Undercover Kitty

by Sofie Ryan

  I held up two fingers.

  “Fine,” she said. “Two. Now unhand me. I have to go find my apron.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I dropped off Rose, Elvis and Mr. P. at the show, giving the cat a kiss for good luck. Mac was out in the garage workshop looking at a vanity table and a matching stool when I got back.

  “The answer is oxblood,” he said, “assuming your question was ‘What is that color?’”

  “It was,” I said. Both the table and stool had been stained the same shade as a bottle of red wine. “My second question is, where did they come from?”

  “Teresa pulled in maybe two minutes after you left. I bought a galvanized milk container and a glass shade that I’m about fifty percent certain will work on that old lamp that’s been in the workroom for the last six months.” He gestured at the furniture. “As for this, I traded that oak barrel that we ended up with when we cleaned out the house that belonged to Alfred’s poker buddy.”

  “You mean the bat house,” I said, rubbing my wrist. I had sprained it chasing a bat out of the house with a broom. Mr. P.’s poker buddy had run off to Mexico with a woman he’d met online. It wasn’t one of those younger woman/older man things. The woman was actually five years older than he was and had lots of money.

  “It seemed she liked the cut of Rodney’s jib,” Mr. P. had said in an incredulous tone. Rodney—at least in his photographs—was about the same size as Mr. P. He wore a bad toupee that Rose insisted the man had bought from a late-night infomercial. But he had a warm smile and a devilish glint in his eye and I hoped he and his lady friend were living it up south of the border.

  We’d been hired to clear the house to the walls, sell what could be sold, dispose of what couldn’t and hand the keys over to Rodney’s real estate agent. What Rodney had forgotten to mention was that he hadn’t lived in the house in six months. I’d (eventually) taken care of the bat. Elvis had dealt with the rest of the squatters. The only thing we hadn’t been able to find a home for was an oak barrel.

  “Rodney was going to make whiskey with that,” Mr. P. had said. “Or maybe a table.”

  “So Teresa wanted the barrel?” I said. I walked around the vanity. It looked like it was in good shape other than a few loose joints. Painted a soft cream or some other pale color, it would be perfect for a girl’s bedroom.

  Mac nodded. “I felt like I was taking advantage of her, but the funny thing is, when we made the trade I had the feeling she thought she might be taking advantage of me.”

  I smiled at him. “That’s the best kind of deal. Both sides feel as though they got the upper hand.” My hands were cold and I stuffed them in my jacket pockets. “I need your opinion on something.”

  “I have opinions,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I’m thinking about closing the shop at one o’clock so we can all go to the show and cheer for Elvis. What do you think?”

  “I think you should do it.”

  “I will, then.” I hated to keep dumping all the work on him and Charlotte and it would be fun to have all of us there rooting on Elvis and Debra and Socrates. I reached over and pulled a bit of dried leaf off of his quilted jacket. “I’m sorry you’re not going to be my stakeout partner tonight.”

  Mac smiled. “Me, too, but I think you’d be way too distracting. I mean no disrespect to Alfred, but you’re a lot cuter.”

  I took a step closer to him. “In the interest of fair play, I should remind you that he’ll probably bring some of Rose’s coffee cake. She would never send the two of you out into the field without supplies.”

  His forehead furrowed and he pulled his mouth to one side. “Rose’s coffee cake. That does change things. Just think about it: cinnamon, brown sugar, butter.”

  I closed the gap between us, put one hand on his chest and kissed him. Then I turned and headed for the main building.

  “Still thinking about cake?” I called over my shoulder.

  “Not even a little bit,” he replied.

  I didn’t think so.

  * * *

  * * *

  At one o’clock, I put a large sign on the door telling any potential customers that we were closed for the day but would be open again on Monday morning. I had never closed the store early like this before. There were no bus tours with stops planned for North Harbor as far as I knew, so I was hoping we wouldn’t annoy too many customers.

  Charlotte and I headed over to the arena. Mac left with Avery to pick up her friend Greg. “Avery knows how to find Elvis’s staging area,” I said.

  “Okay,” Mac said. “I’ll see you there.”

  I had to circle the parking lot twice before Charlotte spotted a place to park. “All these cars have to be a good thing,” she said as we walked toward the main doors.

  “I think they are,” I said. “This place has been packed every day.”

  She smiled. “There are a lot of cat people.”

  “According to Rose, slightly more cat owners than dog owners.”

  “I think Elvis has turned all of us into cat people.”

  It was my turn to smile. “I had no idea when Sam set me up to take him that I’d ever be taking part in a cat show—and having so much fun.”

  Charlotte nudged me with her hip. “So you’re saying Rose was right about entering Elvis in these two shows?”

  I looked askance at her. “Well, not out loud,” I said.

  She laughed. “Your secret is safe with me!”

  Chapter 17

  Charlotte bought a ticket, I showed my participant badge and we made our way to Elvis’s station. “Hi,” Debra said. “Rose and Alfred just took Elvis over to be judged. If you hurry, you’ll be able to watch.”

  I looked at Charlotte. She nodded.

  Debra pointed over to the right. “They’re at area number four,” she said.

