I went upstairs and got another cup of coffee then I came back down to the shop to bring Mac up to date on Michelle’s visit. There were no customers and Charlotte was in the workroom ironing a beautiful cream linen tablecloth that she was convinced would sell if we displayed it properly. I was equally certain it wouldn’t because it needed to be starched and steam-ironed to look its best and most people didn’t have time for that anymore.
“So what happens now?” Mac asked.
“I’m going to take Mr. P. and Elvis over to the show in a little while,” I said. “As for the case, we keep digging. I am glad Michelle is involved now, though. The police have resources the Angels don’t.”
“The Angels have connections the police don’t,” he said. “Don’t discount that.”
“Good point,” I said, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other.
Mac inclined his head toward the street. “Go,” he said.
I frowned at him. “Go where?”
“Get Elvis, get Alfred and go over to the show.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
He smiled. “Of course not, but you know you want to find out what’s going on over there and so does Alfred. So do it. I’m here. So is Charlotte. And Avery will be along in a little while. We can handle things here. And look at Elvis. He’s a bundle of nervous energy.”
Elvis was sprawled on his back in the reproduction Eames chair that I had brought in from the garage workshop, his tail hanging over the edge of the seat.
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said. “But only because Elvis is so antsy.”
Mac pressed a hand to his chest. “You just give and give,” he said with mock solemnity.
I laughed and went out to the Angels’ office to see if Mr. P. felt like leaving.
Alfred was ready to go over to the arena complex. I gathered up Elvis and his things and we were quickly on our way. Because we were early, I found a spot to park in the second row of the lot. Mr. P. took one of the bags Rose had packed and I got the other. Rose and Debra weren’t inside yet and I hoped things were going well with Michelle.
“Sarah, I need a small favor,” Mr. P. said, setting the bag he was carrying under the table at our station.
“Of course,” I said. “What is it?”
“Could you stay here with Elvis until Rosie arrives? I’d like to go over to the other building and talk to Cleveland.”
“Of course I can.” I lifted Elvis out of the bag. He yawned and looked around.
“You’re sure?” he said.
I smiled. “Positive. We might walk around and scope out the competition.” As if he’d understood my words, Elvis took a couple of passes at his face with one paw.
Mr. P. left and Elvis and I walked down to the end of our row, looking at the banners that were hung all over the space. “‘Dogs have owners. Cats have staff,’” I read aloud.
“Mrrr,” Elvis said.
“Yeah, I thought you’d like that one. How about this? ‘In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods. They have not forgotten this.’ Terry Pratchett. Very wise man.”
Elvis bobbed his head as if in agreement.
I spotted another banner, a little farther down. “This one is an old English proverb. ‘In a cat’s eye, all things belong to cats.’” I scratched the top of his head. “Why do all of these sayings seem to apply perfectly to you?”
All I got for a response was an unblinking, green-eyed stare.
At the end of the aisle we turned and started back to our station. I kept on reading the overhead signs. “I like this one,” I said to Elvis. “‘Dogs come when they’re called. Cats take a message and get back to you.’”
We had just made it back to our section when Kimber Watson almost ran into us. Her head was bent over her phone and her cat was in a black and gold carrier slung over her shoulder. She stopped abruptly and blinked at me.
“Are you all right?” I asked. Elvis eyed her, squinting his green eyes as though he was trying to decide if she was friend or foe.
“I know you,” Kimber said, pointing a stubby finger at me. “You were outside the arena with an older woman the other day when security was being so unreasonable.”
I nodded. “That’s right. Has Basil adjusted to the space?”
“He’s been very unsettled. Which wouldn’t have happened if I’d just been able to let him feel the energy of the room in advance.”
I glanced at the carrier bag. Basil didn’t look unsettled. He appeared to be sound asleep.
“I’m sure he’ll do well in the competition,” I said.
Kimber frowned in annoyance. “Well, of course he will. Basil is a professional.” She squinted at Elvis. “This moogy is yours?” she asked.
I had no idea what a moogy was, but the way she said the word didn’t make it sound like a compliment. “Yes,” I said. “This is Elvis.”
She held out her fingers and let him sniff them, then ran her hand over his fur. “He does have a nice coat.” She looked around. “Do you know where Debra Martinez is?”
