by Ali Brandon
“It was just a really rotten prank,” Darla assured her, pausing to take a look in Hamlet’s cage. To her relief, the feline was snoozing peacefully on his back atop the footstool, paws curled to his fuzzy chest. Apparently, neither screams nor PA announcements could pierce his Zenlike nap mode.
“Someone poured watered-down ketchup on the cat that won the household pet category,” she went on, plopping into one of the folding chairs. “Her owner saw her lying in her cage all covered in what looked like blood, and she went into hysterics. The show’s vet, Dr. Navidad, checked the cat out, and said nothing’s wrong with her, except she needs a good bath. The Martini Lady is on the job, getting it handled.”
“That’s a relief. So, what do you think? The second-place owner taking a little revenge on the winner?”
Recalling how Stein had argued with Nattie over his Minx’s showing, Darla shrugged. “Maybe more like the third-place owner. He definitely wasn’t happy. Oh, and also he happens to be someone Nattie says you met last night: Ted Stein. You kind of forgot to mention breaking up the fight.”
“Eh, it was just a little argument,” Jake replied with a wave of her hand, sounding like her mother. “But what happened with the judging?”
When Darla had finished describing what had gone on, the PI said, “Yeah, Stein is a loose cannon. But from a logical point of view, it would have made more sense to dump ketchup on the cat before the judging, not after. I’m more inclined to think it might have been one of the animal rights protesters. From what I hear, that’s the kind of mischief they go in for.”
Darla nodded. “That’s a possibility. When I left the building to get the printing done, I noticed that the girl in the pink thong wasn’t protesting with her friends anymore. And she was still MIA when I got back. Maybe she threw on some clothes and sneaked into the exhibition hall for a little guerilla activism.”
“And here I thought bodyguarding Hamlet at a cat show was going to be a quiet gig,” Jake said with an ironic smile. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to pull that sort of stunt on Hamlet while I’m on the job. Speaking of which”—she paused and glanced at her watch—“my contract says I get a break right about now.”
“Go ahead, I’ll keep an eye on things here. Oh, and I brought you back some pastries, as promised. The owner wrapped them in foil, so they’re still warm.”
While Jake headed out to the floor, pastry in hand, Darla pulled out her fliers and busied herself stamping Hamlet’s “paw”-tograph on each before stacking the folded sheets neatly atop Hamlet’s pen. He’d finally awakened from his nap and was pacing about, much to the delight of the three grade-school-aged girls who were kneeling in front of the cage.
Darla spent the next half hour chatting with folks and munching on the cheese pastry while Hamlet did his Hollywood routine and posed for photos. By the time Jake returned, Darla had all but forgotten the unfortunate ketchup incident. But the sheepish expression on her friend’s face made Darla sit up and give the woman a wary “What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Jake gave an airy wave, which only intensified Darla’s suspicions. Obviously, something was up. Then she spied a series of silvery hairs glinting against the black lapel of Jake’s jacket, and she opened her eyes wide. “Wait! Don’t tell me. You bought a cat!”
“What makes you say that?”
Jake glanced down, noticed the hairs on her jacket, and then gave a rueful smile. “I didn’t buy, but I admit it, I was looking. Not at the show cats,” she hurriedly clarified before Darla could say anything. “There’s a rescue group that has a few of what they called ‘un-adoptables.’ You know, cats with problems . . . too old, too ugly, health issues. There’s a Siamese kitten named Trixie who’s missing a back leg, but she’s a feisty little thing. I’m thinking about bringing her home with me.”
A three-legged cat named Trixie.
“Hey, that’s great,” Darla replied, her sentiment sincere. Then, switching to a deliberately innocent tone, she mischievously added, “You think your landlady will mind you bringing a pet home with you?”
“Oh, jeez, I didn’t even think of that. Uh, Darla, any chance I can keep a cat in my apartment? Please?” the PI asked, turning the same puppy dog look on Darla that Darla had earlier used on her.
