by Ali Brandon
Hamlet flicked a whisker but made no comment, which Darla took as a good sign. “All right, boy. If Jake can say good-bye to her little friend, we’ve got to head back to your pen to greet more of your fans.”
With seeming reluctance, Jake returned the kitten to Marie, who had pulled out a blue paper collar. Bending down to tear the kitten’s yellow collar off, she then fastened the blue one around Trixie’s neck.
“Another happy ending,” she exclaimed, looking close to tears as she handed Jake a sheet of paper. “Here are the directions to the shelter. Assuming everything goes well with your background check, you should be able to pick her up anytime after Thursday.”
“Our flight leaves Sunday morning, so how about Saturday a.m.? Darla and I plan to do some sightseeing for the rest of the week, and it wouldn’t be fair to Trixie to bring her to my mother’s condo just to leave her there alone.”
“Perfect. We’ll see you Saturday morning. Enjoy the rest of the show and your stay here in Florida.”
Leaving the kittens to pounce upon each other like tiny tigers, the two women plus Hamlet headed back in the direction of the stage. Darla glanced at her friend and saw Jake grinning like a kid who’d won a prize at the state fair.
“Looking forward to litter boxes and shedding cat hair, are you?” Darla asked with a matching smile.
Jake nodded. “Yeah, it’s gonna be fun. Would you believe Trixie will be my first pet ever?”
“Seriously?”
“Ma didn’t want to take care of a bunch of animals when we were growing up, and once I was accepted into the academy, I knew I wouldn’t have time to take proper care of a cat or dog. But now that I’m my own boss, I’ll be able to work my schedule however I want to. And since Robert is right next door with Roma, I’m sure I can persuade him to swap pet-sitting duties with me and Trixie.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Darla agreed. “And I’ll be your backup.”
They returned to Hamlet’s pen, where a small group of kids and their parents were waiting for the famous feline. Darla set him back inside the cage and unhooked the leash from his harness. Freed of his tether, Hamlet hopped onto the nearest bookshelf. Then, to the delight of the children, he leaped from that shelf to the next one, and all the way to the end, and then jumped his way back again, just like a circus cat.
Jake snorted. “If there was ever any question why that cat was named Hamlet, this explains it . . . at least, the ‘ham’ portion of it.”
“He’s definitely enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame,” Darla agreed. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with him when we get back to Brooklyn.”
Then she glanced down at the floor of his bookstore cage. “Wait, where did that book come from?”
“I don’t know. It probably fell down while he was doing his Cirque du Soleil routine.”
“Watch the cage door for me while I grab it, will you?”
Not waiting for Jake’s reply, Darla opened the cage and, to the further amusement of the children, quickly crawled inside. Apparently not on board with sharing his spotlight, Hamlet shot her a disapproving look but made no other protest. While Jake held the door firmly closed behind her, Darla scooted her way around one shelf and grabbed the fallen volume before scooting backward in the direction from which she’d come.
“That lady thinks she’s a cat, too,” one of the grade-schoolers piped up, prompting giggles from the rest of the kids.
Darla crawled out and rose, tucking the book under her arm and giving the children a fair imitation of Hamlet’s meow. She waited until the group had their fill of posing with him and moved on before she took a look at the book she had retrieved.
“The Shoes of the Fisherman,” she read aloud. A heraldic crest was the sole illustration on the cover, which gave her no clue as to its content. She looked at Jake. “I vaguely recognize the title, but I don’t know what it’s about. Wasn’t a movie made of it?”
“Yeah. Ma loved that film, so I had to watch it about a hundred times when I was growing up. It’s all about electing a pope.”
Not noticing that Darla was staring at her in alarm, Jake continued, “The whole title is symbolic. St. Peter was the first pope, and he was a fisherman, so all the popes that followed were said to be stepping into his shoes. And it was kind of eerie, because the book was written in the sixties, but it almost predicted Benedict . . . you know, the pope who resigned a while back. And then—”
She finally broke off when Darla waved at her to stop.
