by Ali Brandon
“You with the red hair—unchain your cat and set him free!” one of the girls had shrieked at Darla as she, Jake, and Hamlet strode past. The shrieker had been a bleached blonde—a good two inches of black roots were showing—wearing a pink-sequined thong bikini, a bleeding heart literally tattooed over one breast.
“Don’t engage the crazy,” Jake had muttered. “You start a conversation with one of these types, and you about have to chew off an arm to get free.”
Darla nodded in agreement, though her primary thought at the moment was to wonder just how uncomfortable a sequined thong must be. But while she and Jake studiously ignored the group, Hamlet had other ideas. Once they’d reached the top step leading in, the feline had abruptly flopped down and flung one leg over his shoulder before giving his hindquarters a lick. The gesture was what Darla always considered the feline equivalent of a middle-finger salute.
“Guess Hamlet doesn’t want to be liberated,” Darla had observed with a chuckle, drawing a matching grin from Jake. By that point, the protesters had found other show attendees to heckle, so the trio made it inside without further incident.
Now, Darla told Nattie, “They were being pretty obnoxious about the whole thing. Do you have any idea why they’re picking on the cat show?”
“Eh, they say that breeding purebred animals means shelter cats can’t get adopted, which is a crock of poop. You seen the price tags on some of these cats here? I want a cat, I can get one at the shelter when they adopt ’em out half-off to seniors. Besides, we even have a rescue group with cats for adoption here at the show. I hope those girls don’t scare off the public.”
“Think of it as free publicity,” Jake said with a shrug. “As soon as the news outlets start posting videos, you’ll get a crowd. But I hope your volunteers are keeping an eye out. I’ve heard these crackpots deliberately let animals out of their cages just to cause trouble.”
“Oh, I’ll keep an eye out, all right,” Nattie promised, slapping the rolled up judging schedule she held against her palm. “But forget about them. We got a special place set up for Hamlet.”
She used her schedule to point past the sea of caged felines that took up the center of the hall. “You head all the way to the back, behind all the exhibitors. There’s a stage there, and in front of it is Hamlet’s official VIP area, where people can come by and see him. Look for my friend Mildred—she’s dressed like me—and she’ll take care of you. Say, did I tell you that Mildred was an alternate for the 1960 US women’s gymnastics team? It was the summer games, and—”
“Ma, why don’t you tell us about that tonight? We’ve got to get Hamlet settled. See you later.”
A grumpy Hamlet in tow, Darla and Jake began making their way through the rapidly filling exhibition hall. Darla wore her official Pettistone’s shirt and beige slacks in anticipation of a sea of cat hair. Jake was in full bodyguard mode, hair slicked back in a bun and wearing her black pantsuit and mirrored sunglasses. All the woman needed was an earpiece, Darla thought in amusement, and she could pass as a Secret Service agent.
The check-in and information tables where Nattie had given them their VIP lanyards sat to the left of the entryway. Behind those tables stretched a double row of vendor booths taking up perhaps a quarter of the floor space. From what she could see of the merchandise on display, one could pretty much find all things cat there.
“Check those out,” Darla told Jake, nudging her and pointing to a series of cat-shaped pillows in plaid fabrics. “Wouldn’t they look great in the bookstore?”
“Sure, but remember I’m here as Hamlet’s bodyguard, not as your personal Sherpa. You buy it, you lug it.”
Promising herself a closer look at all the feline paraphernalia later, Darla turned her attention to the opposite side of the hall.
Here were the “rings”: six judging areas arranged one after another down the wall and separated from each other by side curtains. In each ring space, twenty or so chairs for spectators were arranged in rows in front of the judging table, a waist-high platform the size of a desk, topped with a smooth white surface and a lighted wooden canopy—Darla later read that the bulbs were required to be full-spectrum to properly show off the cats—with one leg wrapped with sisal to make a scratching post. Behind each of those tables was a U-shaped arrangement of broad benches lined by a series of wire cages. No doubt this was where the cats being judged awaited their turns. Right now, however, all the cages were empty, for the first classes had yet to be called.
