Cat Call (Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mysteries Book 4)

by Mollie Hunt

  “Don’t tell me it’s all in my head,” she went on defensively. “I saw what I saw. And I’m not the only one.”

  I referred to the note. “Roger, Victoria, Juno, Sean—‌who’s Sean?”

  “He’s the gaffer. A friend of Victoria’s.”

  “Oh well, there you have it. Roger and Victoria are a couple, and Sean is a friend. Of course they would alibi each other’s story.”

  “But what about Juno? It scared him near to death, made him a true believer. And what about me? I’m not lying—‌why would I? I have nothing to gain from it.”

  “Did you all see this... thing at the same time?”

  “No, different times, different places. Different nights, for that matter. I know what you’re thinking—‌that it was some sort of prank cooked up by the special effects gang or something. I thought so too at first… until it touched me.” I could hear her teeth chatter all the way across the line. “It was like being shocked with an electrical current. It actually hurt.”

  The thought of touching the specter I had seen in the Oaks Bottom parking lot made shivers run down my spine and back up again, but I managed to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Describe it to me.”

  Sadly, what Rhonda saw that dank and dreary night was something utterly indescribable. Among the words she gave were amorphous, translucent, fluorescent, and pulsating. Shaped vaguely like a woman in black diaphanous robes, the image throbbed in and out to the beat of a heart. It had even spoken to her, which it had not done with me. One word only: slay.

  “So what do you think?” she said when I didn’t respond. “Can it be real?”

  “I have a confession to make, Rhonda. Last night when I was alone in the trailer, I thought I saw something out the window. Something... unexplainable.”

  “The hex?” she gasped.

  “Or whatever that thing is. It scared the bejeebers out of me, but to be honest, I still think someone is playing a very elaborate and dangerous game. Oh, Rhonda, I don’t know. I have to admit this isn’t your ordinary case of vandalism. I’m really concerned.”

  “If you’re concerned then I’m concerned all the more. What if it keeps on happening? What if it really is leading up to murder?”

  “It’s not,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel.

  “But what about Juno?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “How do you know? And even if it was, the hexter could still have induced the lift to start up with magic or telekinesis. They can do that, you know.”

  “Really?” I made a mental note to find out a little more about what superpowers were attributed to a mischievous-slash-evil hexter. “Look, it’s going to be okay. If you’re worried about the cats, don’t be. Everyone loves them. I’m sure they’re perfectly safe.”

  I heard a swift intake of breath. “Cary and Clark? You don’t think anyone would...”

  “Of course not,” I said quickly, cursing my big mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “Oh, goodness, do you think I should pull them out of the show?”

  “I’ll talk to Gerrold and see what the police have come up with so far. I don’t know about the kitchen fire or the food poisoning, but your step was definitely tampered with. Now we need to find out what caused the lift ignition to start by itself. If it was a vandal, the police will be all over it. Once we know for sure, it will become clearer what to do. Let’s see what they say before we make any drastic decisions.”

  “We?” said Rhonda. “What do you mean, we?”

  She’d caught me. What did I mean? She had just told me I was relieved of cat handler duty, yet here I was involving myself all over again. “Sorry, I forgot. Maybe you should be the one to give Gerrold a call then, since I won’t be seeing him again.”

  “Actually Vera wanted me to ask if you could stay on while she ties up a few of her own affairs. It’ll only be for a day, two at the most. Then you’d have another chance to investigate this hexter business for me and make sure the boys aren’t in any danger.”

  I cringed at the idea of returning to the mysteriously cursed set. “I suppose if she can’t start right away, then of course I’ll cover, but I don’t know about the other thing,” I said pragmatically as I inwardly kicked myself for my blatant and inappropriate curiosity. “I’m a cat lady, not an amateur sleuth.”

  “But you’ll talk to Gerrold? You’ll find out what the police have said?”

  “Yes, okay. I’ll try.”