“What? Oh, sorry. It’s just that when you grow up in a Catholic household, you kind of absorb all this stuff.”
“It’s not that,” Darla exclaimed, and held up the book so Jake could see the cover. “We’re talking shoes, and according to you, we’re also talking about popes. Maybe Hamlet is trying to tell us something—as in, Billy Pope and the infamous wingtips!”
Before Jake could reply, however, they both heard a familiar voice rise over the sounds of cats and humans. “No, you’re wrong. I know you are!”
“Ma?” Jake gave a quick look across the exhibition hall and then shot Darla a look of concern. “I can’t tell what’s going on, but that sounds serious. Quick, get Hamlet’s leash on him, and let’s go check this out.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” Darla replied. At the sound of Nattie’s voice, she’d set the book on top of Hamlet’s pen and grabbed the lead. Already tiring of his audience, the feline had settled down for a nap on one of the bookshelves, so it was an easy matter for her to snap on the leash. It took a bit more to coax him out again, during which time Jake was shifting from one foot to the other, obviously wanting to come to her mother’s aid, but equally unwilling to shirk her duty to Darla and Hamlet.
Darla waved her away. “Go. I’ll be right behind you as soon as I get Mr. Lazy Boots moving.”
Jake gave a reluctant nod and rushed off in the direction from which Nattie’s strident voice had come.
“Come on, Hammy,” Darla urged him. “Jake’s mother needs our help.”
The feline gave an irritated hiss but rose and followed Darla at a swift trot to Ring One, where Billy Pope had been presiding. But the judging there apparently had ceased. Instead, the spectators and exhibitors there had all bunched to one side where Officers Garcia and Johnston were forming a human blockade. Detective Martinez was talking with Billy, though her voice was too low for Darla to make out any of the discussion. Jake, meanwhile, was physically holding back her mother, who was no longer shouting but was wearing a mutinous expression. Alicia Timpson was there, too, though appearing far more restrained than Nattie in her reaction.
Abruptly, Martinez gestured Johnston over. As Darla watched in dismay, the cop whipped out his handcuffs and fastened them around Billy Pope’s wrists, though Martinez did allow him to keep his hands in front, rather than being cuffed from behind. Martinez was speaking again, and this time Darla caught a few words: “silent” . . . “court of law” . . . “attorney.”
She glanced down at Hamlet, who sat nonchalantly beside her. He looked up and blinked at her before raising a paw to lick. He seemed completely unfazed by the arrest. But then, he’d probably known who the killer was all along, Darla told herself—the wily feline may have even been in the room when Ted Stein was murdered. But what had Martinez learned since last night that had led her to arrest Billy Pope for the crime?
“Freedom!” shrieked a woman’s voice from the front of the exhibition hall.
The unexpected cry made Darla jump. Catching her breath, she exchanged swift glances with Jake. Was someone about to stage a revolution of sorts and wrest Billy from the arresting officers? Martinez must have been wondering the same thing, Darla realized, for she saw the detective gesture to Garcia and Johnston, who quickly moved in front of the man.
“Freedom!” echoed a second, nearer voice, this cry even more strident.
“Freedom!” a th
ird voice called, though this time the challenge was followed by a series of high-pitched squeals and screams. And then, over the PA system came the announcement that Darla had come to dread—“Loose cat! Loose cat!”—followed by an even more chilling cry from the exhibitors’ rows.
“Eek! Mouse!”
TWELVE
“ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, CHASING DOWN ALL THOSE LAB MICE and loose cats let Billy Pope do the perp walk out of the exhibition hall with hardly anyone noticing what was going on,” Jake observed the next morning as she and Darla were packing up to leave the hotel.
Darla looked up from folding her Pettistone’s polo shirts. “Speaking of perps, I’m glad the show committee pressed criminal mischief charges against those girls . . . Cindy included. They’re lucky none of the cats—or none of the people, for that matter—got hurt. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to being in a riot.”
