Undercover Kitty

by Sofie Ryan

  “Thank you,” I said. Elvis was going to end up with more professional photos than a runway model at this rate.

  “Anything else you need?” she said to Alfred.

  “Not a thing,” he said.

  Jacqueline sniffed a couple of times. “I’ll keep monitoring all of the accounts. If anything comes up, I’ll text you. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Sarah,” she said, smiling at me again.

  “You, too,” I said.

  She headed back the way she came.

  “Poor child,” Mr. P. said. “She really loves cats.”

  There was a meow then behind us. Rose and Elvis were back. The latter smelled even more like sardines than he had before.

  “I take it you got the recipe you were after,” I said.

  “Merow!” Elvis answered.

  Rose smiled. “We did. And that’s not all we got.” She had that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look—pun intended—that always made me nervous.

  “What else did you get?” I asked.

  She and Elvis exchanged a look. “A clue!”

  Chapter 5

  “What do you mean, you got a clue?” I said. Elvis leaned toward me and breathed sardine breath on me. I made a face at him and it seemed to me that he grinned.

  “After Elvis tried the crackers—and don’t tell me he didn’t need to do that because how would I know if it was worth making the recipe unless I knew he liked them.”

  The cat gave me a smug look. I narrowed my eyes at him before turning my attention back to Rose. “I’m not going to say that,” I said.

  “Fine.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, showing me she didn’t think she’d done anything wrong regardless. “So anyway, I got the recipe and we were talking and Junie told me that there’s a couple—Suzanne and Paul Lilley—who are trying to start a new cat registry.”

  I held up one hand. “Hang on a minute. Who’s Junie?”

  “Millicent’s mother,” Rose said, an edge of annoyance creeping into her voice. “I told you she was going to give us her recipe for sardine crackers. Weren’t you listening?”

  “I was listening,” I said, a little defensively. I still had no idea whether Millicent was feline or human. It didn’t seem like the right time to ask. “Why is this new registry important?”

  “The American Cat Fanciers Association is the largest registry of pedigreed cats and the American Feline Association is number two,” Mr. P. explained.

  “There’s been talk that the two groups may merge and that kind of thing always leaves disgruntled people on both sides,” Rose added, “especially since the AFA is far more interested in running the shows to make a profit.”

  “So this couple are trying to step in and convince people on both sides who don’t want the merger to register with them,” I said.

  Rose nodded. “Exactly.”

  Mr. P. hiked up his pants. “The Hartmans mentioned the possible merger. They didn’t say anything about anyone trying to start another registry.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know,” Rose said.

  Elvis leaned sideways, resting his chin on Rose’s arm so he could get a better look at something in the next aisle that had attracted his attention.

  “What would be the advantage of starting another registry?” I asked.

  Rose arched an eyebrow. “In a word, money. According to Junie, the Lilleys plan to offer a menu of expensive—and profitable for them—DNA tests to help establish cats’ bloodlines. That sounds like a motive for trying to sabotage the AFA shows.”

  I nodded. It did to me, too.

  “And it seems they were here,” Rose said.

  “Are you sure?” Mr. P. asked.

  She nodded. “Suzanne Lilley was wearing a wig—not a particularly good one—and her husband had on a ball cap and dark glasses. Junie was not fooled.”

  I wanted to meet Junie. She sounded like she didn’t miss much.

  Rose was holding her cell phone. Elvis ducked his head, butting the edge of the case.

  “Yes, thank you for the reminder,” she said. She swiped a finger across the screen, tapped it several times and then held up the phone so Mr. P. and I could see. “Junie took their photo.”

  I leaned in for a better look. The photo was of a man and a woman standing next to a booth that sold coats for cats. The blonde bob on the woman was obviously a wig, not to mention not-very-good-quality synthetic hair.

  “She’s wearing something to make herself look heavier.” I pointed at the screen. “See how her torso is out of proportion with her much smaller arms and legs.”

  Mr. P. nodded. “I see what you mean,” he said.

  The man’s sunglasses covered a large portion of his face, as did the brim of his cap. They looked like they were trying not to be noticed, which ironically just made them stand out more.

  Rose shook her head. “Their looks are amateur night. For heaven’s sake, Avery could pull off a better disguise than that.”

  As much as the idea gave me a headache, Rose was right.

  “Good work, Rosie,” Mr. P. said, beaming at her.

  Rose smiled back at him. “I had a good teacher.”

  He gestured at the phone. “I need to get that photo to Cleveland.”

  “I’m sending it to you now,” she said, swiping at the screen of her phone as Elvis poked his nose in to “help.”

  In a moment Alfred’s phone chimed. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at me. “I’ll be about ten minutes, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course it is,” I said. “Take your time.”

  He made his way down the aisle toward the entrance. I licked the tip of my index finger, briefly touched Rose’s shoulder and made a hissing sound. “You’re hot today,” I said.

  Rose gave me a sly grin. “Yes, I am,” she said.