Darla laughed. “Of course you can.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not a done deal, yet,” Jake assured her. “Most you can do here at the show is call dibs on the cat you want and fill out the paperwork so they can do a background check on you. They won’t let you take home the cats during the show since they don’t want impulse buys, which makes sense. I’ll check again tomorrow, and if Trixie’s still there, I’ll fill out the papers and let the rescue people do their background check. And I’ll still have until the end of the week to be really sure I want to do this.”
“That’s a good idea, thinking it over for a few days. Believe me, being a cat owner is tougher than it looks. Right, Hamlet?”
The feline paused in his pacing to shoot her a cool green look that seemed to say, Ha! Being the cat is tougher.
Darla exchanged looks with her friend. “See what I mean? Hammy,” she addressed the cat again, “how about we make another round of the hall before it’s time to show your video? Maybe we can even meet Trixie.”
Snapping the lead on Hamlet again, Darla left Jake to finish off the remaining pastry while she and Hamlet once more went out to greet his public. As before, the sleek black feline was met with praise and laughter, the latter coming from those who’d already seen the YouTube video. Darla had to disappoint more than one person who asked if she and Hamlet would be recreating their tournament performance during the cat show by explaining that Hamlet performed only when and if it suited him. She assured them, however, that they would be seeing Hamlet in action that afternoon, via the video presentation.
Darla found the rescue exhibit Jake had mentioned tucked alongside the vendor tables. Tropical Adoptables, it was called, with a cute cartoon logo featuring a big-eyed tabby peeking out from behind one side of a palm tree, and a goofy beagle peeking out from the other.
Trixie was easy to pick out from the cluster of ten or so kittens playing together in an open pen, since she was the sole Siamese of the bunch. A petite little girl with classic seal point markings and the biggest blue eyes Darla had ever seen on a cat, Trixie seemed unfazed by the lack of one rear limb. When Darla paused near the pen for a closer look, Trixie and Hamlet exchanged polite sniffs through the mesh. A good sign, Darla thought to herself.
Leaving Trixie to her kitten game, Darla and Hamlet continued to make the rounds, finally stopping at the judging area and the ring where Billy Pope was presiding over a group of Russian Blues. To her mind, they were striking cats: a solid blue coat—which was actually gray—the tips of which hairs were a shimmering silver. And their eyes were deep bottle green, far darker than Hamlet’s emerald orbs.
Darla took a seat in the back row so as not to disturb the cats with Hamlet’s presence and watched with curiosity. Hamlet eyed the proceedings with seeming disapproval, whiskers and tail flicking every so often, but sat quietly in the chair beside her.
She was a bit surprised at Billy Pope’s judging technique, which was nothing like the other two judges she’d witnessed. Despite his grandfatherly image, the man was all business when it came to sizing up each feline. It didn’t help that all of the Russian Blues seemed exceedingly ticked off about being in the show, displaying their displeasure with much pawing and meowing as they were taken out to be evaluated.
“These Blues sure are pistols,” the middle-aged gentleman with a cane sitting on the other side of her softly observed with a small chuckle.
When Darla nodded her interest, he went on in a stage whisper, “They’re one of the smartest breeds out there. If they don’t want to be shown, they figure out real quick that if they act up with the judge, they get put back in their cages
faster. There’s a saying with Russian Blue breeders that they breed for dumb. The smart ones, they’re too hard to show.”
Sounds a lot like Hamlet, Darla thought with no little amusement as she thanked him for the insight. And the Russian Blue 101 lesson likely explained why there were no head kisses or silly asides with this breed.
Still, she wished Billy could be more like the other judges in that they’d explained their reasoning with the spectators. Billy Pope judged in silence, his poker-face expression giving away none of his thoughts as he poked and prodded each cat before making copious notes in his binder. When the last entrant had been judged, he grabbed up a handful of colored ribbons and quickly hung them on the cages, leaving it to the ring clerk to dismiss the group.
“Well, Billy got it right again,” Darla’s neighbor conceded above the applause that greeted the winner. Leaning heavily on his cane, he lurched to his feet, and added, “You get a win from that man, you deserve it.”