“She isn’t here yet, but she should be arriving in just a few minutes. Would you like me to give her a message?”
“I wanted to tell her I was sorry about her friend,” Kimber said. “I’ll come back.” She turned to leave.
“Good luck today,” I said.
She looked back over her shoulder at me. “I make my own luck,” she said.
I watched her walk away and wondered what exactly that meant.
Rose and Debra showed up with Socrates just as I was getting Elvis settled in his tent.
Debra was more composed than I expected. She looked at Rose. “Sarah knows?” she asked.
Rose nodded. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish that there hadn’t been a fire at all and I wish . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I want to know who killed Christine and why,” Debra said.
I saw the determination in Rose’s eyes. I knew what she was going to say before she spoke. “I give you my word,” she said to Debra, “we will figure it out.”
I was pulling out of the arena parking lot when I realized I never did pack any lunch because Mac and Mr. P. had shown up at my door. I decided to drive over to the sandwich shop.
“Hey, Sarah,” Glenn said. “I’m so sorry about your friend. I liked her. She had a great laugh.”
“You’re right,” I said. “She did.” I cleared my throat. “What’s the sandwich special today?”
“Turkey with cheese and arugula.”
“Okay, I’ll have that and coffee.” I handed over my stainless steel mug. Avery had reminded me more than once that I used too many disposable cups and I was trying to do better.
“How’s Elvis doing in the show?” Glenn asked as he poured my coffee.
“Judging starts today,” I said.
He smiled. “I’ll cross my fingers.” He handed me my mug. “Hey, do you remember the people filming the reality show over the summer?”
I made a bit of a face. “Vividly. I think they messed up traffic all over town.”
“Well, get ready for that to happen again. The producer is back in town.”
“I thought I saw him at the pet expo,” I said. “I guess I was right.”
“Rumor has it he’s teaming up with a couple who know the cat show circuit to do a pilot for a partly scripted reality show about cat show people.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “What does ‘partly scripted’ mean?”
Glenn shrugged. “From what I can tell, it means the reality won’t be very real. Apparently this couple, whoever they are, will play quirky cat lovers and try to get a rise out of other people.” He made air quotes when he said the word “quirky.”
I rested my cup on the counter and folded my hands around it. “I think the whole thing sounds mean.”
“I agree,” Glenn said. “And let’s face it, the treasure hunt idea from the summer didn’t exactly bring out the best in people.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll go check on your sandwich.”
He came back with my lunch and I paid and let him top up my coffee, on the house.
“Tell Elvis I’m rooting for him.”
I laughed. “I will,” I said.
I slid behind the wheel and fastened my seat belt, but I didn’t start the SUV. I thought about what Glenn had just told me, especially the part about the structure of the potential show: a couple pretending to be quirky cat lovers trying to get a rise out of other people. The first thing that had occurred to me was the Lilleys in their ridiculous disguises. Was that why they had shown up at the Searsport show? Was that why Cleveland had seen them shooting video in the parking lot? People could go to some pretty ridiculous extremes to get on TV, I’d learned when the treasure show had been filming. Could it be as simple as the Lilleys being involved in this reality show? I didn’t know, but I was betting Mr. P. could find out.
I pulled into the Second Chance parking lot just as Avery was coming up the sidewalk. I waited for her and she smiled when she saw my coffee mug.
“If that had a green drink, it would be even better,” she said. I saw a smile pull at the corners of her eyes and mouth and realized she was teasing for the most part.
“Coffee beans are green before they’re roasted,” I said.
She smiled. “You’re funny.”
“How did the parent-teacher meetings go?” I asked.
Avery made a face. “Nonna agreed with my French teacher that I have a bad attitude and now I have extra practice three times a week. She also agreed with me that he has a crappy accent, but she said that his accent and my attitude have nothing to do with each other.” She sent two bracelets spinning around her arm like two tiny hula hoops. “And Mr. Harrison, my gym teacher, has to take a seminar on gender equality in the classroom.” She looked up and grinned. “Nonna rocks!”
I grinned back at her. “She absolutely does.”
