by Ali Brandon
“Ah, yes, the bookstore owner,” Alicia replied with only the faintest of patronizing airs. “All of us on the local FSA board are thrilled that you and Hamlet were able to accept the invitation to our little event.”
She put out impeccably polished but surprisingly beefy fingers for a languid handshake.
“Thank you for providing such lovely accommodations. The hotel is first-rate,” Darla managed as she accepted the proffered hand, only to release it as swiftly as she politely could.
“We may not be New York City,” the woman conceded in a tone that indicated she was quite glad of it, “but we do have our certain small charms here in South Florida.” Turning to Jake, she added, “And who is your, ah, friend?”
“Jake Martelli, Martelli Investigations,” Jake said and handed over a business card. “I’m handling personal security for Ms. Pettistone and Hamlet.”
“I see,” the chairwoman replied, tucking Jake’s card into her leather clutch without bothering to look at it. “Of course, the Waterview provides for security both here and at the hotel. But extra protection for our special guests can’t hurt.”
The niceties out of the way, Alicia gave a regal nod. “It was lovely meeting all of you. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask Mildred or another of the volunteers for help.”
With that, she turned on her spiked heel and started back toward the exhibitor area.
“Wasn’t that lovely?” Mildred said, rushing to fill the sudden gap in the conversation. “Mrs. Timpson has chaired this show for the past four years, and she’s also in charge of our annual benefit that we put on in the fall. Because of her, we’ve doubled the amount of money we can distribute to various pet rescue organizations.”
“Impressive,” Jake agreed while Darla simply nodded, still processing the unexpected encounter with the Martini Lady. It seemed like that whole event on the patio was a “no harm, no foul” situation. Even so, instinct told her to watch her back around the woman.
“Of course, it helps that Billy Pope is a multimillionaire,” Mildred went on in a confidential tone.
At Darla’s confused look, she clarified. “Mrs. Timpson’s father. He made a fortune in real estate before the bubble burst and everyone lost their shirts. He used to show cats himself as a hobby, but he retired back in the nineties, and now he judges. He has tons of rich friends who wouldn’t dream of saying no to his daughter when she asks them to give to the cause.”
Another screech of feedback drew their attention to the stage again.
Darla jumped. Hamlet, who had gone from checking out the books to lazily batting the tassels on the tufted footstool, shot an annoyed look behind him before returning his attention to tassel batting.
“Oh, look, it’s time to begin,” Mildred declared with a glance at her watch. “Let’s move closer so we have a better view.” Pointing to a zaftig middle-aged blonde in a tight pink skirt suit who had climbed onstage and was now wielding the mike, Mildred went on, “That’s Shelley Jacobson, our announcer and events coordinator working with Mrs. Timpson. She’ll be introducing all the judges and pointing out the rings. If you have any questions, she can help you out, too.”
Darla nodded in recognition at the name. Shelley Jacobson had been the one who’d sent the official letter of invitation to Hamlet, and she’d been helpful over the phone in coordinating arrangements. Together, Darla and Shelley had agreed that the odds of a meteor striking the cat show were better than trusting Hamlet to recreate his famous kitty karate kata. Instead, Shelley assured Darla that they had a version of the viral video that had been specially enhanced for the event. What that entailed, Darla couldn’t guess, but she was taking it on faith that the cat-show crowd would find it entertaining.
Shelley, meanwhile, now flapped open a sheet of paper and bellowed into the microphone, “Test one, two. Test one, two. May I have your attention?”
The woman paused while the crowd began drifting in her direction. In another minute or so, sixty or seventy spectators started to fill the area in front of the stage. From babes in arms to elderly folks steering walkers, all ages and both genders were well represented.
As the crowd settled in, Shelley called, in slightly less deafening tones, “Welcome, everyone, to the Forty-third Annual Feline Society of America National Championship, being held for the ninth year in a row here in beautiful downtown Fort Lauderdale, Florida!”