  * * *

  * * *

  We packed up everything we were taking back with us and Elvis got into the carrier bag without much fuss.

  Mr. P. returned just as we finished up. “Cleveland and Memphis are up to date,” he said.

  We headed out to the SUV. I set Elvis on the backseat next to Alfred, who leaned over and unzipped the bag so the cat could climb out. Rose settled herself on the passenger side of the front seat with her tote bag at her feet.

  “I’m curious,” I said as I fastened my seat belt. “Do either of you know why Cleveland’s whole family is named after different cities?”

  Rose and Alfred exchanged a look.

  “What?” I said.

  He cleared his throat. “Their mother named all the children after the cities she was living in at the time they were born.”

  “She got around,” I said and immediately regretted my choice of words. I noticed a patch of pink high on each of Mr. P.’s cheeks.

  Next to me, Rose gave a snort. “What Alf is diplomatically trying to say is that she named each of the children after the place they were conceived.”

  Mr. P.’s face got even pinker.

  “I get that,” I said.

  “Well, I wasn’t sure,” Rose replied.

  We drove in silence for a few minutes then Rose spoke again. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you join us for supper?”

  “Thank you,” I said, putting on my blinker to turn right. “But I already have plans.”

  “Real plans or pizza in front of the TV with Elvis?”

  A loud meow came from the backseat.

  “Like Elvis just said, real plans. Right about now Mac should be in my kitchen making lasagna rolls.”

  Even out of the corner of my eye it was hard to miss the grin on Rose’s face. “We don’t have to leave that early in the morning,” she said, “if for instance you happen to be having a sleepover.” />
  I held up my right hand but kept my eyes glued to the road. “Number one, there are not going to be any sleepovers whatsoever. And number two, I am not having this conversation with you.”

  “Fine,” Rose said in a quiet and contrite voice.

  We drove on in silence.

  “What size pajamas do you wear?” she asked after a long pause. “I want to get you a pair.”

  “It’s not Christmas for weeks,” I said. “Why do you suddenly want to get me pajamas?”

  “I know it won’t be Christmas for a while,” Rose said. “It’s just that given those stretched-out, faded pajamas I’ve seen you wandering around in early in the morning, it’s no wonder there aren’t any sleepovers happening.”

  “And we’re going to listen to the radio now,” I said, reaching for the knob. I was pretty sure I could hear Mr. P. laughing softly in the backseat over the music.

  * * *

  * * *

  I caught the scent of onions and tomatoes and other good things when we got home and stepped through the front door. Elvis looked up at me and licked his whiskers. Rose reached up and smoothed a stray strand of hair from my face. She leaned in to adjust my scarf and whispered, “Mac is lucky to have you, sweetiebug.” Then she headed purposely down the hall with Mr. P. trailing behind her. He smiled as he passed me. “Have a wonderful evening,” he said.

  I stepped into my apartment and gave a little sigh of happiness as I kicked off my shoes. Supper was cooking and a gorgeous man was smiling at me from the kitchen. “Welcome home,” he said.

  Elvis meowed loudly and headed for Mac.

  “He thinks you mean him,” I said.

  Mac opened the refrigerator door and took out a small dish. “I meant both of you,” he said, setting the dish on the floor.

  Elvis eyed the contents, sniffed it and then gave a murp of thanks before bending his head to eat.

  “Poached chicken,” Mac explained.

  I hung up my jacket as he made his way over to me. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. “What happened at the show?” he asked.

  The show . . . right, the show. I gave my head a little shake. My brain had been focused on repeating that kiss. “You’re looking at the current holder of second place in the Household Pet category. Elvis. Not me.”

  “Very impressive,” Mac said. He kissed me again, this time on my forehead, which didn’t make my brain short-circuit the way the first kiss had. “I need to take a look at supper.”

  I trailed him to the kitchen. He turned on the oven light and peered through the glass, seemingly satisfied with what he saw.

  Elvis was still happily eating. “You spoil him,” I said to Mac, who was now checking out something in my refrigerator.

  I leaned over and peeked at the pan of fat noodles, spinach and sauce in the oven. The cheese was making a golden, delicious crust on the top. My stomach gurgled. “You spoil me, too,” I said.

  Mac grinned at me over his shoulder. “I like spoiling you.” He closed the refrigerator door and for the first time I got a good look at the chef’s apron he was wearing. It was denim with the word Spicy across the chest in red letters.

  I laughed. “Where did you get that?”

  “Would you believe Liz gave it to me?”

  “Actually I would. Liz, Rose, Charlotte—even my grandmother—they’re not exactly subtle with their matchmaking.”

  Mac leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest so all I could see were the S and the P from “spicy.” “I won’t tell you what Liz suggested I wear . . . or not wear . . . with it.”

  I felt my cheeks get red. “What happened to the stereotype of a cookie-baking, sweet, little gray-haired grandmother whose romantic advice consists of asking when you’re going to meet a nice boy and settle down?”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “If Liz lives to be a hundred she won’t let her hair go gray. Your grandmother has been stringing your brother along for weeks, letting him think she buys this subterfuge he concocted that he’s dating Jess. And Rose may bake the best chocolate chip cookies I have ever eaten, but she fits no one’s stereotype of a grandmother. It is the twenty-first century. Grandmothers have lives beyond cookies and rocking chairs.”

