by Sofie Ryan
Christine leaned forward and grabbed another brownie. “I know I do,” she said, waggling her fingers at me. “A lot more.”
Since I was in public, I brushed the few remaining chocolate crumbs off my fingers instead of licking them away, then went over to see Elvis and Mr. P. “Good job,” I said to the cat, scratching behind his ear. He nuzzled my hand.
“How was the flea market?” Mr. P. asked.
“Very successful,” I said. I told him about my idea for the stool and the Chinese checkerboard. “I used to play Chinese checkers with Gram when I was a little girl. I was pretty good.”
“We played the game a lot when I was a boy.” He studied me for a moment. “Perhaps we could play a game or two before you start work on that stool.”
“I think that could be arranged,” I said. “I meant what I said, though. I was pretty good.”
A confident smile spread across his face. “There is no honor in winning against a lesser opponent.”
That was about as close as Mr. P. came to saying, “Game on!”
I glanced over my shoulder. Rose was talking to Christine, probably about the brownie recipe, based on her hand gestures.
“Have the Lilleys shown up?” I asked Mr. P., lowering my voice a little.
“Not as far as I know,” he said. “But Cleveland found them lingering in the parking lot last night. Suzanne Lilley said she had dropped a glove and they were looking for it. But he thought she might have been filming people with her phone.”
“Not a very creative excuse.”
He gave a slight shrug. “From what I’ve seen, they don’t seem to be particularly creative people.”
“Do you think they caused the problems at the other shows?”
He hesitated.
“It’s too easy, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Yes, it is. And in my experience things seldom are that simple.”
* * *
* * *
Tim Grant came by about an hour later. He was carrying his camera; a black nylon and canvas messenger bag was slung over his shoulder. “Hi, Sarah,” he said with a smile that was a little warmer than it had been the day before.
Rose had just come back with a cup of tea. “Oh, hello, Tim,” she said. “Are we going to look at your photographs?”
He nodded and pulled an iPad from his bag. He tapped and swiped the screen and after a few moments set the tablet on the end of the table about as far as he could get from Elvis, who was inside his tent, looking in Socrates’s direction. The big gray cat made a low murp and seemed to glare at Tim. Elvis looked over his shoulder at the man as well and then made a soft meow. I eyed them for a moment. It almost seemed they were talking about him. Elvis had always been a good judge of people and it seemed Socrates might be as well.
“Tim offered to let Sarah look at the photos he took yesterday,” Rose was telling Debra, who had walked over to join us. “We got so caught up in everything we forgot to take any.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Debra said, bumping her friend’s arm with her shoulder.
“It wasn’t a problem,” he replied with a smile. He glanced at me. “I went through all the photos last night and found several good shots of your cat.”
“Thank you,” I said. His attention had already shifted back to Debra.
I noticed how Tim seemed to light up around her. Rose and I exchanged a look. She’d seen it as well.
Tim showed me how to swipe through the various images and how to tag the ones I was interested in. I slid sideways so Rose could see as well. Tim stepped away from us to talk to Debra. Christine had taken Socrates out of his cage and was slowly brushing his fur. Tim made sure to stay well away from the cat, who in return gave him a look that could only be described as disdain.
“Oh, look at that one,” Rose exclaimed over a black-and-white shot of Elvis with the judge. The cat’s head was cocked to one side in his usual I-am-so-cute pose and they looked as though they were having a conversation.
In the end we decided we wanted all the photos of Elvis and there were three crowd shots that included the Lilleys that Rose thought we should also have. In one they looked to be checking out the main entrance.
“Do you think they were trying to figure out what we put in place for security?” Rose whispered.
“Maybe,” I said, keeping my voice low so we wouldn’t be overheard. “Or they could have just been looking for ideas for running their own show.”
When Tim came back, I showed him which photos I’d tagged and he emailed copies to me. I thanked him and once again offered to pay for his work.
He shook his head. “I’m not a professional,” he said. “I just enjoy being here and taking photographs of the cats.”
Debra had joined us again. She looked at the photo of Elvis with the judge that was currently on the iPad’s screen. “That’s gorgeous,” she said. She looked over at Socrates, who was still with Christine. “Socrates hates having his picture taken. He’s either looking at his feet or his eyes are closed.”
I wondered if what the cat really disliked was the person taking the photograph.
Rose’s brownies were good, but we still needed lunch so at about twelve thirty I pulled on my jacket again. Charlotte had told me about a small sandwich shop in town. Rose and Mr. P. decided they wanted some kind of soup. That sounded good to me, too.
“Maybe vegetable,” Rose said. “Or tomato.”
“Or split-pea,” Mr. P. added.
“Could I bring you back anything?” I asked Debra and Christine. I explained where I was going.
“I’d love a chicken salad sandwich,” Debra said.
Christine abruptly jumped to her feet. “Would it be okay if I tagged along?”
“Sure,” I said. “I could use an extra set of hands.”
“I’m ready,” she said, grabbing her coat.