  We headed through the crowd. We seemed to be going in the opposite direction from pretty much everyone else and I was beginning to think we weren’t going to be able to find the judging area when Charlotte grabbed my arm. “I think I see them,” she said.

  I followed her and as we pushed past a large man with a very petite Siamese I finally caught sight of Mr. P. getting Elvis set up in the judging cage. Rose was standing next to a tall man in a patterned gray and blue sweater vest. He wore black-framed glasses with round lenses and a tuft of gray hair stood up on each side of his head. He looked like a friendly owl.

  I tapped on Rose’s shoulder. She turned around and her expression was a mix of surprise and delight. “What are you two doing here?” she asked.

  “We came to watch Elvis,” I said.

  “But who’s working at Second Chance?”

  “Sarah closed the shop for the afternoon,” Charlotte said. She slipped off her coat and folded it over her arm.

  “I wanted to be here to cheer for Elvis and Mr. P. and it didn’t seem fair to expect everyone else to work.” I felt my cheeks getting red.

  Rose hugged my arm. “I’m so glad you came. Elvis is your cat. You should be here to see his victory.”

  Her certainty that Elvis was going to be top cat in his category was rubbing off on me. I looked at his competitors in the other cages. None of them seemed as engaged as Elvis was and I did agree with James Hanratty that he had a rakish charm.

  Mr. P. joined us then. “Sarah, Charlotte, I’m glad you made it in time for the judging,” he said.

  “How did you know we were coming?” I asked as I undid my jacket. It was warm in the arena.

  “Mac sent me a text.” He glanced at the owlish man still standing next to Rose. “Has Rose introduced you to Henry?” he asked.

  “Good gracious, no I haven’t,” Rose said, putting a hand to her chest. “Henry, I apologize for my terrible manners.” She quickly introduced Charlotte and me. Henry had a warm smile and a deep rich
voice.

  “Henry is a judge,” Mr. P. explained. “He’s been telling us some of the ways owners have tried to influence his rankings over the years.”

  “Let me guess,” Charlotte said. “Cookies?”

  Henry nodded. “And pie, a surprising number of times. And meatloaf twice.”

  I frowned. “Meatloaf?”

  He shrugged. “I guess word got around that I’m a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”

  “Have you ever been offered money?” Charlotte asked.

  “I haven’t, but I have been offered just about everything else—wine, beer, tequila, concert tickets.” Henry held up one hand. “The judging is about to start.”

  The judge was a woman in her early sixties with gray hair in a chin-length bob and cat’s-eye glasses on a chain around her neck. The first cat to be judged was an elegant tuxedo with a slightly aloof manner.

  “Elvis has more personality,” Rose whispered.

  Cat number two was a calico with part of her left ear missing. She was cute and playful and the judge seemed taken with her personality.

  “Too wiggly,” Rose said.

  As far as she was concerned, none of the other cats came even close to having Elvis’s mix of personality and good looks. He was the second to last cat to be judged. I found myself squeezing my arm with the opposite hand, my fingernails digging into my skin.

  After the judge had finished inspecting all the cats, she studied her notes for a moment. Rose put a hand on my arm and I covered it with one of my own. Finally the judge took off her glasses and picked up the ribbons for first, second and third place.

  The third-place winner was the adorable little calico. The judge moved down the line, the second place rosette in her hand. I held my breath. Second place went to the big ginger tabby we’d first seen in Searsport.

  “He’s going to win,” Rose whispered. And then the judge put the first-place ribbon on Elvis’s cage.

  We might have gone just a little crazy. Rose and I held on to each other and jumped up and down. Mr. P. and Charlotte high-fived. Henry grinned and so did several other people around us.

  I went to collect Elvis. He was sitting up, head held high as though he understood exactly what had just transpired. I lifted him out of the judging cage and gave him a hug. He nuzzled my chin. “Good job!” I said. I picked up the first-place ribbon and Elvis put a paw on top of it. He definitely understood what had happened.

  I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I turned to see the judge’s smiling face. “You must be Sarah Grayson,” she said.

  I smiled. “I am.”

  “I’m Amanda Niles. I just wanted to tell you what a charming cat Elvis is.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “This is his first win. To tell the truth, it’s kind of exciting.”

  She reached over to pet the top of the cat’s head and he began to purr. “He deserved to win. He’s healthy and well taken care of and he has the most wonderful disposition.”

  I couldn’t stop smiling. “I can take some of the credit for the first two, but his personality is all Elvis.”

  “There are quite a few pet food companies here because of the expo next door. A couple have asked about Elvis. May I give them your contact information?”

  “Mrrr,” Elvis said with a fair amount of enthusiasm.

  “Yes from both of us,” I said.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you both,” Amanda said. “Good luck at your next show.”

  Our next show? Were we going to do this again or just retire on top? I was sure Rose would have an opinion.

  Mac had just arrived with Avery and Greg as we got back to the staging area. “Well?” Avery said. “Did he win?”

  Rose gave her head a toss and patted her hair with one hand. “Did I call it or what?” she asked.