“Could I switch and work tomorrow morning instead of tomorrow afternoon?” Avery asked then, abruptly changing the subject.
“If Charlotte will switch with you, yes,” I said.
“I want to go to the cat show to see how Elvis and some of the other cats are doing, and I want Greg to meet Socrates.”
Greg was Avery’s sort-of boyfriend. He was quiet and serious and both Rose and Charlotte were always trying to feed him, which worked out well because he had the typical teenage boy’s bottomless pit of an appetite.
“Elvis will love having a cheering section,” I said.
Avery held open the back door. “I decided I’m going to volunteer with the cats at the animal shelter. I talked to a guy from there the other day. He said they could always use more volunteers.”
“That’s a great idea. You could talk to Jane. She’s been volunteering there for years.”
“Nonna’s Jane?” She frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
Jane Evans was Liz’s assistant and probably the only person on the planet who could get away with telling Liz what to do. “You’ll have to clean cages and empty litter boxes,” I warned.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I thought Elvis was the only cat I liked, but it turns out I like pretty much all of them. I like Elvis better than some people.”
I felt the same way some days myself.
“And I like Socrates, and there’s a Sphynx cat named Fifi, who’s such a sweetie. And I like Nikita, but her owner is kind of cheap.”
She was talking about Jeffery. I gave her a look.
“Well, he is,” she said with a shrug. “His hair-dye job isn’t very good.”
“That doesn’t make him cheap,” I said, stopping next to the workbench. Mac—or maybe Charlotte—had left a large box sitting there. “Maybe it just didn’t turn out.”
“It’s not the only thing. Remember before the show when I was getting a bunch of Elvis stuff for Mr. P?”
I nodded. “I remember.” I lifted a flap on the top of the box and looked inside. There were several large platters wrapped in newsprint. Maybe something a repeat customer had called looking for?
“I saw Nikita’s owner. He was in the store. There’s a coffee shop right next door and he picked up a half-empty bag of chips someone had walked away from when he thought no one was looking.” She frowned. “And who eats chips for breakfast, anyway?”
“People eat cold pizza for breakfast. And as for Jeffery Walker, maybe he has money problems.”
Avery gave a snort of derision. “Sarah, he drives a BMW.”
“So maybe he’s a freegan, someone who tries to use up food other people don’t finish. Try not to be so judgy.”
“Fine,” she said. “But I still say scoring chips that someone else left behind is just cheap; it’s not saving the planet.” She disappeared into the shop.
I just stood there. Avery had seen Jeffery Walker with a half-full bag of chips. My first impulse was to think that she was wrong or hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. Maybe he’d absent-mindedly picked them up because he was thinking about something else. It didn’t mean the man had started the fire that killed Christine; although if he had, it would make sense that he hadn’t bought a bag of chips—a transaction someone might remember.
On the other hand, Christine had believed Jeffery was cheating and they had argued. I remembered what Rose said about the potential for big money for this year’s winners. I knew that money made people do stupid, stupid things.
It was a quiet afternoon broken up by Maud Fitch coming in to buy four chairs and by two cars of friends on their way to a wedding in Nova Scotia. After much discussion, they had bought a beautiful quilt for the bride and groom, laughing about it going on the honeymoon bed. It made me smile to listen to them, especially since one of the women had explained that the happy couple were in their seventies.
“I’m a sucker for a happily-ever-after ending,” Charlotte said, putting one arm around my shoulders.
“Me, too,” I said, leaning against her.
I was getting ready to head over to the arena when Mac came in from the workshop. He’d been working on the teak benches all afternoon, repairing and regluing the joints. “How about dinner a little later?” he asked.
“Does it involve me cooking?” I said. “I will. I just want you to be aware that my success rate is still at about the seventy-five percent mark.” Considering that not that long ago I’d been pretty much incapable of cooking anything—at least without starting a fire of some sort—that was a pretty big accomplishment. And it was only because of Rose’s and Charlotte’s persistence. Still, if I was cooking for someone, I generally felt better if they knew there was a possibility that we could end up with take-out pizza.
“It does not involve you cooking,” Mac said with a smile. “We can go down to The Black Bear for dinner or we can stay in and I’ll make burgers and my famous sweet potato fries.”