We headed out to my SUV. “I’m at the far end of the lot,” I said, pointing to the left. “I had no idea there would be so many cars—or people here—today.”
Christine smiled. “The last day of a show is always the busiest.”
We found the car without any problem. Christine immediately turned around in the passenger seat to look at my flea market finds. “Is that a Chinese checkers board?” she asked.
I nodded. “It is.”
She craned her neck for a better look. “And a crab cage?”
I nodded again and fastened my seat belt.
Christine turned back around in her seat and did up her own belt. “I can’t wait to see your store,” she said with a smile.
“Come by anytime,” I said. “Elvis and I will be happy to show you around; although I should warn you, he has some strong opinions around quilts and pillows.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said as I backed carefully out of our parking spot. “By the way, thanks for letting me tag along. I confess I had an ulterior motive.”
“If it has to do with coffee or cookies, I’m in.” A woman in a red minivan gestured for me to go ahead of her. I waved a thank-you.
Smiling, Christine shook her head. “No coffee or cookies, but I like the way you think.” She hesitated. “You can keep a secret, right?”
I nodded, eyes fixed on the road. “Absolutely. More than once I’ve kept the secret that there was leftover coffee cake in the staff room.”
She laughed. “Well, that makes you sound very trustworthy.”
“So what’s your secret?” I asked.
“I ordered a custom-made carrier for Socrates as a surprise for Debra. I saw the partner of the man who’s making it talking to someone down the aisle from where we were and I was afraid she’d see me and come to say hello. I didn’t want her to ruin the surprise, so I asked to tag along with you to avoid her.”
She paused for a moment. “Debra has been an incredible frie
nd. She—and Socrates, too, as crazy as that might sound—were there for me when my husband died almost two years ago. And Debra was my number one cheerleader when I decided to go back to get my master’s degree. I wanted to do something to show how grateful I am.” Her voice caught on her last few words.
I shot a quick glance in her direction again.
She put a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said.
I shook my head. “Don’t apologize. I know how you feel. I have a friend like that—more than one, actually—and a bunch of sometimes-meddling quasi-grandmothers who love me like crazy.”
Christine cleared her throat. “We’re lucky.”
“We are,” I said. “Rose has a saying for that kind of friend: ‘Good friends don’t let you do stupid things . . . alone.’”
She laughed. “That’s Debra, for sure.”
I saw her glance in my direction. “New friends can be good, too.”
I nodded. “Yes, they can.”
* * *
* * *
We found the sandwich shop and our timing was good because it wasn’t very busy. I got pea soup for Mr. P. and chicken vegetable for Rose and myself. The soup came with a fat buttermilk cheese biscuit. Christine ordered the pea soup for herself and two chicken salad sandwiches. “One of them is for Tim,” she explained as we got back into the SUV. She set the takeout bag on the seat as she fastened her belt. “You probably noticed he has a bit of a crush on Debra.”
“It’s kind of hard not to notice,” I said.
“Well, Debra doesn’t seem to see it. Honestly, sometimes I just want to shake him and tell him to move on.” She blew out a breath. “On the other hand, he came to the rescue at a show about three weeks ago when there was a problem with several of the judging cages. Socrates was stuck in one of them and it was Tim who patiently unjammed the latch and got Socrates out of his cage and two other cats out of theirs.”
“He’s an engineer, right?” I asked as I started the car.
Christine picked up her take-out bag and balanced it on her lap. “Yeah. He’s some kind of consultant. If it’s mechanical or electronic, he seems to be able to fix it. Not me. I blew up the vacuum cleaner the time I tried to fix that and knocked off power the length of my street.”
Since we were still in the parking lot I could turn my head to look at her. “You can’t tell me that and not give me details.”
She laughed and shifted her body toward me a little. “I’ll warn you, it’s a long story.”
“I can drive slowly if I have to,” I said.
I didn’t have to drive slowly, but I did laugh most of the way back to the show. Still, in the back of my mind what Christine had said about Tim wouldn’t go away: If it’s mechanical or electronic, he seems to be able to fix it.
After lunch I did a little exploring around the cat show venue and found a bracelet for Avery with a tiny enamel black cat charm that reminded me of Elvis. I wanted to do something to thank her since I’d learned from Mr. P. how much the teen had helped him get everything ready for the show.
At the end of the day, Elvis came in second overall in the Household/Companion Pet category. We got a ribbon and a trophy.
Alfred had some sardine crackers to celebrate—for Elvis, not for himself. I began to gather the cat’s things. Rose stopped to speak to someone and then she joined me, rolling the purple towels we’d used into fat cylinders and stuffing them into one of her canvas carryalls.
“I’ll wash these tomorrow,” she said.
“You were right, you know,” I said as I crouched down to fold the screen Avery had made for the litter box.
“About what?” Rose asked.
I glanced up at her. She looked genuinely perplexed, a tiny frown wrinkling the space between her eyebrows.
“You’re the one who was certain Elvis would behave and do well. You said he had the ‘it’ factor. You were right.”