  Avery gave a squeal of delight. She threw her arms around Greg and hugged him tightly. He looked a little startled and a lot happy. Then she bounced over to me and scooped Elvis out of my arms and kissed the top of his furry head.

  Mac came over to me and put one arm around my shoulders. “How does it feel to be a winner?” he asked.

  “I’m not the winner,” I said. “Elvis is.”

  “You took him off the street and gave him a home.”

  I ducked my head, suddenly and inexplicably emotional. “Sam kind of tricked me into that; and anyway, if I hadn’t taken Elvis in, someone else would have.”

  He leaned his head against mine. “Someone else didn’t. You did. Take the compliment.”

  Charlotte took charge then, corralling Avery and Greg to go with her for coffee and tea for everyone. “We’ll have coffee and donuts to celebrate,” she said.

  “They don’t sell donuts,” I said. “Just coffee, tea and hot chocolate.”

  “Mac stopped for donuts,” Charlotte said, pointing at the box on the table next to Elvis’s crate. He would have been trying to get at them if Mr. P. hadn’t given him a tiny dish of chicken-flavored cat crackers.

  “You brought donuts,” I said with a grin, slugging his arm like we were in grade school.

  He smiled. “What’s a celebration without donuts?”

  “Not nearly as much fun,” Rose said, standing up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  “Did you learn anything interesting from Henry?” I asked Rose, leaning back against the table. “Other than that pie is a good bribe.”

  Mac looked confused.

  “Former cat show judge,” I said by way of explanation.

  “As a matter of fact, we did,” Rose said. “You heard Henry say that the vast majority of participants are not trying to influence him. They want to win fair and square.”

  “But he’s run into the odd person who wants to win at any cost.”

  “Or who just wants the competition to be a little more exciting.” Rose exchanged a look with Mr. P., but she didn’t say anything else.

  It took me a moment to fit the pieces together in my mind. “Are you saying the Hartmans tried to bribe a judge at one of their own shows?”

  “I’m saying that Henry very strongly implied that one of the Hartmans tried to influence his final decision.” One eyebrow went up slightly.

  “I’m guessing she didn’t offer to make him a pie,” I said.

  Mac’s lips twitched.

  “No, she didn’t,” Mr. P. said.

  I laced my fingers on top of my head. “But I thought we’d decided the Hartmans couldn’t be behind the sabotage.”

  “I don’t think they are,” Mr. P. said. He plucked a bit of Elvis’s hair from his shirt.

  “So you don’t think there’s a connection between the fire and the vandalism?” Mac asked.

  Had we been going in the wrong direction all this time?

  “I think the connection is the shows.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  Mr. P. nudged his glasses up his nose. “Just about everyone who knew Christine knew that she was supposed to be in class, plus her car wasn’t in the parking lot and the apartment was most likely in darkness.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ve been thinking that Christine’s comment to you—that maybe the sabotage was personal—meant that she had figured out who the saboteur was and that person had tried to frighten her into silence.”

  “And now you think that’s not the case?” I dropped my hands into my lap, trying not to let my frustration show.

  “Just that maybe there’s another possibility,” Rose said. “What if someone was trying to influence the judging, trying to play up the competition among the top three cats in the purebred categories?”

  “You mean up the drama?” Mac said.

  Mr. P. nodded. “Exactly. Debra’s Socrates, Jeffery’s Nikita and Kimber’s Basil are all at the top of the standings, all just a few points apart. At this point no one know
s which cat will be the regional champion, let alone the national winner. I happen to know that website traffic is up twenty-two percent and all the New England cat shows have had increased traffic, including this one.”

  I shifted my attention to Rose. “That’s what tonight’s about. You think that judge, James Hanratty, is having an affair with Chloe Hartman.”

  She smiled. It was all the confirmation I needed. “I think she’s the most likely suspect and nothing I heard from Henry has changed my mind.”

  “What pointed you in that direction?” I asked. I could see Charlotte making her way back with Greg and Avery and I knew this conversation was just about over.

  “Junie said that women loved Mr. Hanratty,” Rose said as she cleared a place on the table. Elvis had finished his crackers and was sniffing in the direction of the donuts. “She said Chloe had told several of them to knock it off, they were so blatant, but she also said Chloe was just as bad as anyone else. I started to wonder who would benefit from an affair with the judge and it seemed Chloe would as much as anyone.” She looked up at me. “Sarah, you know if we find out that James Hanratty and Chloe are involved it doesn’t necessarily mean she started the fire that killed Christine.”

  I nodded. “I get that,” I said. I also knew it didn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t, either.

  We celebrated Elvis’s win the way we celebrated everything—with coffee, tea and food. Avery and Greg went to wander around and look at the cats. Charlotte and Rose headed over to the other building to check out the pet expo. Mr. P. went to check in with Cleveland, which left Mac and me with Elvis. I told him what Amanda Niles had said about the pet food companies’ possible interest in Elvis.

  “What are you going to do if you hear from one of them?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, taking a sip from the dregs of my coffee. “Can you picture Elvis’s face on a bag of cat food?”

  He looked over at the enclosure where Elvis was stretched out on his side, almost asleep. Being cute and charming was apparently very tiring work. “Actually I can.”