Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery)

by Ali Brandon

  “I’ve been perfecting the breed for more than five years now,” the man went on in a self-important tone. “You can see that the fur is like velvet, and far shorter than the usual feline coat. People who might have been turned off by the Sphynx’s hairlessness but can’t keep a regular cat because of allergy issues do quite well with these fellows. And with the Manx hindquarters, they tend to want to leap rather than run, so they’re easier to keep in an apartment or condo. I’m going to present the Minx for inclusion in the FSA later this year.”

  “Really,” the judge replied, his tone approving as he ran his hands over the odd cat. “I must say, it’s a fetching little thing. And you’re right—the coat feels just like velvet.”

  He flicked the feathered wand in front of the Minx, smiling as the cat gave the toy a swipe. Then he returned the Minx to his cage and spritzed the platform and his hands before making his final notations in his book. Handing the clerk his filled-out form, Mr. Paul reached for a handful of ribbons, saying, “All of you should be proud. You groom and put these guys together as well as any pro. Every one of these cats deserves a merit ribbon.”

  Swiftly, he hung a bicolored ribbon on each cage and then returned to the judging table. “Now comes the hard part. I must choose Best through Fifth Best.”

  Starting with Fifth Best, the judge began hanging colored ribbons on the cages. First went to a white longhair belonging to a freckled, twentysomething girl who had brushed her pet into snowy perfection. The tuxedo, the calico, and a Siamese that Darla had admired also placed. The Minx came in third . . . much to the apparent displeasure of its owner. When the call came to remove the cats from the judging cages, he stalked over and, tucking the cat beneath his arm, strode off without another word.

  “There’s always one,” Mr. Paul observed with a disapproving moue as Darla went up to thank him for sharing his thoughts with the spectators. “There’s more to a win than just coming up with a clever mix of breeds.”

  She gave a commiserating nod. “Well, I thought you made the right choice. That white longhair was beautiful.”

  “To be truthful, underneath all that fur it had stubby legs and a head too big for its body,” Mr. Paul said with a shrug, “but the owner obviously takes excellent care of it. Seven years old, and not a spot of tartar on those teeth. And, of course, she had him brushed to perfection. It had to have taken her hours. I prefer to recognize the true pets, and the true amateurs.”

  Darla thanked him again; then, glancing at her watch, she headed to check in with Nattie about the copy shop.

  A few minutes later, Darla informed Jake, “Your mom said there’s a copy place a couple of doors from the bakery I told you about. If you think you can hold out a bit longer without me, I’ll pick up some pastries to tide us over until lunch.”

  “We’re good here,” Jake assured her. “The first wave of excited kiddies has passed, thank goodness. And Hamlet is on his second nap,” she added, indicating the sleeping cat, who’d stretched out between stacks of books on one of the back shelves.

  Darla nodded. “Well, if he wakes up by the time I’m back, we’ll make another round of the exhibition hall. Don’t want him getting fat from lack of exercise.”

  Leaving Jake and Hamlet to their own devices, Darla went out the main door. She’d forgotten about the animal rights protesters lurking on the broad concrete stairs, however, until she was accosted a second time.

  The pink-sequined girl was apparently on break, for Darla didn’t see her; however, her sisters-in-thong were there to fill the gap. A chunky brunette with an unfortunate farmer’s tan and a tiny African American girl with an armful of colorful bangles rushed up as Darla made her way down the steps.

  “Cat shows are cruel!” the latter cried, waving her sign in Darla’s direction.

  Don’t engage the crazy, Darla reminded herself. Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Uh, why are they cruel?”

  “Because they put them in cages,” the Farmer Tan Girl declared.

  The bangle girl vigorously nodded. “And it’s not right to put the cats on stage to, you know, perform.”

  She suspected the girls were confusing the show exhibitors with backyard breeders, but as far as she had seen, the greatest number of the exhibitors didn’t fall into that category. And since Hamlet had done the whole performing thing on his own—hence, his YouTube appearance—Darla wasn’t buying that one. That, or she was guilty of cat cruelty. But she politely replied, “Oh, then I agree with all that. Now, can you tell me where the copy shop on Las Olas is?”