  “It’s so frustrating,” Rhonda huffed, “being incapacitated like this. All I hear are rumors and gossip, and I have no way of making judgements for myself. Please, Lynley, you have to be my eyes and ears. For Clark’s and Cary’s sake. If things get bad, I know you’ll take care of them.”

  I agreed, placating her as best I could. I clicked off the call and sat staring out the window at the sparkling spring morning. People were taking advantage of the break in the weather to walk, jog, and ride bikes. The trees were lush with new growth; rhododendrons were in full lavender, purple, and crimson display; rose bushes budded with summer promise. Looking down into the neighbor’s yard, I saw their old cat, Barnie, pouncing on something in the long shimmering grass.

  If things get bad... Rhonda had said. I hadn’t told her what went blazing through my mind like a flashing neon banner: that I feared they already had.

  * * *

  A few seconds later, the phone rang again. At first I thought the unknown number was Rhonda calling back on her hospital phone with another thought about the hexter or another plea for help, but when I said hello, I got Gerrold instead.

  “Laurie?” he said in an abrupt manner. This time I didn’t bother to correct him.

  “Yes, Gerrold. What’s up?”

  Uh,” he began, then wavered. “Um, I wanted to be the one to tell you, uh, that Juno Jones has died. I didn’t want anyone to hear it from the rumor mill. I feel it’s my place to pass along the news, dreadful as it is.”

  I sank back against my chair, glad I was already sitting down. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, thank you. There will be a memorial service I suppose. Mary and the camera department are handling the details.”

  “What did the police say? Was it an accident?”

  “Yes, definitely,” he said a little too emphatically. “The police ruled it one hundred percent accidental.”

  “No tampering? No sabotage?”

  “Not a hint.”

  “But how can they be sure?”

  “I really don’t know, Laurie. I’m not a detective. But they have satisfied themselves that there was no malicious intent or whatever they call it. The investigation is closed; that’s all that matters.”

  There was a pause. “So what happens now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With the filming. Will this shut down production?”

  “No, of course not. Why would it?”

  “Well, er, Juno was one of your crew,” I sputtered. “I would have thought you might at least want to take a few days of mourning.”

  “Oh, no. Tomorrow, as planned. Someone will let you know the time. The show must go on.”

  The line went silent; I pulled my phone away from my face and looked at it. Gerrold had hung up; only the colorful grid of recent calls showed on the small screen. I clicked it off and placed it on the table.

  So Juno was dead. An accident, or had the hexter claimed its first victim? I felt dazed and slightly ill. Gerrold’s last words played over in my head. I couldn’t believe he’d actually offered up the old cliché, The show must go on.

  Chapter 15

  The ASPCA Behavioral Rehabilitation Center in Madison, New Jersey, is the first and currently the only facility dedicated to providing behavioral rehabilitation for fearful undersocialized dogs such as those confiscated from puppy mills and hoarding situations. They have plans for many more.

  The ASPCA Animal Placement Presentation announcing their wonderful
work helping abused and traumatized dogs had not been advertised as a formal affair, but when I arrived wearing a denim skirt and my cat-print jacket, I felt seriously underdressed. The brightly-lit conference hall was crowded with men in dark suits and ladies in couture dresses. I experienced a moment’s hesitation until I remembered we were all there for the same cause: animal welfare. Standing a little straighter, presenting my cat print like a badge, I stepped into the mingle. Smiling, I cruised through the greeting area. To note, everyone smiled back.

  The big room was set with large round tables. Colorful coverings and bright flower arrangements produced a cosmopolitan air. A red, white, and blue placard on an easel by the door stated "We welcome all races, all religions, all countries of origin, all sexual orientation, all genders. We stand with you. You are safe here."

  I searched the crowd for a familiar face and relaxed when I saw Frannie DeSoto, my best bud and fellow volunteer from Friends of Felines, settled near the front. Frannie was a small, roundish woman with lovely blue-gray eyes and an impeccable sense of style which she never abandoned, whether cleaning litter boxes or attending a function such as this. Roughly the same age we had met years ago as new shelter volunteers and been friends ever since.