Though the term “riot” was a bit of an exaggeration, she admitted to herself. Before the situation could devolve into more than a small disaster, Alicia Timpson had swiftly rallied. Despite seeing her father being arrested right in front of her, she’d grabbed one of the microphones and launched a full-scale counterassault to the mouse attack.
Assisted by the remaining judges—and with Nattie’s, Shelley’s, and Mildred’s help—they had corralled the five or six loose kitties within a few minutes, much to their respective owners’ relief. The counterassault team also managed within another quarter of an hour to scoop up eleven of the admitted twenty lab mice that the protesters had let loose in the exhibit hall. Three were discovered too late, having already being chowed down upon by certain of the AWOL cats.
Six mice remained at large in the exhibit hall but, given their laboratory origins, were deemed not a hazard to the attendees. In addition to the rodent casualties, three “I Cats” mugs and two ceramic cat sculptures in the vendor booths were broken in the confusion; hence the criminal mischief charge.
“Well, at least the show managed to go on,” Jake said. “That was pretty smart of Mildred to suggest they play Hamlet’s video while everyone got situated again.” She paused and grinned. “I think almost everyone, down to the judges, forgot what had just gone down by the time they finished laughing at you and the Karate Kitty.”
“If I can help bring world peace by looking like a total idiot, then that’s the price I’ll pay,” Darla replied with an answering glance at the cat in question. While she and Jake were doing the heavy lifting getting all the packing done, Hamlet was lounging, paws up, on the sofa, surrounded by the sherbet-colored pillows. And, as far as Darla could tell, he did not appear at all dismayed to be judged as a feline slacker.
Then she sobered. “I have to say, I really have a hard time believing Billy Pope killed Ted Stein. I wonder what evidence Martinez found that made her confident enough to arrest him.”
“I don’t know, but she’s a smart cookie. It’s got to be something pretty damning.”
Darla considered this as she continued packing. Since the rest of their time in Fort Lauderdale was officially vacation, she’d again donned the cuffed white denim jeans, though she’d exchanged the striped top for a silk Hawaiian shirt in shades of blue, green, and yellow. Jake was equally casual—for her—in a pair of black cropped pants and a red-and-white polka-dotted top, her usual Doc Martens swapped for black boat shoes.
The PI had already packed her clothes and was collecting her toiletries from the bath. She came out with an armful of combs and shampoos and various sprays . . . along with the glass seashell sculpture, a twin of which had sent Ted Stein to that great cat show in the sky.
Darla tried to ignore a squeamish feeling when Jake, after first dumping the toiletries onto her bed, began examining the scalloped-shaped sculpture from all angles. It was the general size and shape of a small salad plate, and broad enough at its base that it could stand upright. Made of Murano-style glass with swirls of blues and greens accenting its ridges, the piece was just elegant enough not to be dismissed as a simple tourist’s souvenir.
She couldn’t help wincing when Jake experimented a bit further, hefting the shell with one hand—it had to weigh a pound and a half, maybe two, from Darla’s best estimate—and simulating smacking someone over the head with it. Then the PI raised it with both hands and repeated the exercise before setting it down on the bedside table.
“So how’s Nattie taking things?” Darla asked to distract herself from the uncomfortable images that Jake’s pantomime had set loose in her imagination.
“So far, so good,” Jake said with a shrug. “She’s with Alicia now trying to get Billy bailed out.”
“No offense, Jake,” Darla said, “but I’ve been wondering this whole time what a multimillionaire like Billy is doing hanging out with your mother in the first place. I mean, I think she’s great, but she doesn’t seem to be the type to be rubbing elbows with real estate magnates.”
“Kid, you’d be surprised whose elbows Ma has rubbed,” Jake replied with a wry smile. “I learned a long time ago not to ask questions about her friends. But I know they met on the condo board, even though he doesn’t actually live there, he just owns a couple of units that he bought as investments before the big real estate bust.”
“Wait—if his condos are investments, where does Billy actually live?”
Jake gave a deprecating snort. “Word is he’s got some sort of mansion on the Intracoastal Waterway, some place where he doesn’t have to mingle with the hoi polloi. Oh, except when he’s dictating condo policy.”
