Cat Call (Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mysteries Book 4)

by Mollie Hunt

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

  “Guess not.” The smile vanished and I left him to search out Gerrold.

  The detectives were gone, but the wiry director and his two associates were still installed at the makeshift command post in the middle of the big lobby. Gerrold seemed busier than ever, if that were even possible, perched on his high canvas chair surrounded by a mob of personnel. The polite Lynley hated to interrupt the overburdened man, but the cat lady Lynley had only one objective: to rescue her cats, no matter who she had to harass to do it.

  “Gerrold,” I cut in brusquely.

  The trio of executives ignored me as if I were two-day-old cat food, so I took a more assertive tone. “Gerrold, I need to talk to you. Now.”

  This time Gerrold looked up, eyes red with worry, thin lips even thinner, a pinkish gash in the pale face. “Oh, it’s you, Laurie. I’m engaged at the moment. Can you come back later?”

  “No, I really can’t. This will only take a minute. It’s important,” I added grimly. “You might say a matter of life and death.”

  He sighed throughout his whole body. “Alright. Bear, you and Jason carry on. Try to get these people to move their tails a little faster. I really don’t want to be maneuvering this stuff all night.” He rose and slumped over to me. “What is it you need so desperately?”

  “You’ve probably heard that Clark Gable and Cary Grant are missing. I now have evidence that they have been catnaped.”

  “Catnaped?” He laughed, a single high-pitched clap. “Is that even a word?”

  I ignored him, holding up the ransom letter. “I found this in the trailer.”

  He looked at it, his countenance sobering. “Then you’re not making a joke? The cats have actually been abducted? What do the napers want in return?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I already don’t like it.”

  “Well, you’re not going to like it even more.” I shoved the letter into his hand. He read it, his face growing increasingly livid as he went.

  “Cancel McCaffrey & Jack? That’s ludicrous! It would be financial disaster, to say nothing of professional suicide for me.”

  “I’m looking for Angela. Have you seen her?”

  “Not for a while, but I don’t think she’s gone back to her hotel.” He grabbed his radio. “Find Ms. Moore. Tell her... Ask her,” he revised with a sigh, “if she would please join me in the lobby. It’s urgent.”

  He clipped the instrument back on his belt. “She’s probably up on the fourth floor. She’s got herself a room she likes, calls it her private study. She even had movers bring in furnishings and a desk. Someone will find her if she’s still in the building.”

  He stood for a moment, as if expecting the prominent writer to appear on the spot as ordered. When she didn’t, he began to put the envelope into his jacket pocket. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, then added. “You’ve been a great help these past few days, but now with the cats gone, I see no reason why you can’t go on home. The other handler starts tomorrow—‌that’s assuming we have any cats to handle. Or that we have a show to film, for that matter.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying I’m fired?”

  “No, of course not. But no cats, no handler.” He shrugged his avian shoulder blades. “Your check will be in the mail shortly.”

  He began to turn away but I caught his arm. “No, Gerrold. I need to stay. I’m responsible for those cats, and I need to make sure they’re safe before I go anywhere. I have to find out who’s doing this.”

  “Whatever for? The cats will be located, I assure you. We’ll hire a pet detective or something. It’s no longer any of your concern.”

  “But...” I began, then vacillated. I wasn’t about to set foot outside that building until the cats were returned and in the hands of a qualified cat person, but arguing with the stubborn director wasn’t going to get me anywhere so I switched tactics. “We should hand the ransom letter over to the police. If the catnaper is the same person who has been sabotaging the set, the police will want to know. We could ask those detectives who were here investigating the fire what to do next.”

  Gerrold thought about it, then another sigh. “You’re probably right.” He whipped out the radio again. “I need someone to liaise with the constabulary, Detectives Abernathy and Mack, I think it was. Anybody who’s not doing something important.”

  “I can do it,” I put in.

  He looked at me as if I were speaking in meows.

  “I can do it, Gerrold. Then you wouldn’t have to send one of your busy crew.”