Spectators and exhibitors alike clapped enthusiastically. Smiling, Shelley went on, “For all you first-time show attendees, we have a nice brochure at our front table that explains all about our cats and the judging process. And remember that the show lasts the whole weekend. If you have fun today, be sure you come back tomorrow to see even more wonderful cats.”
She paused to gesture a group of six men and women up onto the stage, and then went on, “Now, before our first events start, let me introduce our show judges.”
More applause followed as she read the names from her list. “Ms. Jane Trent, Mr. Robert Pyle, Ms. Cecilia Levin, Ms. Ida Greene, Mr. Mitchell Paul,” she called, with each respective judge nodding and waving to the crowd. “And, of course, we can’t forget our head judge, who has been part of this organization since its founding. Everyone knows Mr. Billy Pope.”
The applause increased as a white-haired man who looked to be in his seventies stepped forward, smiled, and waved. He was dressed in a tan, European-cut suit worn over a surprisingly whimsical orange-and-yellow shirt that Darla figured probably cost more than her whole outfit. Even better, Darla spied a pair of white wingtips peeping from beneath his trousers cuffs. Though she vaguely recalled an old sartorial rule about no white shoes before Memorial Day, she had to give the old man props for not dressing like a stuffy real estate baron.
“Love those shoes,” she muttered to Mildred with a smile.
“They’re Mr. Pope’s trademark look,” she whispered back. “You know, like Tom Wolfe and his white suits.”
With that bit of trivia, Mildred gave her a friendly nod and vanished back into the crowd. Jake, on her other side, gave Darla a nudge.
“That’s him, Ma’s friend,” she said. “Now, you tell me if he looks like an embezzler.”
“You’re right. He’s the kindly old guy who fixes your kids’ bikes and has the best candy on Halloween,” Darla agreed with a smile. “Though, actually, that makes me doubly suspicious of him.”
But, she wondered, why would Mr. Pope steal condo association money? It didn’t make sense. Hadn’t Mildred said earlier that the man was a multimillionaire? For him, a cool fifty thou would be chump change, hardly worth risking freedom or reputation over.
“Snap decision,” Jake replied with a matching grin. “The correct answer is: I’m withholding judgment until I have more information.”
“Fine. I’m withholding judgment until I have more information,” Darla obediently parroted, adding, “but in the meantime I’m going to keep an eye on him.”
“That shouldn’t be hard. I’m sure Ma will make a point of introducing you to him later today.”
Shelley continued, “And most of you know already that we have a very special treat this year. Hamlet the Karate Kitty of YouTube fame is here with us”—she gestured to the pen where said feline was lounging atop the footstool, looking more like a couch potato than a martial arts star—“and he’ll be walking the aisles meeting his fans throughout the day. And at two p.m. we’ll have a special playing of his video, so be sure to stop back here after lunch. Now, enjoy the show!”
While a good portion of the crowd filtered back toward the rings in anticipation of the judging, a small flock of children migrated to see Hamlet the Karate Kitty in person. To Darla’s surprised relief, rather than playing reclusive celebrity, Hamlet seemed to be relishing his fifteen minutes of fame. He rose from his perch and, leaping atop one of the bookshelves, posed politely for photos.
“I can’t
believe how well Hamlet is taking to all this attention,” Darla told Jake in amazement. “If this was happening back at the store, there would be all sorts of hissing and pouncing. Maybe I should look behind the litter box for a pod.”
“Yeah, he’s certainly on his best behavior,” Jake agreed, sharing a smile at Darla’s old sci-fi movie reference. “Either he’s still zoned out from that spray of yours, or he’s decided it’s more fun playing to his fans. Let’s just hope it lasts.”
“Speaking of lasting, I’m already almost out of ‘paw’-tograph fliers.” Darla waved the stack of folded brochures, the thickness of which had diminished appreciably over the past few minutes. “I’ve got the file on a flash drive. Maybe there’s a copy shop somewhere on the block where I can print up some more before this afternoon.”
“Check in with Ma. She’ll probably know.”
As Darla nodded, more feedback sounded from the PA system, as the various ring clerks summoned cats to their respective stations.