But the greatest portion of the show hall was taken up by the cats themselves. Darla made a quick mental estimate, guessing there were close to three hundred meowing, purring, hissing felines gathered there. The competitors spanned all breeds, from hairless Sphynx kittens that could pass as little extraterrestrials to fluffy Maine Coons the size of bear cubs. Rows of tables had been set up down the center of the floor, each topped with wire cages similar to what Darla had seen in the judging rings. Here was where the competing cats would stay during show hours when they weren’t in the ring.
“And I thought people who spend a fortune on their dogs are crazy,” Jake said. “Look what they’ve done to those cages! The place looks like a toy shop filled with doll houses.”
Each small kennel was covered on the top and three sides. A few exhibitors made do with towels, but most of the cages sported custom covers that reflected the owners’ tastes. Some were covered in big cat prints in homage to the felines’ larger cousins; others were more girly, with down-home ruffled gingham or upscale lace-trimmed satin; still others simply had the owner’s cattery name embroidered on canvas. But Darla’s favorite was an elaborate concoction that resembled Sleeping Beauty’s castle, except in sparkly purple.
“I think they’re cute,” Darla countered as they continued up and down the aisles, nodding to the exhibitors as they passed and accepting compliments on Hamlet’s good manners. “And, look, some of the cats even have little kitty vanities set up beside their cages!”
The vanities in question actually were either small folding tables set at right angles to the cages, or else full tabletops that the exhibitors had reserved next to their respective wire kennels. The temporary grooming areas were basic towel-covered spaces with an array of combs, brushes, and other trappings that far surpassed what personal grooming tools Darla herself owned. Some of the exhibitors had their gear stored in hanging travel toiletries bags, while others had cosmetic cases brimming over with tools and products, enough to outfit a dozen human salons.
Many of the tabletops featured short wooden or cardboard screens positioned to form a rear wall and give the tables a stage-like appearance. Adding to the ambiance, those screens were adorned with past show ribbons or championship photos of the competing felines. Some even included “kittens for sale” notices with pictures of roly-poly future champions posed on lush lawns or in beribboned baskets. Despite what Nattie had indicated, Darla was still shocked at the asking prices.
Maybe in addition to coffee, she should start selling registered kittens at the bookstore, Darla told herself.
As they walked the floor, they saw the feline beauty show contestants undergoing a final, pre-judging grooming session—fur brushed against the grain until it fluffed to gleaming perfection, claws trimmed, and faces and hindquarters mopped with damp clothes.
Darla watched with interest as one owner brushed out her female Himalayan from merely fluffy into a silvery white, seal-pointed feline powder puff. A nearby Russian Blue was submitting less docilely to his regimen and grumbling in response to every move his owner made.
Major spritzing of fur went on, as well—“conditioning spray” Darla overheard the product being called. And she puzzled over why a few tables even held boxes of dryer sheets, until she saw one exhibitor make a couple of quick passes with a sheet over her Persian’s coat, doubtless to keep the static down.
“Talk about a lot of work,” Jake observed as the
y watched one cat owner with a pair of cuticle scissors painstakingly clip a few stray hairs from between her Abyssinian’s front toes. “These people must really want to win.”
“Oh, yes,” a voice spoke up behind them. “They most certainly do. Shows are a serious business.”
The speaker was a helmet-haired woman with tiny, steel-rimmed glasses. Since she was about the same size and age as Nattie and also wore a purple shirt and a big “Volunteer” button, Darla guessed this must be—
“Mildred? Hi, I’m Darla Pettistone.” With a gesture at Jake, she added, “And this is Nattie’s daughter, Jake Martelli. And of course, this is Hamlet,” she finished, proudly indicating Pettistone’s Fine Books’ official mascot.
Mildred gave them all a wide smile, revealing a smear of pink lipstick on slightly bucked front teeth. “Nice to meet you ladies. And we know all about Hamlet.” She leaned over and gave him a quick visual once-over. “He’s a beautiful boy. Such a glossy black coat. Are you going to show him in HHP?”