  He clicked the instrument. “Cancel that last,” he barked. “Alright, Laurie.” He retrieved the envelope and handed it back to me. “Give this to the cops and then get your daughter and go home.”

  “Granddaughter,” I commented, snatching the letter from his hand. “And it’s Lynley. Lynley Cannon. Make sure you get that right on the check.”

  I had every intention of taking the ransom note to the detectives who I still glimpsed roaming the lobby getting statements, but first I needed to find Angela. Though I’d initially imagined confronting the influential writer with a Where are the cats? I know you know sort of thing, I changed my mind and decided to go a different route. Chances were my accusations would only prompt her denial and I’d be back to square one. I needed something else from her, and maybe if I were lucky, I could uncover the plot in another way.

  The ransom note put everything into perspective. The hex, the accidents on the show, the sabotage. What I’d been missing before was confirmation of the hexter’s motive. Now there could be no more doubt; whether they’d meant to or not, they had laid it out for all to see. Stop production on the show. That was what it was all about—‌stopping McCaffrey & Jack.

  I had yet to discern why someone would want the show scrubbed, but whatever the reason, they were willing to go to great and creatively evil lengths to do it. Rhonda was in the hospital; Juno was dead—‌yes, the police called it an accident but I still questioned just how accidental that accident really was. The cats had been abducted and were in who knew what sort of peril. Enough was enough.

  I needed to talk to Angela. Somehow I sensed that she was the key to this mess.

  I looked around the lobby but she had yet to answer Gerrold’s summons. If not there, where would she be? Upstairs in her study? Down the street at a sidewalk café? Beamed up to an alien planet? In a duh moment, I realized I could just call her and find out.

  I dug in my pocket for her card, pulled out my cell phone, and punched in the number, the second one that she had told me was her private line. In less than two rings, she picked up.

  “Lynley, is that you?” she said in her half-husky voice.

  “Yes, Angela. I need to see you right away. Have you heard that the cats are missing?”

  “Yes, someone has taken them hostage.”

  “That’s right. But how did you know?”

  Chapter 21

  Cats can have over a hundred vocalizations which they use to communicate with their people because we don’t do a very good job of reading their subtle body language. Cats past the kitten stage rarely “meow” to each other.

  It was the first time I’d been up to the fourth floor. The space was eerily quiet after the commotion of the lower stories. Levels one and two buzzed with activity; three was quieter but still a few people roamed and collected in the abandoned glory of the old rooms; four, when I reached the top of the staircase where only a few hall lights burned, was like stepping into a dimension of the Twilight Zone.

  I squinted through the shadows, then peered over the rail at the cavernous view of below. That was a mistake; instantly I pulled back and closed my eyes. The vertigo receded, and I opened them again, this time deliberately avoiding the gaping architectural canyon.

  “Angela?” I called, my voice puny in the vastness of the gloom. There was no answer even though she had told me to meet her there only minutes ago. I could phone
her again but decided to take a look around before I admitted defeat.

  Near the top of the staircase was an ornate wooden door, the penthouse where I’d heard they would be shooting some of the important scenes. Across the tooled brass door knob was a security padlock, the kind real estate agents use to keep burglars from breaking into unoccupied houses. Since I hadn’t noticed any other locked rooms, I wondered what was so important about this one in particular. Something to keep safe? Something to hide? All I knew for sure was that Angela Moore must be elsewhere.

  I’d known the penthouse apartment was on this floor but for some reason I’d imagined it to be the only one. Now as I surveyed the mezzanine, I noted there were three other apartments as well, their gold engraved numbers still affixed upon their dark-wood doors. Two were closed and the third stood slightly open. I could hear voices and started toward the sound.

  Tapping on the open door of number twelve, I called softly, “Angela? Hello? It’s Lynley.”

  There was no answer, but my knock had set the door swinging wider on its hinges. Through the space, I peered into the gutted room and what I saw made me momentarily forget about my mission to locate the elusive writer.