“Long-haired kittens to Ring One. Entrants number one through sixteen. Household Pets to Ring Two. Entrants number three through eighteen,” came the announcements, one after another. While the remaining ring assignments were called, Darla turned to Jake and stared at her with puppy dog eyes, hands lifted high on her chest to imitate begging.
“Can I please, please, please go see the kitties while you watch Hamlet?” she wheedled in the same tone she’d heard her nieces use.
Jake laughed outright. “Go ahead, kid. I’ve got things handled here. Just don’t get carried away and decide to buy a show cat.”
“Oh, no danger of that. Hamlet is about all the cat I can handle.”
Leaving the fliers with Jake and giving Hamlet a final wave, Darla grabbed up her tote bag and followed the stream of spectators toward the judging rings. The ring clerks were repeating ring assignments, and Darla watched as a few tardy exhibitors gave their cats final quick brush swipes before trotting them over to the judging area.
Unable to resist, Darla made her first stop the long-haired kitten ring. The judging cages each held a single fluffy kitten—mostly Persians and Himalayans—the majority of whom seemed less than thrilled to be there. Tiny fuzzy paws reached through the cage wire and waved wildly, while the meow chorus moved up a register to a refrain of squeaky mews.
“So cute,” sighed a glasses-wearing brunette teen to her pimpled boyfriend, who seemed impervious to the sight.
Atop each cage now was a numbered card, alternating blue and pink around the ring. Boy, girl, boy, girl, Darla realized after a moment. While it might not matter much with kittens, no doubt such spacing was necessary for unneutered male cats.
Darla recognized the ring judge from the earlier introduction as Ms. Ida Greene. Poor kittens, she thought as the woman, who looked like every child’s scariest grade-school teacher, stalked over to the first cage and opened it. Darla hoped the little felines wouldn’t be traumatized by the woman’s brusque manner and sour expression. Feeling a bit indignant now, she wondered why someone would choose to judge cats—particularly kittens!—if she didn’t actually enjoy the job.
While the gray-haired, African American ring clerk busied herself with paperwork beside the judging table, Ms. Greene removed a smoky gray Persian kitten from his cage and carried him over to that platform. There, she plopped the little fellow into place, lightly hefting him a time or two as she ran her hands along his body. Her touch was efficient yet surprisingly gentle, and Darla wondered if perhaps she’d misjudged the woman.
“This one has sound coat color,” Ms. Greene murmured to the spectators, and then pulled back all the fur from around the kitten’s little face to better examine its eyes. Nodding in approval, she added, “Very nice head style.”
With efficient moves, she gave each tiny paw a little squeeze to reveal the required claws and checked under his tail for the requisite boy parts. Then, setting him down once more, she again felt along the length of him, brushing his fur backward to look more closely at his undercoat. Finally, the judge picked up a feathered wand similar to the one Darla had for Hamlet and began teasing the little Persian with it. The kitten promptly snared the feathers between two fluffy paws and wrestled with it for a moment before letting it go and flying halfway up the scratching post.
At the sight, Ms. Greene cracked what Darla was stunned to realize was a smile as she gently disengaged the kitten from the post. Then, to Darla’s even greater delight, the stern judge gave the kitten a little kiss atop his fuzzy head before returning him to his cage.
Darla had noticed a stack of paper towels piled on one corner of the judging table. Now, Ms. Greene spritzed down the white laminate surface with a spray bottle of disinfectant, wiped it clean with a couple of paper towels, and then did the same with her hands.
The judge spent a few moments afterward making notes in a three-ring binder; then she repeated the process with the next kitten. Throughout the handling of each small cat, she took time to share with the spectators her murmured thoughts on each entrant. While none of the other kittens in the ring scaled the scratching post like the first feisty boy had done, most of them played with the proffered feathered wand or dangling mouse on a string. Only one shy cream-colored female turned up her flat nose at all the toys. Ms. Greene waited until she’d put the little girl back in her cage to try the feathers again. This time, the kitten responded with a polite bat of one paw through the bars, drawing a genuine smile from the woman.