  “I have no trouble with them having lives,” I said. “I just want them to stay out of mine.”

  He leaned forward and caught my sweater, pulling me against him again. I was getting to like having Mac in my kitchen. Then he kissed me again. Yes, I definitely liked having him in my kitchen.

  “You are kind of spicy,” I said, “but maybe that’s just your lasagna.”

  He kissed me again. Slowly. “Or maybe not,” he whispered.

  * * *

  * * *

  Over dinner we talked about the show. I told Mac what we’d learned about Suzanne Lilley and her husband.

  “Do you think they could be behind the vandalism?” he asked.

  I set my fork down and shifted a little in my seat so I was facing him. “Honestly? No. The so-called disguises they wore today—a bad wig and a baseball cap with sunglasses—wouldn’t and didn’t fool anyone who knew them. I can’t see how they could have disabled a sound system or tampered with the latches on the cages without being noticed dressed like that.” I reached for my water glass. “And would a cat person do anything that could possibly hurt a cat?”

  Mac shrugged. “Money makes people do all sorts of things.”

  After dinner we curled up on the couch to watch a movie. Mac had never seen a single Star Trek film. I had started him with The Wrath of Khan and now we were moving on to my favorite movie in the Trek universe, The Voyage Home.

  Elvis was lounging on his cat tower, sprawled on his stomach, all four legs hanging limply down as though he was too exhausted from his day to do anything else.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked. “Once I drop off Rose, Alfred and the furball, I’m going to check out a flea market.”

  “Tempting,” Mac said. “But I’m going to Rockport with a sailing buddy to look at a boat.”

  “Who buys a boat in November?” I asked.

  “Someone who’s looking for a winter project.”

  I leaned my head against his shoulder. “And will this winter project involve you?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” Mac’s long-term plan had always been to have his own boat. I hoped one of these days he’d be the one with a winter project.

  “Text me when you get back or if something dramatic happens,” he said.

  I knew Rose would be watching for the Lilleys, which meant something dramatic happening was a real possibility.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning Rose and Mr. P. were waiting in the hall when Elvis and I came out.

  “How was your evening?” Rose asked, a tiny smile pulling at her lips.

  “Very good,” I said. “You need to try Mac’s lasagna rolls. He made his own sauce.”

  “It did smell good,” she said. “Do you know what he used for spices?”

  I shook my head. “No, but I’m sure he’d share the recipe with you.” I looked from her to Mr. P. The latter looked a little tired. “How was your evening?”

  “We had a very nice night. We opened the bottle of wine your father made.”

  My father—stepfather, if you wanted to get technical—was a professor and former journalist who still did some writing. He’d gone on a winemaking retreat as research for a story. Months later he’d given us all a bottle.

  “I’m surprised the two of you can stand upright this morning,” I said as we walked out to the SUV. I still had my bottle unopened, but I’d had a glass from the bottle Dad had given to my brother, Liam. One glass had been enough.

  “I had a little from the bottle Peter gave to Liam,” Mr. P. said, “the night he came to the poker game. So I was circu
mspect how much I drank and Rosie has a tolerance for alcohol that belies her size.”

  I gave him a side eye as I opened one of the back doors of the car so Elvis could climb in. “Was that the poker game where you won every hand and Liam tried to bet his boots?”

  “Every hand but one,” the old man said with a smile. “And sadly my feet are not the same size as your brother’s.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Once Elvis and his entourage were settled at the cat show, I headed to the flea market on the other side of Searsport. The building, a huge former barn, was packed with people. It was the first time I’d been at this site and I could see that it was a popular spot. I did a circuit of the space, just looking for things that seemed like they’d work in the shop and getting a general sense of what was for sale. Then I started around again, looking in earnest. In the end I found several treasures and I was happy with how much money I’d spent.

  I bought a metal stool, a Chinese checkerboard, a half a dozen vintage soda bottles, two very worn quilts that I knew from experience could find new lives as pillows and a wire crab cage. I was confident that Mac could turn the Chinese checkerboard into a seat for the stool. The one it had now had a massive dent in the middle, which meant I’d gotten the stool for an excellent price.

  Everything fit easily into the back of my SUV and I drove back to the show hoping nothing “dramatic” had happened in the couple of hours I’d been gone.

  Mr. P. was brushing Elvis, Debra and Christine were laughing about something and Rose was passing around a tin of brownies when I rejoined them. I grabbed one because I knew from experience they wouldn’t last long.

  “We’re celebrating,” Rose said with a big smile. “Elvis and Socrates are both in the finals in their respective categories.”

  “That’s great,” I said. I smiled at Debra. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you,” she said. She looked at the round metal tin Rose was still holding. “I think I need to do a bit more celebrating.”