  “Oh, sure,” the brunette agreed. She trotted back down the steps and, tucking her sign under her arm, pointed down the street. “It’s over there by Jennie’s Bakery. She has the best Cuban pastries.”

  “So I’ve heard. Good luck with the demonstration.”

  Leaving the bathing-suited girls to their protest, Darla made her way to the copy store and paid for another hundred fliers. While they were being printed, she slipped into the bakery. A young Hispanic woman about Darla’s age was at the far end of the counter arranging pink coconut cupcakes on a tiered glass plate. Her black hair was pulled back in twin ponytails and covered by a striped green bandana that matched her striped apron.

  “Hi, are you Jennie?” Darla asked. “Your brother, Tino, said I should stop by.”

  “He did, did he?”

  The woman gave a tiny smile, tweaking the final cupcake and then sliding shut the glass case door. Leaning with folded arms atop the case, she said in lightly accented tones, “My brother, he’s my best advertising. The only problem is that he comes by and eats as much inventory as he helps sell. Don’t tell me you were brave enough to ride with him!”

  Darla smiled with her. “Actually, we met at the airport when my ride almost rear-ended his cab. And then I saw him last night while I was taking a walk. I hear you have great Cuban pastries.”

  “The best in town! Tino’s not the only one who thinks so, either.”

  Jennie pointed to a large framed photograph prominently displayed on the far wall. It was taken on what appeared to be a reality television stage set, and it showed Jennie exchanging hugs with a celebrity chef whom Darla recognized from one of the cable food channels.

  “I was a finalist last year on Pastry Battle,” Jennie explained, the smile proud now. “I would have won, but the cupcake girl sabotaged my oven, and my temperature was off.”

  “Pastry Battle!” Darla echoed in appreciation. “I’ve watched that show. You must be great just to get on at all. So what are Cuban pastries? I’ve never tried them before.”

  “Here.” Jennie moved to the center of the case Darla was standing before and pointed to what looked like fluffy turnovers. “I make a few different flavors. There’s cheese, kind of like a cheese Danish. And if you want more of a meal, there’s spicy meat. But my favorites are the guava”—she pronounced it wah-vah—“and a special strawberry jam pastry for the kids. Here, I have some samples.”

  She pulled out a plate that held turnovers sliced into bite-sized pieces. Darla took a sample of each, proclaiming all of them tasty. “It’s hard to decide,” she said, wiping crumbs from her lips, “so let’s go with a meat, a cheese, a jam, and a guava . . . not all for me, of course. I’m bringing back some for my friends.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Jennie pulled out silver tongs and quickly bagged them up; then, with another smile, she added a fat macadamia nut cookie to the bag, and said, “A little something extra on the house, since Tino recommended you.”

  Darla pulled out her wallet to pay; then, glancing down the pastry case again, she impulsively said, “How about a dozen of those fancy donut holes in a separate bag, too?”

  She paid Jennie and, promising to return the next day, picked up her fliers at the printers and then headed back to the exhibition hall. As Darla started up the steps, she was once again accosted by Farmer Tan Girl and her buddy, Bang
les. Before the pair could begin their spiel, however, Darla smiled and held out the bag of donut holes.

  “You’ve already indoctrinated me, remember? Now, how about a little something from Jennie’s? You know, to help keep your strength up.”

  And to keep you off my back the rest of the show, she silently added.

  Farmer Tan Girl gave her a suspicious look as she gingerly accepted the white bakery sack. As she peered inside, however, suspicion morphed into delight. “Look, Talina, donut holes . . . the fancy kind,” she breathed in awe. To Darla, she added, “Wow, like, thanks!”

  “Bon appétit,” Darla replied, and trotted up the steps.

  Once inside, she stopped at the check-in desk, where Nattie was presiding. The woman was on the opposite end and busy speaking with a man Darla belatedly recognized as the Minx breeder. Their tones were low, and it was difficult to hear them over the cat chorus and the occasional PA announcement, but something in their huddled stance made her think the conversation was not a friendly one. She didn’t have long to wonder over it, however, for the man abruptly straightened and stalked off toward the exhibitor area. Nattie muttered something after him, her accompanying hand gesture one Darla recognized from some of the rougher Brooklyn neighborhoods.