When the final kitten had been judged, the judge made one last walk past the cages, using her feathered wand to play with each as she walked past. Then, after making final notes in her book and filling out a three-part form, she swiftly hung a series of colored ribbons—blue for first, red for second, and yellow for third—on various cages. In addition were two more ribbons: Best of Color and Second Best of Color. Since the kittens were divided by color as well as gender, that meant that by the time the judge finished, a regatta’s worth of ribbons flew in the judging area. Darla was glad to see that both Feisty Boy and Shy Girl, as she’d mentally dubbed them, had taken first place in their respective color classes.
The exhibitors removed their kittens from the judging cages, which were then spritzed and dried by a small crew of teenaged volunteers. Darla moved on to another ring, where the judge was evaluating the Household Pets. Since this was the category Mildred had mentioned Hamlet could qualify for, Darla eagerly grabbed an open seat in front of the judging table.
The first thing she noted was that all colors and breeds were represented in a single judging category, from orange tabbies to white longhairs to calicos—even two sleek black cats that resembled miniature versions of Hamlet. The male judge had a flamboyant if genial air about him. Tall and almost painfully thin, with hair that had been bleached to an unnaturally pale yellow, he was dressed in a smart, powder blue suit. Paul something . . . or maybe he was something Paul, Darla thought, flipping through the handout she’d picked up at the door. She found his name finally: Mitchell Paul.
While Mr. Paul’s judging procedure was almost identical to Ms. Greene’s, he kept up a running spiel with the spectators that was worthy of a seminar presenter as he efficiently made the rounds of the pets.
He addressed the spectators as he picked up the first entrant, a male tuxedo cat. “Now, I always like to know if it’s their first time.” Then, with a mock look of shock at a few answering snickers, he stuck one hand on his hip and clarified. “No, not that, you naughty people. I mean, is this our young fellow’s first cat show? Who’s his mom or dad?”
A black-haired young man, whose bulk spilled over onto the folding chair beside him, raised a tentative hand. Paul smiled. “Now, tell me his name and his story.”
The banter went on in a similar vein with all the owners, most of whom were new to the show ring. His comments were kind as well as constructive, Darla decided, pleased to see that Mr. Paul found at least one posit
ive characteristic for each cat that he claimed set it above the others. Only when he reached the tiny calico girl, who was hunched up in the back of her cage, did the patter change. He paused, frowned, and said, “Now, I see a little crazy in those eyes. Owner, come take this cat out for me, just in case.”
An old woman who looked remarkably like Nattie—except twice her size—hobbled her way to the cage. The cat cooperated, and the woman carried her to the judging table, where she—cat, not old woman—behaved quite nicely. Praising both cat and owner, Mr. Paul let the old woman return the calico to her spot; then, after a quick cleanup of hands and platform, he opened the final judging cage.
“Oh my. My, my, my,” he mused in obvious interest as he carried the cat over to the table.
Oh my, was right. Darla studied the unusual feline with its batlike ears and fawn-colored fur that seemed almost painted on. And where was its tail? This was no basic domestic shorthair, à la Hamlet.
“Owner, tell me about this unusual little fellow,” the judge went on. He indicated the tailless hind quarters, which were raised a bit higher than the front legs, giving the cat a rabbitty look. “He appears to have a bit of Manx in him. Was he a stray? Do you know anything about his parentage?”
“Actually, I bred him myself,” the owner spoke up, standing.
While most of the spectators and exhibitors wore T-shirts or polos over jeans or shorts, this man looked like he’d come from an executive meeting: beige dress slacks, long-sleeved pale yellow shirt, and a striped tie that picked up both colors. In his late fifties, he had the tanned, self-assured look of a man who spent as much time cutting deals on the golf course as he did in the boardroom.
“He’s a cross between a Manx and a Sphynx,” the owner went on. “I call him a Minx.”
Better than calling him a Spanx, Darla thought with a smile.