“Gotcha. Though I have to say Billy is a pretty decent sort compared to some of the rich people I’ve run across. I mean, assuming he didn’t actually embezzle the condo funds and kill Ted Stein,” she hastened to add when Jake shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Darla zipped up her suitcase. All that was left for her to do was to pack up Hamlet’s gear, and she’d be ready to head out. Then another thought occurred to her.
“Jake, any idea what happened to Ted’s cat . . . you know, the Minx? Surely the poor little thing didn’t get left behind at the show!”
“Don’t worry,” Jake replied, fastening her own bag. “Ma said that Alicia or someone would keep the cat until Ted’s sister can come pick him up.”
Deciding that was enough talk about Ted Stein and Billy Pope, Darla switched the conversation to where they’d have breakfast the next few days, since the official hotel breakfast buffet and Jennie’s Bakery would no longer be in walking distance. They also discussed the state of Jake’s headache—pretty much gone—and whether they should buy Nattie one of the throw pillows she’d so admired as a hostess gift.
The pillow got a yes vote, with Jake volunteering to pick it up from the gift store on their way out of the hotel. Darla, meanwhile, finished collecting Hamlet’s things and then managed to coax the feline into the carrier for the ride to Nattie’s condo.
“Sorry, fellow,” she apologized to the cat as she dialed the cab company, “but it’s safer for you to be in there while we’re driving. Besides, Tino probably won’t want cat hair in his taxi.”
While Jake waited in the room for Clyde to bring up a baggage cart, Darla wheeled the sulking Hamlet down to the lobby to check out. Meows echoed through the lobby again, with other cat-show attendees also on their way home. She got in line behind the owner of a male Maine Coon who had been judged Best in Show at the end of the previous day’s event.
“Congratulations,” she told the elderly man. “Seaside Sunset Sailor is a beautiful cat and definitely deserved the win.”
“You can call him Sunny, my dear,” the man replied with a smile and a fond look down at the cat in the carrier he was wheeling. “And yes, we are very proud. It was a wonderful show.”
Then his smile faltered a little as he apparently realized what he’d just said.
“Except, of course, for all that unpleasantness,” he hurried to clarify. “I didn’t
know Mr. Stein, but we consider our fellow exhibitors family. And I have to say, I’ve known Billy Pope for years. He’s one of the best judges on the circuit. I certainly hope he had nothing to do with it.”
“Me, too,” Darla murmured as the man nodded his good-byes and took his turn at the front desk.
When it was finally Darla’s turn, she and the clerk—this one young, male, and with hair as red as hers—exchanged bland pleasantries regarding her stay. By unspoken agreement, they made no reference to the past days’ occurrences despite the stack, there on the desk, of free daily newspapers, whose headline blared: Real Estate Mogul Arrested for Murder. It was accompanied by an unflattering picture of Billy Pope caught climbing from the backseat of a squad car. A second, smaller headline noted that the dearly departed was being buried that afternoon with a public memorial to follow the next day.
Darla signed off on her incidental charges, then folded one of those newspapers and slipped it under her arm. She’d add it to her copy of yesterday’s edition, with the headline Local Businessman Murdered in Downtown Hotel. James and Robert would definitely be interested in reading those issues firsthand, she was certain.
Jake was already waiting by the main lobby door with Clyde and their luggage and holding a hotel gift shop bag as Darla and Hamlet approached. Beyond the glass doors, Darla could see a familiar cab pulling up beneath the breezeway. Clyde opened the door and gestured them out, towing the luggage cart behind him.
“Hey, chica!”
Popping open his trunk, a grinning Tino hopped from the driver’s seat and started around front to the passenger side. He was wearing his same uniform of baggy cargo shorts and a florid Hawaiian shirt. Arms crossed to better show off his tats, he lounged against that door while Clyde loaded the trunk. “You got your gato with you?”
“Yes, Hamlet’s here,” Darla replied with an answering smile, indicating the wheeled carrier beside her.