She leaned down and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “And I could just as easily have been wrong.”
* * *
* * *
Cleveland waved to us as we headed out.
“Cleveland and Memphis are staying until the show has been dismantled,” Mr. P. said.
“I take it everything went well today,” I said.
He nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger. “There were no issues at all. I’m happy to be able to say this show was sabotage-free.”
Rose waved at someone across the parking lot. “It may be a coincidence, but there was no sign of Suzanne or Paul Lilley.”
“I’m not convinced they are our culprits,” Mr. P. said. “But it’s important not to jump to conclusions, so we’re going to look into both of them before the North Harbor show. Just because things went well here doesn’t mean we should get complacent.”
I knew in Mr. P.’s case that looking into the Lilleys meant scouring the internet and in Rose’s it meant using all the real-world connections she had.
“While you’re doing that, maybe you could take a look at Tim,” I said.
Rose stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Tim? Tim Grant, Debra’s friend? Whatever for?”
I explained what I learned from Christine, about how Tim had come to the rescue when Socrates and the other cats had been stuck in the cages that had been tampered with.
“So you think Tim could have engineered the vandalism so he could play the hero?” Mr. P. asked. I recognized that gleam in his eye. He was considering the idea.
I shrugged. “People have done stranger things in the name of love.”
Chapter 6
November was usually a quiet month at the shop, but anyone who came by Second Chance during the week that followed the cat show wouldn’t have thought so. We had four bus tours full of Canadian and international tourists stop in, all on their way to Patriots or Bruins games in Boston, not to mention five carloads of a family reunion on their way to New Hampshire. Mac made the shelves for my cubby project and I managed to settle on the paint colors, prime everything and put on two coats of the final colors. By the time Monday of the following week rolled around I was happy to have a quieter morning. The North Harbor Pet Expo and Cat Show was starting on Wednesday and I knew the end of the week would be busy.
The entire event was planned to last for four-and-a-half days. The pet expo would start on Wednesday and continue through Sunday. The cat show was scheduled to last from Friday afternoon setup to Sunday. They were both being held at the Halloran Arena complex.
The arena had just been named in honor of the family of retired Judge Neill Halloran. The Hallorans had been in North Harbor since the town’s early days more than 250 years ago. My grandmother had known the judge since high school and she’d been very vocal about seeing that the Halloran family’s contributions to the town be recognized.
Neill Halloran had been instrumental in getting the complex built several years ago. He’d not only worked tirelessly at fund-raising, he’d also quietly made a very large donation himself. The center had an ice surface and two gyms in two connected buildings. The cat show was being held in the smaller gym and the pet expo in the larger one. Once again Cleveland and Memphis were providing security.
Neither Mr. P. nor Rose had unearthed any incriminating information about Suzanne and Paul Lilley. There was nothing to suggest the couple had been behind the problems at the earlier shows.
Mr. P. was at his desk in the Angels’ office—my former sunporch. I tapped on the frame of the open door and he gave a little start. “Sarah,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I brought you a cup of tea.” I stepped into the office and set the tea on his desk, well away from his laptop.
“Thank you,” he said. “I was just thinking I’d like a cup.” But instead of taking a sip, he took off his wire-framed glasses and adjusted
one earpiece.
“Something’s on your mind,” I said. “Is it something to do with the case?”
He sighed and slipped his glasses back in place. “I’m not sure.”
I leaned against the edge of the desk. “Tell me what’s bothering you.” I gave him a little grin. “You know what they say about two heads.”
“They make it impossible to wear a turtleneck sweater?” he said, deadpan. Then he smiled.
I laughed. “That, too.” I inclined my head toward his computer. “You found something that didn’t sit right with you. What is it?”
He took a sip of his tea before he answered. “Why did Suzanne and Paul Lilley use such cartoonish disguises at the show?” He slid his laptop closer, lifted the top and clicked a few keys. Then he beckoned me closer.
I leaned in for a good look. A photo of the Lilleys was centered on the screen. It looked like it had been taken at some sort of business function. Paul Lilley was in a gray suit and his wife wore heels and a slim-fitting black-and-white plaid dress.
“If the Lilleys were trying to cause some kind of problem at the Searsport show, why were they dressed in such a way that they’d stand out?” Alfred asked. “The terrible wig, the oversized sunglasses; they didn’t disguise the Lilleys or help them blend in. So why were they dressed like that?”
I straightened up. “I don’t know,” I said. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Mr. P. took another sip of his tea. “I could be heading off on a wild-goose chase.”
The old man was smart; he was very aware of the nuances of human behavior and he had good instincts. “Or you could be . . .” I hesitated, frowning. “What’s the opposite of a wild-goose chase?”
“My late mother used to say it was chasing a bear with a basket of apples.” There was a gleam in his eyes that told me I was walking into a setup, but that didn’t stop me.
“No disrespect to your mother, but chasing a bear, let alone a bear who’s just swiped a basket of fruit, sounds kind of dangerous. And what if you caught up to him? Then what? Would you say please give me back my apples?”
