“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 circumspect 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.”
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 friend. 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.”