“HHP?” Darla echoed, giving her a confused look.
“The Household Pet category,” the old woman clarified. “Our shows aren’t just for registered cats. A fine specimen of your basic domestic shorthair, like Hamlet, would fit right in there. As long as he’s neutered and hasn’t been declawed, he can compete with other everyday cats and even win ribbons.”
“That sounds like fun,” Darla agreed, intrigued, “but we’d better let Hamlet concentrate on his guest-of-honor duties this time around. Nattie said you had a special area set up for him?”
“Oh, we do. It’s right in front of the stage.”
Mildred led them past the final row of exhibitors to an open area. In the corner behind the vendor booths, Darla saw a small concession stand serving coffee and breakfast sandwiches. The whiteboard menu also promised hot dogs and nachos for lunch.
In the opposite corner, a portable stage had been set up, complete with a large wooden podium and an oversized, flat-screen television mounted on a stand. The back third or so of the stage was curtained off, the heavy blue drapery forming a colorful backdrop. The stage rose waist high from floor level and was angled so that anyone who climbed up there would have a view of the entire hall. For the moment, however, the only person in the figurative spotlight was a chunky bald man in a maintenance worker’s uniform fumbling with a series of cables behind the podium. A teeth-gritting squawk of feedback momentarily drowned out the meow chorus, which, Darla noticed, had grown far quieter.
Or maybe, like Nattie had said, Darla had just gotten used to it.
A vaguely pie-shaped section of floor space that could accommodate perhaps a hundred standing spectators lay between the stage front and the exhibitor area. Since the hall was still filling up and no activity was happening to draw attention, only a few people milled around, examining a large structure made of wire and wood situated just in front of the stage.
Easels on either side featured bunting-draped white posters that proclaimed in red and gold letters: The Feline Society of America National Championship Welcomes Its Guest of Honor, Hamlet the YouTube Karate Kitty! A glossy black-and-white photo of Hamlet was affixed to each placard, reminding Darla of the “coming attractions” posters in movie theater lobbies.
It wasn’t until they were standing right beside the temporary digs, however, that Darla realized what else the show folks had done with Hamlet’s quarters.
“I can’t believe it! Look, it’s a little bookstore,” she pointed out to Jake and Mildred, bending to examine the pen more closely.
The cage was a good ten feet long and half again as wide, and tall enough that Darla could easily kneel inside it. Short wooden bookshelves filled with actual hard covers were arranged along the back of the pen to form a wall of books, while a couple more bookshelves had been set at right angles to divide the pen into three sections. A tufted gold footstool and a couple of pillows suspiciously similar to the sherbet ones in their hotel room were neatly scattered on the blue linoleum floor that had been cut specifically to size.
“His potty is back there”—Mildred pointed to a litter box discretely hidden by one of the divider shelves—“and his food and water are over there. The shelves are short enough that he can walk along top of them without bumping into the top of the cage. We even left spaces between the books if he wants to sleep on the shelves instead of one of the cushions.”
“Mildred, this is marvelous,” Darla exclaimed while Jake whipped out her cell phone and snapped a couple of shots. “I wouldn’t mind hanging out here all day myself. I’m sure Hamlet will love it. Right, Hammy?”
The cat deigned to give her a small mew that could have been interpreted a couple of different ways. Darla chose to believe it was a definite “you bet!”
“Now, we figured Hamlet would stay here most of the time while the show is going on,” the old woman went on, “but maybe every couple of hours you can take him out on his lead and walk him through the hall. Oh, and I almost forgot,” she went on. “This morning is all the preliminaries, but after lunch we’re going to have a little ceremony up here on the stage to formally introduce Hamlet and play his video. I think someone from the newspaper might even show up. So I need to be sure that Hamlet and his entourage”—she giggled at that last word—“are back here a little before two p.m.”
“Loose cat!”