“Stay in,” I immediately said. I loved fries of any kind almost as much as I loved coffee and chocolate. “You can cook in my kitchen if you like. It’s bigger.”
He smiled. “Sounds good.”
Before I left I gave him my spare key. “We shouldn’t be too long, but it is Rose and Mr. P. so I’m not making any promises.”
When I got to the show, I found Elvis smelled like sardines. There was no sign of Debra and Socrates. Mr. P. was on his cell phone. “I take it we have reason to celebrate,” I said to Rose.
Rose smiled. “Yes, we do. Both our boys are sitting very comfortably in second place waiting to make their runs at the top spot. The judge called Elvis roguishly handsome.”
“The judge is right,” I said.
The rogue in question licked his whiskers.
“Do I have a minute to go talk to Junie?” Rose asked. “She’s up on everything that’s going on and there are a couple of things I want to ask her about.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
Rose handed the cat over to me and brushed a bit of cat hair from her sleeve. “I won’t be long,” she said.
“I’m proud of you,” I told Elvis. He nuzzled my chin, which might have meant Thank you, and might have meant Are there any more sardines? “Mac is making our supper,” I added. He looked pretty pleased to me.
Mr. P. ended his call. “Hello, Sarah,” he said. “How was your afternoon?”
I smiled. “It was good.” I told him about the longtime friends on their way to the wedding that had been a very long time in the making.
“You’re never too old to find true love,” he said with a smile of his own.
I thought about him and Rose, about Gram and John. About Mac and I.
“I like that thought,” I said. Elvis head butted my hand and I scratched under his chin, which started him purring. “There are a couple of things I need to talk to you about.”
“I need to talk to you as well.” He looked at something over my shoulder. I turned just as Memphis joined us carrying an iPad.
He smiled. “Hey, Sarah.”
“Hi, Memphis,” I said.
“Since Memphis is here, do you mind if I go first?” Mr. P. asked.
“Merow,” Elvis answered.
I smiled at Mr. P. “No, we don’t.”
He nodded at Memphis, who swiped at the screen of his iPad a couple of times and then turned it so I could see. “This is security footage from early this morning,” he said.
The images were black-and-white but sharp and clear. I had no trouble recognizing Jeffery Walker as the person trying to get into the building.
“So you think Jeffery is responsible for the mice Cleveland found at the pet expo?” I asked.
“Man is carrying a shopping bag that has something in it,” Memphis pointed out.
“Does he actually get in?”
Mr. P. shook his head. “Not via this door. But there are two others and we’ve been having problems with the camera at one of them.”
“Before we go any further I need to share something,” I said. I told them what Avery had told me, how she’d seen Jeffery snag a bag of chips from a table.
Some of the color drained from Mr. P.’s face. Memphis looked at him, one eyebrow arching up.
“She wouldn’t make something like this up. I admit I have a hard time coming up with a reason that Jeffery would have wanted to start a fire at Christine’s apartment, but they did have an argument and there are a lot more money and endorsements up for grabs this year, as I understand things. I know Christine believed Jeffery was cheating.”
“We need to talk to the man,” Mr. P. said.
“Fine, but not without me,” Memphis countered.
Mr. P. nodded. “All right.”
“Where is Nikita’s staging area?” I asked.
He pointed to the end of the middle row on the other side of the aisle. “Over there.”
“Let’s do it,” Memphis said.
Tim showed up just as we were leaving.
“Debra will be right back,” Mr. P. said.
“Okay, thanks,” Tim said. “I’ll wait.” He looked at me. “I got some good photos of Elvis today. If you’re around tomorrow and you have time, you can take a look at them.” He gave me a tentative smile. “There’s a great one of him with his head to one side and a paw in the air like he’s about to high-five the judge.”
“I’d like to see them,” I said. He seemed less standoffish than he had before. I wondered if that was because of Christine’s death. They’d known each other a long time.
He nodded, leaning against the table next to Socrates’s empty tent. “I’ll be around all weekend. Just let me know when you have some time.”
“Is it all right if I bring Elvis?” I asked Mr. P. I didn’t want to wait for Rose and miss the conversation with Jeffery.
“It’s fine with me,” the old man said.
