Not to mention I’m not licensed to do a darn thing in the state of Florida. But Ma swears that Billy’s being set up, so I told her I’d keep an eye peeled this week and see if I spot anything funny going on.”
Darla gave her friend a considering look. “You know, the cat-show folks are only footing the bill through Sunday night. If you want, we can cancel the reservations I had here for the rest of the week and camp out at your mom’s place until we leave. You know, so we can be in the thick of all the condo action.”
“Darla Pettistone, you’re the bravest woman I know,” Jake said with a chuckle. “I’d never volunteer to do that, and she’s my mother.” Then, sobering, she added, “But tell you what, let’s see how things shake out after the show. If I think we’ve got a shot at uncovering any dirty dealings, we might do just that. Plus it will save us a buck or two.”
“Me-ooow” was Hamlet’s contribution from the discarded pile of sofa pillows that he’d made his own.
Darla shot Jake an amused glance. “Think someone has a theory about Nattie’s embezzler?”
“That, or he’s saying he’d rather stay at the hotel,” Jake replied.
* * *
MEOW. MEOW. MEOW. MEOW.
“It’s like the hotel lobby all over again, multiplied a hundred times,” Darla exclaimed the next morning over the noise reverberating through the convention center floor.
Jake winced in sympathy. “I don’t suppose you packed any earplugs, did you?”
“Eh, you get used to it,” Nattie assured them from behind the check-in table. Her scarlet hair neatly subdued today into a slicked-back bob, she looked professional in her official purple FSA polo shirt, adorned with a giant beribboned button that proclaimed “Volunteer.” “It bothered me a little the first time, but this is the third show I’ve worked now. Once the cats are all settled in their cages and covered up, things will quiet down.”
“They don’t sound very happy to be here,” Darla observed.
Nor did Hamlet, she realized as she looked down at the feline. While he’d been cooperative on the walk over, seemingly enjoying the temperate early morning breeze, he was now hunkered down on the floor between Darla and Jake, twitching his tail and softly grumbling. As an only cat, he wasn’t used to sharing his space with other felines . . . certainly not a couple of hundred of them. No doubt he would have appreciated the earplugs Jake had mentioned, Darla thought in sympathy.
Nattie shrugged. “That’s how cats are. It’s mainly the first-timers making the most noise. Take a look around, though, and you’ll see which ones are the veterans. They just curl up and go to sleep until it’s their turn in the ring.”
“Well, let’s hope the sandman flits through here pretty darned quick,” Jake declared, a finger in one ear to muffle the sound.
Nattie grinned. “An hour or two, max, and it’ll settle down.” Then, with a huff, she added, “Say, did you get a load of the kids picketing outside the front door? We didn’t have time for that sort of nonsense in my day,” she declared, which Darla thought unlikely considering that the protest-filled 1960s were likely Nattie’s “day.”
“Well, you know, Ma . . . free speech, and all that.”
“Free speech, my patootie! If they really cared about the animals, they’d be scooping poop in a shelter somewhere,” Nattie complained in return.
On this point, Darla was inclined to agree with the older woman’s assessment. Thankfully, their encounter with said picketers had been brief. Jake had declared that her bum leg was recovered enough from the previous day’s airline torture to handle the short walk to the Waterview’s convention facilities, so she, Darla, and Hamlet had hoofed it . . . drawing, of course, the expected attention. Early morning joggers and office workers walking their way to their jobs paused to smile and stare at Hamlet, who was in his official harness and looking very much the feline YouTube sensation.
Strategically placed signs along the convention center building had directed them to the exhibition hall where the cat show was taking place. Unfortunately, to reach the main entrance at the top of a broad series of steps, they’d been forced to walk past three college-aged girls flaunting protest signs—and quite a bit more.
“Show flesh, not fur!”
The trio of chanting young women were all dressed in thong bathing suits despite the cool morning temperature. The “Flesh” slogan was repeated on one young woman’s placard, along with the more basic “Cats Don’t Belong in Cages,” brandished by another girl. Yet another sign read, a bit more crudely, “If You Want to Breed, Ask for My Number.” Obviously, the girls were members of some animal rights group, but what their beef with the cat-show circuit was, Darla wasn’t certain.