Darla considered those words as she and Hamlet made their way back to the stage. Surely a man so scrupulous about judging a cat show would be equally on the up-and-up in his other doings, she decided. Still, it would be nice to have a consensus from a group other than the condo owners. Once the Russian Blue category had been judged, Shelley had fired up the PA system and called the lunch break. That meant an hour before it was time for Hamlet’s video airing. She could grab a couple of hot dogs from the concession for her and Jake and maybe casually ask around for opinions on Mr. Billy Pope.
When Darla said as much to Jake after unleashing Hamlet and closing the cage door behind him, the other woman shrugged.
“Go ahead, kid, if you think you can keep your motives for asking on the down-low. People like to gossip, so you never know what they might spill. Heck, you might even mention Stein’s name and see what pops up.”
“Uh-huh,” Darla replied, momentarily distracted by the sight of a slim, oversized volume lying faceup in Hamlet’s pen beside one of the shelves.
She could see the familiar illustration on the orange-and-white front cover, so she didn’t even need to read the title to know it was a copy of the Dr. Seuss classic How the Grinch Stole Christmas. A gap in the row above it seemed to indicate it had come from that collection. She gave Jake a questioning look.
“Was that book on the floor a minute ago?”
Jake shook her head. “Didn’t notice it. Hamlet must have accidentally knocked it down when you took him out to go touring.”
Accidentally? When it came to books, Hamlet never did anything by accident. Darla slipped her hand through the wires of the pen and, with a bit of careful maneuvering, retrieved the book. Was the cagey feline trying to tell her something? Or had this been a simple slip of the paw?
Probably the latter, she decided.
“You’re right. He probably just knocked into it while he was sniffing around,” Darla agreed. “Now, what do you want on your hot dog?”
* * *
THE LINE AT THE CONCESSION WAS LONG, GIVING DARLA PLENTY OF opportunity to casually chat with people about the head judge and innocently wonder about the Minx cat and its breeder. The few people who personally knew either all shared basically the same opinion as Darla: Billy Pope was tough but fair, and an all-around nice guy; Ted Stein was a blowhard jerk. Of course, Darla had to give the latter a bit of credit for his concern over the condo association’s lost funds, even if—according to Nattie—he was barking up the wrong tree as far as the culprit. Iffy as his motives might be, presumably Ted was trying to do the right thing.
When Darla finally headed back toward the stage, food and soft drinks balanced in one of those flimsy cardboard trays, she was halted by the sight of Billy Pope near one of the vendor booths talking to a young woman. Her back was to Darla, but something about her was very familiar—the short shorts, the blouse falling off at the shoulder, the fuzzy boots. Then the girl stuck out a hand, and the pose jogged Darla’s memory.
It was the same panhandler who had threatened Alicia Timpson last night! And now she was threatening the woman’s father!
Darla eased her way toward the pair, taking care to screen herself behind a hanging display of cat tote bags. Surely the girl wouldn’t try something in the midst of this crowd, she told herself. But if something did happen, at least Darla would be a witness to it.
“C’mon, I know you have the money.” The girl’s wheedling voice also seemed familiar, though Darla didn’t recall having heard the panhandler speak last night. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really, really need it.”
Darla tightened her grip on the cardboard tray. She could see Billy’s expression of furtive resignation wash over him as he reached a gnarled hand into his jacket. Why is he doing this? she wondered in frustration. What hold can this girl have over him?
But Darla was not the only one watching the pair. As Billy pulled an oversized wallet from his coat, Alicia Timpson swooped down upon them.
“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, grabbing the girl’s arm and giving her a shake. Then Alicia pointed at her father. “Don’t you dare give her any money, Dad. You know what she’s going to do with it.”
“Yes, but—”
She cut the old man short. “No buts. We agreed we’re not going to enable her anymore.”
“But I can’t just abandon her,” he protested, sounding like a sad old man instead of a retired real estate tycoon who’d spent years eating other businessmen for lunch. “Cindy’s my only granddaughter.”