He glanced at Memphis, who shrugged a shoulder. “Hey, it’s all right with me. It’s not like there’s not cats all over this building.”
We started in the direction Mr. P. had indicated.
“Rose said Socrates is in second place,” I said. “Who has first place at the moment?” Elvis was hanging over the side of my arm, looking at every staging area we passed.
“Nikita,” Mr. P. said. “Debra thinks Socrates misses Christine. He was lacking a bit of his usual spark today.” He hiked his pants up a little higher. Not that they needed it.
“That can happen,” Memphis said. “Cats can be very attuned to the emotions around them.”
“Are you a cat person?” I asked.
He smiled. “Damn straight. I have four. I’m thinking about entering them in the show next year.” He nudged Mr. P. with an elbow. “What do you say, Alfred? I’d need a second pair of hands.”
“I’d be honored,” Mr. P. said. “Assuming Sarah and Elvis don’t need me.”
“We’ll let you know,” I said. “I have a question, though: Do you know what a moogy is?”
“It’s a cat that’s considered to be ordinary,” Memphis said. “Why are you asking?”
I thought about Kimber. Elvis was far from ordinary. “I just heard the term and wondered what it meant.”
“It’s really just a word some people use to distinguish between regular cats and ones whose bloodlines can be traced back for generations,” Memphis said. He glanced at Mr. P. again. “Alfred, I think I should take the lead here.”
Mr. P. nodded. “All right.”
We found Jeffery getting Nikita settled in a large black carrier bag. “Hello,” he said with a smile that included Elvis. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Mr. P. introduced Memphis as his friend and part of the security team for the cat show and the pet expo.
Memphis was wearing a lanyard with his ID badge tucked inside the chest pocket of the long-sleeved, body-hugging black T-shirt he was wearing. He pulled the badge out and showed it to Jeffery, who looked a little puzzled. “Mr. Walker, I’d like to show you some security footage from this morning,” he said.
“All right,” Jeffery said. If he had any idea what he was about to see, it didn’t show.
Memphis tapped the screen of the iPad a couple of times and swiped a couple more. Then he turned the tablet around so the other man could watch the video.
Jeffery was very smooth. “That’s me,” he said.
Memphis nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m aware of that.”
“You’re probably wondering what I was doing.”
“It looked to me that what you’re doing is trying to break into the building,” Memphis said. He was just as cool.
Jeffery nodded. “I can see why you think that. What actually happened is that I left my wallet behind at one of the vendors last night and I was just trying to see if there was anyone left inside who could let me in so I could get it.”
Memphis studied him for a long moment without speaking. It was long enough that anyone else would have spoken just to break the silence. “At quarter to five in the morning,” Memphis said. “If you’re going to lie, sir, come up with a better one than that.”
Elvis leaned sideways and nudged Jeffery’s arm. He began to absently stroke the cat’s fur.
“What were you really doing?” Mr. P. asked.
“I don’t see that it’s really any of your business,” Jeffery said.
Memphis shrugged. “I have no problem calling the police to handle this. It will be one less thing on my plate.”
When Jeffery didn’t respond, Memphis gave him a polite smile. “Thank you for your time,” he said. He turned to walk away. I’d seen Liz use the same trick. It worked just as well for Memphis and without the benefit of high heels.
“Wait,” Jeffery said. His composure was slipping a little.
Memphis turned around and looked expectantly at the other man.
“Fine. I was trying to get into the building. But I wasn’t trying to do any damage. I just needed to get some things I’d left behind. That’s all.”
That lie wasn’t any better than the previous one he’d told.
“What was in the shopping bag?” Memphis asked.
“Nothing important.”
His skill at not telling the truth was rapidly going downhill.
“Where did you get the mice?” Mr. P. asked in the same tone of voice he might have used to ask where the man had bought his shoes.
Jeffery looked genuinely surprised. “Mice?” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about the two that you put in a booth at the expo.”
Jeffery shook his head, a frown carving lines into his forehead. “I didn’t put any rodents in a booth. Where would I even get one? And why would I do something like that?”
He was still petting Elvis without really paying any attention. And Elvis was still happily settled in my arms.