  Compelled by fascination, I took a few steps inside. I’d been told the apartment building was a haven for the counterculture of the sixties and early seventies, but it had been a long time since I’d seen anything that even came close to the bizarre decor of this chamber. A long-unused word floated out of my own hippie past: psychedelic.

  Every space—‌walls, ceiling, even the soft-wood floor—‌had been painted in bright enamel graffiti. Though the super sheen had dulled with time, it still reflected the light from the long windows; a wavering, moving luminescence that created a mind-bending three-dimensional effect. Runes, paisleys, and swirls ran unfettered; fractals curled like conch shells—‌the Golden Ratio; dot patterns swarmed in bee formation, up, then down, then back across the high ceiling to mingle and be lost in other, larger shapes. A long rambling poem framed with flowers took up most of one wall; letters flowed together, obscure and unreadable in hippie-font, the feral precursor to today’s street art.

  Entranced, I moved to the center of the space, turning in a circle to take in the full presentation. It was mesmerizing, transporting. I could almost smell the dope smoke.

  Then I heard the voices again, a mumble through the wall; the speakers must have been in the next room over. I was about to go find them when I paused. The tone had become loud, angry, two men arguing. At that decibel, I could make out most of the words:

  “You pirate!” someone shouted.

  “You owe me!” came the equally vehement retort.

  “I don’t owe you a thing. That was decided in court when you tried to sue me.”

  I lost the next bit, but then the timbre rose once more.

  “If it weren’t for my talent, there wouldn’t be a McCaffrey & Jack. All I want is my fair share.”

  “And you thought you could get it by pulling this infantile load of pranks?”

  “It got your attention, didn’t it?”

  “It’s what I would expect from a flipping drunk.”

  “I’m sober now, and I want what’s coming to me.”

  “Oh, you’ll get that alright. You...”

  The voices diminished. I knew I shouldn’t be listening, but if what I heard meant what I thought it meant, one of those men had to be the hexter himself.

  The hexter, who had abducted Clark Gable and Cary Grant.

  The hexter, who would know exactly where they were.

  Again I started for the door but drew up short when I heard something smash against the wall followed by the sound of breaking glass. There was a shout and more banging. A fight? Then silence. Whatever it was stopped as quickly as it had begun.

  “I didn’t start that fire!” the first man yelled.

  “If not you, then who?”

  The voices were leveling off again and I moved to the wall, putting my ear against a turquoise paisel.

  “I haven’t pulled a hex since Juno died, I swear. It was a stupid idea, I see that now. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. All I wanted was to get my cut.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  That last was articulated with such vehemence it made my skin crawl. I stood back. What was I doing? These men were serious—‌and dangerous—‌and I should get myself out of there before they discovered me eavesdropping. If the detectives were still downstairs, if I were quick about it, I could get them back up in time to capture the culprits with the aid of their handy and effective firearms.

  I began to sprint for the stairs but before I’d even got to the doorway, my shoe caught on a nail head that had worked itself loose from the aged floorboards. I pitched forward, giving a spontaneous scream. The voices cut off mid-sentence and I knew they’d heard me. I froze, not sure whether to run or hide. Just when I decided to make a run for it since there really was no place to hide in the big, empty room, the door slammed shut in my face. The latch clicked into place. Heavy footsteps receded down the hallway into silence.

  I reached for the doorknob, then saw to my surprise and dismay that there was none; only the round, brass-edged circle where the knob should have been.

  Dang! I swore to myself. “Hey! Let me out!” I yelled, banging flat-handed on a magenta and puce daisy. “Hey, whoever you are. There’s no knob in here. Come back and let me out!”

  There was no response, nor did I really expect one. I mean, why would someone shut me in just to let me go again? Maybe it was an accident, maybe they didn’t realize the knob was missing, but if it were truly the hexter, he had already proven himself capable of anything.