  “Frannie, good to see you.” I gestured to an open place beside her. “Is this seat taken?”

  She smiled up at me. “Oh, Lynley, no. I’ve been saving it for you. I was hoping you’d make it. I tried to call you earlier but you never called back.”

  I slipped into the chair and stowed my purse underneath. “I’m sorry. I was making up a shift at the shelter—‌you know, no phones on the floor—‌and it ran a little late. By the time I got home and fed the cats, it was time to come here. I’m afraid I never did look at my messages.”

  “That’s okay. Glad you’re here now. This is going to be so inspiring. I love what the ASPCA is doing for those poor dogs, but what I love even more is that they’re opening up a whole new approach to animals who, up until now, were thought to be beyond redemption. They’re proving that even some of the most psychologically wounded ones can become household pets with the proper help and training.” Frannie, one of the most passionate animal advocates I knew, nearly glowed as she spoke.

  I shed my coat to reveal my favorite blouse, a dark maroon rayon tank with a pattern of hot pink cats embroidered on the front. A friend had made it for me, and I only wore it on special occasions, afraid that in my clumsy hands, the lovely embroidery would be a magnet for food-related mishaps. So far, I’d managed to keep it stain-free and crossed my fingers that it would remain so through the evening.

  “You look nice,” Frannie said. “I love that blouse. Of course anything with kitties on it is a win.”

  Next to her perfectly made up face, expertly styled blonde hair, and dress that must have come from one of the uptown boutiques, I felt a bit unkempt, but I knew her compliment was sincere. We both laughed. She may have had the designer dress, but I had cats.

  “Lynley, have you met Alani?” Frannie turned to a cheerfully round-faced woman sitting on her other side. “Alani, this is my dear friend, Lynley. Lynley’s a Friends of Felines volunteer too. I’m sure you’ll run into her at the shelter sooner or later. She spends more time there than most of the paid staff.”

  “Hello, nice to meet you. Alani, isn’t that a Hawaiian name?”

  “Yes. My husband and I moved from Kauai to Portland about a year ago.”

  “How do you like the rain?”

  “You know,” Alani deliberated, “everybody here asks me that. I don’t mind it really. We have rain in Hawaii too.”

  “But it doesn’t last for days on end,” I pointed out.

  “True. Yeah, it gets me down a little. Sometimes it’s so gray! But then the summer comes and the flowers bloom everywhere. The gardens here are just as gorgeous as the ones back home. Why, we have an apple tree in our back yard. When it blossomed this spring, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

  I nodded. There is nothing quite like the shell-pink of apple petals nestled amongst the fragile chartreuse of the new leaves, and it was nice to hear my region praised by someone who hailed from such a picturesque place as the Islands.

  “There’s Special Agent Denny,” Frannie broke in, gesturing to the row of seats at the very front of the room. “And Special Agents Connie and Frank. The whole humane investigative team.”

  “It looks like they’ll be participating in the program,” I surmised.

  “That makes sense. Who better to represent cases of abuse and neglect than the animal cops, the ones who handle them on a daily basis?”

  “And there is Blossom Hicks, from the FOF behavior department. The man and woman next to her must be the folks from the ASPCA.”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. “The talk should be starting any minute, if they begin on time.”

  The room was filled to capacity now, and most people had found seats. Servers were coming around with carafes of coffee, pitchers of water, and bento box dinners. I opened the paper flaps to find tempura vegetables on a bed of brown rice, wilted kale salad, and a side of lightly pickled cucumber.

  “Looks good,” I remarked, realizing how hungry I was.

  Alani’s eyes brightened as she opened her bento. “This is just like home,” she said, wasting no time tucking into her fare.

  From the podium, Helen Branson, Friends of Felines’ Executive Director and our fearless leader, stepped up the microphone. There was the prerequisite clinking of water glasses for silence as all eyes turned to her stylish and dynamic presence.