Granddaughter?
Darla almost dropped the tray. The panhandler who’d threatened Alicia Timpson was Billy Pope’s granddaughter? Did that also mean that Cindy was Alicia’s daughter? Darla wasn’t sure if Billy Pope had any other children besides Alicia, but she didn’t have time to mull over the implications, for the argument was continuing.
“All the more reason not to indulge her,” Alicia snapped. “Give it to her now, and she’ll be back for more tomorrow, and the day after. She’s my daughter; I should know.”
She whipped back around to the girl and went on, “And as for you, don’t think I don’t know what you did. Now leave, before I call security on you. I’ll be informing everyone at the door that you’re banned from the exhibit hall.”
Cindy spouted off a few colorful epithets in Alicia’s direction, ending with a hand gesture cruder than Nattie’s before spinning about and stalking away right toward Darla, giving her a good look at the girl as she hurried past.
She was young, pretty, petulant . . . and when her oversized top slid lower, it revealed a familiar bleeding-heart tattoo peeking out of a skimpy sequined bikini top. Not only was Cindy the panhandler from the night before, she was also the pink-thonged animal rights protester who’d accosted Darla and Jake that morning!
Which also meant she was the person likely responsible for pouring ketchup on Cozy Kitty, the HHP winner.
Feeling suddenly foolish that she hadn’t recognized the girl earlier—though, in fairness, she hadn’t seen the panhandler’s face the previous night, having only glimpsed her from behind—Darla assumed as nonchalant an air as she could. Pretending to give a cat toile tote bag a final look, she casually turned and continued on toward the stage area.
She’d have to let Jake know what she’d learned, Darla told herself. She suspected that sparks might continue to fly if Cindy managed to sneak back in again. With Hamlet being the guest of honor, he’d be an obvious target for some sort of dramatic animal protest statement.
She didn’t have a chance to enlighten Jake about the dysfunctional Pope-Timpson family, however. As soon as she reached the stage area, Jake snatched her drink and hot dog from the tray and took a big bite of the latter.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, pausing to wash down the cheese and chili with a big gulp of diet soda. “I gotta eat and run. It’s almost time for the video.”
Jake indicated Mildred, who wa
s standing beside Hamlet’s cage talking into her walkie-talkie.
“Mildred and I hammered out a plan. As soon as you finish eating, you get Hamlet all leashed up. I’ll take him behind that curtain”—Jake used her hot dog to point to the split swag of fabric that divided the final quarter of the stage area from the rest of the space—“and we’ll wait there. You stand out front with the rest of the adoring public until Shelley introduces you and brings you up on stage to say a few words.”
“That’s right,” Mildred interjected with an eager nod, hanging the walkie-talkie back on her belt. “Shelley said that you and she discussed this on the phone. All we need is a minute or two to hear a little about your store, and then you can talk about how Hamlet learned karate.”
“When you’re finished talking,” Jake went on as Darla continued working on her hot dog, “they’ll play his video. Apparently, this is a special music-video version the show commissioned, so it will run two or three minutes.”
“Right, Shelley mentioned that,” Darla confirmed, shooting a look at Hamlet lounging in his makeshift bookstore. What’s next, Hamlet on MTV?
“Once the video is over,” Jake continued, “I’ll bring Hamlet out to prance around the stage for photos and take his bows. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll do a few karate punches. Then it’ll be back to cat judging.”
She paused and looked at her watch, and then reached for her drink. “Chugalug. We’ve only got a few minutes before we have to take our places.”
They made quick work of their remaining lunch, Darla pretending not to notice the growing crowd of show attendees gathering near the stage. Mildred, however, wasn’t shy about keeping count.
“Oh, look—there’s at least a hundred people already, Darla,” she said in satisfaction. Leaning in with a confidential air, she added, “Now, remember, if you get nervous when it’s your turn to talk, just picture everyone out there naked. They say that’s a perfect cure for stage fright.”