I looked over at Mr. P., who had noticed the same thing. Jeffery was telling the truth. As strange as it seemed, the cat had an uncanny knack for figuring out when a person was lying. When someone was stroking his fur, if they weren’t being completely honest about whatever they happened to be talking about, Elvis somehow knew, that knowledge evident in the disdainful expression on his furry face.
Jess’s theory was that Elvis was the feline version of a polygraph machine. Somehow he was responding to changes in a person’s heartbeat, breathing and perspiration. Mac had pointed out that since part of a dog’s brain was devoted to deciphering emotions in human’s voices, why couldn’t Elvis differentiate between lies and the truth? Both explanations made sense to me. The problem was that the feline lie detector acted as one only when it suited him.
“What was in the bag, sir?” Memphis asked again. Even though he wasn’t as big a man as Cleveland, he could still be imposing.
Jeffery weighed his words for a moment. “Catnip spray,” he finally said.
He was telling the truth, at least as far as Elvis was concerned. “Nikita suffers from anxiety and it helps her. I wanted to spray it around the judging area before anyone else was around just to help her relax.”
“The use of catnip spray isn’t permitted at the show. At any of the shows,” Mr. P. said.
“People can use antianxiety medications,” Jeffery said, an edge of indignation in his tone. “Why not cats? It’s all-natural.”
“Where were you Tuesday night?” I asked.
“I was home in Portland,” he said.
“Where were you about eight thirty?”
“I was picking up more of the spray from the herbalist who makes it. Nikita uses her proprietary blend.” He suddenly seemed to realize why I was asking. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You can’t think that I had anything to do with Christine Eldridge’s death?”
He’d stopped stroking the cat’s fur and Elvis was moving restlessly in my arms. I shifted him to my other shoulder. “You two argued.”
Jeffery’s dark eyes flashed. “Yes, we argued. It was meaningless. Christine threatened to tell the Hartmans about the catnip spray, but I wasn’t worried.”
“Why?” Mr. P. asked. Memphis seemed intrigued by the conversation, content for the moment to just stand and listen.
“Because I’m reasonably certain they know and they don’t care. The rivalry among Nikita, Socrates and Basil is bringing in more people to the shows, which means more money for them.” His expression changed, softened a little. “I would never have hurt Christine. Most of the people who take part in these shows have known each other for years and it’s not always easy to make friends, but Christine was kind to me. Winning is what matters to me, but not at the cost of someone’s life.”
Elvis leaned forward once more, vying for Jeffery’s attention, and once again Jeffery smiled at the cat and reached over to scratch behind his ear. Elvis made a little exhalation of happiness.
There was one more thing I had to ask. “Do you like potato chips?”
He frowned at me and then suddenly he sighed and shook his head, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “This show is just one giant hive of gossip,” he said. “I mentioned one time in front of two people—just two—that I had to give up potato chips because of my high blood pressure and it was a bit of a challenge and now everyone is the food police. Yes, I swiped three chips from a bag Debra had today—awful ketchup flavor, by the way—and I will bring her a new bag tomorrow.”
“Ever picked up a discarded bag? Say, off a table or the top of a trash can.”
Color flooded Jeffery’s face. “Do I have to share every stupid thing I’ve ever done?”
I’d gone too far. I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You don’t.”
My instincts said he was telling the truth and Elvis had confirmed it.
Memphis held out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Walker,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, this is settled.”
Jeffery nodded. “Thank you.”
“Good luck tomorrow,” I said.
“You as well.” I think he was talking more to Elvis than to me.
We headed back to our staging area. “I believe him,” Mr. P. said. “About the catnip spray, about the fire, about everything.”
“So do I,” Memphis said. “I’ll check his alibi, but I’m confident I won’t find anything.”
“Do you think the catnip spray really does give Nikita any kind of advantage?” I asked.
“Cat already looked pretty mellow to me,” Memphis said.
“I can’t believe how competitive the man is.”
Memphis smiled. He tipped his head in Elvis’s direction. “Right. And you don’t want the King of Rock and Roll here to take the top spot tomorrow?”
“Not enough to cheat,” I said.
“Good for you,” he said. “But for a lot of people, the line that they won’t cross isn’t exactly carved in stone. After all, no one remembers the losers.”