  “Good evening, everyone. To date, over three-hundred abused and neglected dogs have entered the ASPCA rehabilitation program, and the majority of them have graduated to be adopted into loving homes. It is now my privilege to bring you the future of animal action.”

  * * *

  “That was an excellent presentation,” Frannie observed, taking a sip of her wine.

  Special Agent Denny Paris took a slug of beer. “Yes, it was. If those grievously traumatized dogs can be turned into friendly pets, anything’s possible.”

  He and the other agents, Connie Lee and Frank Dawson, had invited Frannie, Alani, and me to join them for drinks after the program had concluded. They had chosen a popular bistro called Webster’s near the waterfront esplanade on Portland’s eastside. Being Thursday and a little on the late-ish side, we’d managed to find a table in the bar. The agents had ordered a round of Rainiers, Frannie and Alani both opted for a local white wine, and since I no longer drank alcohol, I’d asked for my bar standard, ginger ale. Booze and I had a good run when I was younger, but when the good turned bad, I knew it was time to quit. Sounds easy. Isn’t. That was many years past, and now I enjoyed my ginger ale without even a tinge of regret.

  “I’m so impressed!” exclaimed Alani. “I know so far their work has only been with dogs but the principles could be applied to cats as well.”

  “And other companion animals,” Connie noted. “Any animal who has been wounded by fear or abuse. Knowing there’s a good rehabilitation strategy would make the outcome of our job a whole lot more positive.” The muscular young special agent was fiercely committed to animals, those furry friends who lived so close to us but could not advocate for themselves.

  “Think of it!” Alani was getting more enthusiastic with every sip of her wine. “A regimen to train vicious cats to calm down.”

  “Or for deathly shy ones to overcome their fear and be more friendly,” furthered Frannie. “The potential is endless.”

  “And it’s all done with kindness, patience, and care,” remarked Denny. “That, and the process they mapped out in the presentation, is all it takes.”

  “I’m thrilled that the ASPCA is going to be training specialists right here in our home shelters,” said Alani. “I’m working on my feline behaviorist certificate. Maybe when I graduate, there will be a cat program in place and they’ll train me to do those things.”

  “That’s
wonderful!” I said. “I’m envious. I always wanted to get into cat behavior, though I think it’s a little late for me now.”

  “Never too late,” Frannie winked. At sixty-something she firmly believed that learning never stopped until you were dead.

  “A little behavior training might come in handy for your cat wrangling business, eh, Lynley?” Denny put in.

  “Cat wrangling?” asked Alani, turning bright eyes to me. “What’s that?”

  “Cat wrangler, or handler, is what they call people who direct cats for work in television and movies. But it’s my friend who is the professional cat handler. She broke her leg—‌I’m only helping her out for a few days.”

  “You mean like the kitty cats we see in shows or on commercials?”

  “Yes. Those cats are all specially trained to follow commands. It’s really fascinating, though I don’t think it’s something I’d choose to do for a living.”

  “Have things calmed down since we talked yesterday?” Denny asked in a slightly interrogatory manner.

  I looked away, suddenly very interested in the bohemian decor of the little bar. A fascinating mural of an Italian countryside ran the length of the stucco wall. The fairy lights strung from the ceiling made the prettiest glow.

  “Lynley?”

  Instantly all eyes were on me and I was the center of attention whether I liked it or not.

  “Not really,” I sighed. “In fact, not at all. There was a terrible accident last night. The scissor lift fell over and someone was hurt.”

  “That’s horrible!” Alani exclaimed. “What happened?”

  “We don’t really know. The machine came on somehow and started moving while its lift part was still extended. The man was running to shut it off when it tipped and fell. But aside from that,” I added before anyone asked the obvious, Is he okay, to which I would have to answer, No, he’s dead as dead can be, “everything else is going fine. I won’t be working there much longer. Rhonda’s found someone else, someone with real cat handling experience.”