  Curious, Darla wondered what the two could have been discussing to lead to Nattie’s extreme reaction. While she was sure the old woman could hold her own against the breeder, she thought maybe she should find out what had gone down in case Nattie took it a step farther and went completely “old neighborhood” on the man.

  “Pastry?” she asked in a bland tone, sidling up to where Nattie stood and waving the remaining bakery bag in the old woman’s direction.

  Nattie gave her a genial smile. “Well, maybe one,” she replied, reaching in and pulling out a guava pastry, “but that’s it. I already ate four donuts out of the box Mildred brought. Gotta save some room for lunch. Besides, I don’t digest too good when I’m riled up.”

  “Oh, that,” was Darla’s noncommittal response. With a swift look around to make sure they weren’t being overhead, she casually went on, “I saw you having words with one of the exhibitors. Who is he? Is anything wrong?”

  “That was Mr. Fancy Pants Ted Stein.” Nattie’s tone made it clear she didn’t approve of fancy pantsers, be they people or shops. “He thinks he got robbed in the HHP category and wants to file a complaint against the judge.”

  “I saw that category being judged, and I think Mr. Paul did a fine job. The cat that won was lovely.”

  “Yeah, well, Mr. Stein thinks he shoulda won. I told him if he has a complaint, he needs to take it to Billy.”

  “You mean the head judge, Mr. Pope?” At Nattie’s nod, Darla asked, “Well, did he go complain, then?”

  Nattie lifted her penciled-in brows. “No way is he gonna complain to Billy. Once they were friends, but now there’s bad blood between them two. That Stein fellow, he’s on the condo board where I live. He’s the one accusing Billy of stealing the missing condo association money.”

  Before Darla could question her further, Nattie went on in a stout tone, “Billy’s innocent, of course. He never touched a cent of our association money that he wasn’t supposed to. But that Stein character, he’s a whole other bucket of goldfish.”

  “I did get the impression that Mr. Stein was kind of a jerk,” Darla agreed, failing to understand the woman’s muddled metaphor but pretty sure she knew where Nattie was trying to go with it. “Do you think he’s trying to frame Mr. Pope on purpose?”

  The old woman nodded.

  “Bingo. I think he’s trying to make Billy look bad because Billy wouldn’t invest in Stein’s Minx scheme. Billy says Stein’s a charlatan out to make some fast money, and that new cat breed ain’t for real. It got pretty nasty at the board meeting last night. They about got into a fight in the parking lot. Me and Jacqueline, we had to break it up.”

  Now it was Darla’s turn to lift her brows. Jake hadn’t mentioned that part of the evening’s excitement to her. “I can see where you don’t want to be in the middle on this one. Should I mention this little run-in with Mr. Stein to Jake?”

  “Nah, don’t worry her. I can take care of myself.” Grinning, Nattie flexed a scrawny bicep before glancing past Darla, and adding, “Oops, gotta go. Some people need tickets here.”

  Leaving Nattie to help the young family that had stepped up to the table, Darla left with her pastries and started through the exhibition hall toward the back. She was just congratulating herself on her restraint in walking through the vendor area (simply eyeing a cat tote bag surely didn’t count) when a scream of pure terror made her almost drop her pastry bag.

  Darla and everyone else within earshot—which pretty much was the entire exhibition hall!—whipped around, frantically looking for the source of that chilling cry. Darla spied her almost immediately: the freckled girl whose cat had won first place in Household Pets. The young woman stood out from the rest of the crowd, mostly because she was spinning about like a cat chasing its tail in the aisle where Darla stood. Her hands, however, were the most noticeable thing about her, coated as they were with something wet and red.

  And then the girl stopped spinning long enough to shriek, “Someone’s murdered my Cozy Kitty!”

  SEVEN

  MURDERED HER CAT?

  Instinctively, Darla rushed forward to where the girl stood sobbing uncontrollably. Already, four other nearby exhibitors converged on the girl and were huddled protectively about her.