  Calm down, I directed myself. With a series of deep breaths, I began to think a bit more clearly. Even though it might have looked like it from the outside, this building was not abandoned. Far from it; there were probably a hundred people within the walls of the place. Granted most of them were occupied on the lower floors, but someone would come up eventually. For one thing, the penthouse scene needed to be set. Of course the shoot wasn’t scheduled until the next morning. I really hoped I wouldn’t have to wait that long. No, someone would be up way before then to clean the place and get things in order. When I caught their footsteps on the mezzanine, all I would have to do was scream my bloody head off.

  Then it came to me, just like they say, in a flash of blinding light. For the second time I had forgotten in my panic that I had a mobile communication device right there in my vest pocket. Like Captain Kirk summoning his cohorts, I punched the speed-dial for Seleia. When I heard her sweet Lynley? Where are you? I nearly fainted with relief.

  “Seleia, help! I’m on the fourth floor,” I blustered. “I’m locked in one of the apartments number twelve I think it is anyway there are only four rooms up here come up and bring a screwdriver—‌the doorknob’s missing!”

  “Wait, what?”

  I repeated my summons, this time slow enough for human ears to comprehend.

  “Okay, hang on. Freddie, do you know where we can get a screwdriver?”

  “A biggish one. Slot, not Phillips,” I told her.

  She passed the information on to Freddie, adding, “It’s for opening one of those old doors without a knob. Be right there,” she said to me and then clicked off.

  I relaxed a little. A few more minutes and I’d be free.

  To pass the time, I began reading the crazy graffiti, the poem that tumbled from wall to wall, proclaiming undying love to either a woman or a hash pipe—‌I couldn’t quite tell which. I followed the script to where it petered out into a flurry of kamikaze butterflies, wishing Seleia would hurry. Someone, somewhere, must still have a good old slot screw driver, mustn’t they?”

  Suddenly I heard a sound that made my heart catch in my throat. Not footsteps outside my doorway; not my rescuers coming down the hall; it was the far-muffled meowl of a cat. The sound seemed to originate somewhere near the back corner. I moved closer, certain I was hal
lucinating, probably from the long ago pot smoke that had seeped into every fiber of the room. After a few seconds, breath held, the meowl came again, a vigorous mrrrowweeow from behind the wall. It could be no other than Cary Grant.

  Cary? In the wall? Had the hexter secreted the cats within the framing studs?

  Suddenly I remembered what Freddie had told Seleia, that according to myth, the old place contained a maze of passageways left from times gone by. Could the cats be imprisoned in one of those bolt-holes?

  I rushed frantically up and down the wall. I could hear them clearly now but had no clue how to get to them. On my third lap I began to notice that the meow was more audible when I passed a certain place. I stopped and listened, my hunch confirmed.

  The Victorian chamber, previous to its hippie makeover, had a wainscoting of thin hardwood that culminated in a chair rail about three feet up. Above that was plaster. I bent down and leaned close to the painted wood. My heart leapt; sure enough, the meow was even clearer from there. Falling to my knees, I ran my hand over the smooth lath, then along the underside the rail, one section at a time. Finally about halfway to the windows, my fingertips touched a metal button bulging like an old fashioned light switch in the hidden curve of the molding.

  It took me less than a second to make my decision. Though logic dictated I should wait for Seleia and Freddie, my empathy couldn’t endure the cries of the cats for another moment. I bore down on the old mechanism with my thumb. It resisted, then snapped into place. A section of wainscoting about two feet wide swung upward with such force that it caught me in the chin which hurt like a mother bear. I recoiled, then sat up and peaked inside the hole. It was pitch black. Beyond a sliver of room light, the passage—‌if it even were a passage—‌was obscure as the dark side of the moon.

  The cats must have heard the disturbance because even Clark Gable was crying now. “Clark! Cary! I’m coming,” I called. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Easing my body down through the low, tight space was not as simple as it would have been a few decades ago. A person’s weight distribution shifts over time and suddenly they wake up one morning and can no longer do the things they used to, such as climbing mountains, dancing all night, or slipping around the close-fitting right angle corner of a secret passage. But I had no choice—‌I had to rescue those poor cats, whatever it took.