The cry came from the exhibitors’ area. Reflexively, Darla glanced down to make sure she still had Hamlet’s lead firmly in her grasp. She did, which meant that some other wily feline apparently had escaped its owner.
“Don’t be alarmed, this happens at least once each show,” Mildred explained, all business now. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I need to join the search team.”
“We’ll be glad to help look, too,” Jake offered, while Darla nodded her own willingness to jump in.
Mildred shook her head. “No, dear. Please stay right here. We ask that only the designated search team and the owner look for the cat. Too many people running around will frighten the poor thing more than it already is. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course,” Darla replied, “but isn’t that the cat right there?”
She pointed to a tiny tortoiseshell kitten crouched beneath one of the grooming tables in the last row of the exhibitor area.
Mildred glanced from the cat back to Darla and smiled. “Why, it certainly must be. My, you have sharp eyes. I’d better signal the team.”
While Darla and Jake watched, the old woman moved casually toward the table. A few more volunteers wearing the official polo and oversized lapel button were nearby, and Mildred waved an arm to gain their attention before pointing toward the bench. With military precision, the team moved in and surrounded the wayward tortie. Then, in a quick move, Mildred swooped down and scooped up the kitten before it realized what was happening.
A smattering of applause from the nearby spectators greeted Mildred’s capture of the kitten. The cat’s owner, meanwhile, rushed to join them. A sixtyish man with a tie-dyed T-shirt and blue bandana over lank gray curls smiled as he took his cat from Mildred. Snuggling the orange-and-black kitten tightly to his chest, he hurried back to his spot among the exhibitors.
“I guess she’s done that a time or two,” Jake said in approval as Mildred, dusting her hand together in a “that’s finished” gesture, headed back to where they waited.
“Well, that was a little excitement,” Mildred said a bit breathlessly as she rejoined them. “Now, where was I?”
“Two p.m. for the video. We’ll be ready,” Darla promised, hoping that if the press did show up, she could get a few minutes’ interview time to publicize her store. Then, with a look down at Hamlet, she said, “So, Hammy, you want to try out your new place?”
Setting him inside the pen and unsnapping his lead, Darla let him loose and fastened the door behind him again. Jake, meanwhile, was taking
her bodyguarding duties seriously, making a careful round of the pen to check for any cat security breaches.
“Hamlet’s an escape artist,” the PI warned Mildred, “so either Darla or I will be here with him at all times.” Pointing to a second opening at the other end of the cage that Darla hadn’t noticed, Jake added, “And we need to make sure every door on this cage is double-fastened.”
“Don’t worry,” a woman’s cool voice abruptly spoke up behind them. “Our local FSA organization has been handling cats for years. You’ll find this pen as secure as Fort Knox. The earlier escape was strictly the owner’s fault.”
Darla had been kneeling beside the kennel, watching Hamlet tentatively sniff at the books. Reflexively, she glanced up and rose to greet the speaker. As she took a second look, however, she realized that she’d met the woman before . . . at least, in a manner of speaking.
Catching Jake’s gaze, Darla took advantage of Mildred’s nervous laugh and her burbling, “Oh, you startled me, Mrs. Timpson,” which momentarily distracted the newcomer. She mouthed three swift, panicked words in Jake’s direction.
The Martini Lady!
SIX
“OH, DARLA,” MILDRED EXCLAIMED, CLUTCHING DARLA’S arm, “I was hoping I’d be able to introduce you. This is our show committee chairwoman, Mrs. Alicia Timpson. She’s the one who arranged for your Hamlet to be our special guest. She even oversaw the design of his pen. Mrs. Timpson, this is Darla Pettistone.”
Darla met the woman’s cool amber gaze and noted her jaw-length frosted hair and pale blue linen skirted suit, which had yet to wrinkle despite the humidity. Definitely the Martini Lady from the previous night. Now, however, she appeared stone-cold sober—and, unless she was one heck of a poker player, she appeared not to recognize Darla. Thank goodness!