  “No, stay back,” one of those women called in a shaky voice, raising a hand, palm-out, in a “stop” gesture. “It’s—it’s too awful.”

  At the woman’s words, one young family made a swift retreat in the opposite direction, parental hands shielding toddler eyes. A few other spectators had already hurried to the scene with Darla to see if they could help. They all prudently halted a good ten feet back from the carnage, maintaining a respectful silence while the cat owner sobbed.

  “I was only gone for a few minutes,” the girl wailed softly to the women comforting her. “She was just fine then, but when I came back she was like, like . . . that.”

  The girl dissolved into fresh tears, and Darla felt her own heart sink in sympathy. More than once had she feared the worst for Hamlet, and each time the thought had sent a burning little dagger of disbelief ripping through her very core. At least the girl was among people who understood that a pet was far more than just an animal.

  “Coming through, coming through,” Darla heard a man’s voice abruptly call behind her, and she reflexively moved aside.

  The speaker was a young Hispanic man with slicked-back black hair wearing a blue lab coat and carrying a medical bag. He must be the show’s official veterinarian, Darla realized. Behind him, she spotted Billy Pope trotting along as fast as he could go, followed by his daughter, Alicia Timpson, aka the Martini Lady.

  Darla held her breath as the vet reached inside the wire enclosure. His body blocked her view of the cat, for which she was grateful. Then he abruptly straightened and turned to Billy for a few quick words. Billy took a step back, his expression one of outrage as the vet lifted a red-streaked palm. A collective gasp rose from the spectators alongside Darla. Before she could wonder what in the heck was going on now, the vet leaned into the cage again.

  He dragged out the limp white cat, covered in red . . . and thrust the feline into her owner’s arms! Darla watched in horror and then sagged in relief as the cat squirmed in her owner’s grip. Her meows weren’t yowls of pain, but merely indicated irritation at being unceremoniously dragged from her cage.

  Darla turned to the stocky middle-aged woman wearing a “Cats Rule, Dogs Drool” T-shirt standing next to her.

  “Look, she’s alive!” Darla exclaimed, instinctively grabbing the woman’s hands as the two of them did an impromptu happy dance there in the aisle.

  “False a
larm,” Billy Pope called in a reedy voice. Waving his hands in a dismissive gesture at the surrounding crowd, he clarified. “You can go back to what you were doing. Dr. Navidad assures me that the cat’s fine . . . just a little messy.”

  And, indeed, Cozy appeared quite hale. Her dance over—and feeling slightly embarrassed at her impulsive show of emotion with a stranger—Darla saw Alicia Timpson grab a towel from one of the grooming tables, wrap it around girl and cat, and begin escorting them away from the onlookers.

  “But what about all the blood?” demanded Darla’s temporary dance partner. The cartoon feline on her T-shirt ballooned alarmingly as the woman heaved an indignant breath and pointed. “It’s like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre in that cage.”

  “Ketchup,” Dr. Navidad answered as he headed back in the direction from which he’d come, wiping his hands on another towel and shaking his head in disgust. “Watered down so it looked more like blood. Just a prank, but pretty darned cruel.”

  “Attention, everyone,” Shelley’s voice boomed across the hall. “We had a minor situation, but everything is just fine now. Let’s finish up the next rings before we break for lunch. And remember, at two p.m. we’ll have a special appearance by our guest of honor.”

  Hamlet!

  Making a quick good-bye to her new friend, Darla hurried in the direction of the stage, grateful that Jake had been with Hamlet while all this had gone down. The so-called prank hadn’t been funny at all. And what if this joker planned further disruptions? Another cat—maybe even Hamlet—could be the target of something far worse.

  Jake was stationed at the side of Hamlet’s pen, arms crossed and looking even more badass than usual, given the frown plastered beneath her mirrored sunglasses. Obviously, she’d been keeping tabs on the disturbance. At Darla’s approached, she whipped off the shades.

  “What the heck’s going on?” she demanded. “I heard all the screaming, and then the rumor flew around that a couple of cats had been butchered and hung from one of the judging rings. And then Shelley hops up on the stage to spout a bunch of sunshine and unicorns, without a word about what went down.”