Chapter 8
Becky and Chris headed back to FOCA to return Ray, my afternoon demo cat, and Mark and Dave took Ginger back to the veterinary clinic. Before splitting up, we all speculated as to whether we’d be expected to do our demos again tomorrow. We decided we’d stick to the agreed schedule unless someone called and told us the programs were canceled.
On my way out of the hotel, I observed a long line of people with pet carriers at the main exit. It reminded me of an airport security checkpoint, as a Bradburne staffer in the standard gray polo and black pants peered closely at each feline and perused its papers before letting it leave the building. I wondered how long my mother and Harry would get hung up by this inspection, yet outside on the plaza, before I’d even reached my van, I saw Harry’s BMW glide out of the parking garage.
I waved him over to the curb, and my mother rolled down the passenger side window. “You two must have been the first ones out of there,” I teased.
“We bent the rules a little,” Mom said with a wink. “One of the hotel staffers showed us a back way out to the garage.”
“Really? Should he have done that?” I worried that someone less honorable than Mom and Harry might get the same idea.
“Oh, he knew we were just leaving with the same cat we came in with. Maybe he felt sorry for us because we’re old codgers.”
“Barbara!” said Harry, sounding shocked.
I laughed. “You’re hardly that. Anyway, as long as you got a break, I won’t hold you up. Have a good evening.”
“You, too, honey,” Mom said, before they cruised away.
I pondered the idea that even the hotel guys on the floor at the cat show didn’t seem to know any type of serious crime had been committed. Maybe that was intentional on the part of the cops. I was glad I hadn’t told my mother and Harry the whole story.
Before I could drive off the property, I had to let a female guard check the inside of my van, including all the built-in compartments. She was vague about the reason for the search. I could have gotten huffy and told her to call Perry Newton, who I’m sure would have let me off the hook, but I really didn’t mind. I was glad to see them making some effort to find Gordie.
When I reached my shop, I was way more tired than I should have been at seven p.m. At least the road crew seemed to have quit on time and even made an effort to leave the driveway clear for me to get into my rear parking lot. They must have assumed I’d only be driving the tidy little CR-V parked back there. They either didn’t notice, or forgot, that I’d left that morning in the monster van.
I pulled the van’s nose right up to the available opening, parked there, and got out to assess my chances. A hair too far left or right and I’d scrape either the shovel of their massive backhoe or the equally massive elm tree at the edge of my neighbor’s property.
I gritted my teeth. So far I’d been able to avoid leaving the flashy vehicle parked on the street overnight. I don’t know what I was afraid of—it had a secure lock and an alarm, and there wasn’t really anything of value inside it to steal, but maybe someone would think there was. A greater threat might be a driver who’d been drinking or dozing behind the wheel, who might slam into it and then drive away. After all the money I’d spent customizing the thing, I dreaded not only paying for the repair but patching up the fancy paint job.
On the other hand, a thief or a drunk driver was a remote danger. Scraping the paint by trying to get in the driveway, under the present circumstances, was almost inevitable. If I didn’t do it on the way in tonight, I surely would when I drove out tomorrow. And even if I made it into the lot now, the road crew could start work before I left tomorrow and block me in.
That decided it. My flashy vehicle with its prancing Persian on the side would have to spend tonight parked in front of the house two doors down . . . which had been spared any construction activity so far. The resident was an older guy who mostly kept to himself and didn’t seem to go out much; I doubted that he would complain. At any rate, I made sure not to encroach at all on his driveway.
Sarah had left by now. She had her own set of keys, so she’d been able to let herself into the shop at nine and lock up when she left at five. I hadn’t scheduled any customers for grooming over this weekend, because I didn’t want Sarah to have to handle those jobs alone. Most cats fussed at least a little and needed two sets of hands to manage them.
In the early days, when I’d been grooming solo, I’d had to use a harness much more often. I’d tried out several other assistants—some younger and supposedly with training and experience—before Sarah had come along. Her unflappable temperament, from decades of teaching math at an inner-city high school, qualified her more than anything else to work at Cassie’s Comfy Cats. Our typical customer came with four sets of claws, sharp teeth, and lightning reflexes, and could twist himself around in your hands like a Slinky. Sarah had needed those steely nerves of hers, especially while she was still learning the job.
At this stage, she probably could deal with a more compliant feline on her own, but if anything did go wrong, a cranky owner might take issue with the fact that Sarah wasn’t certified as a groomer, which I am. No sense setting her up for any type of trouble—she’d have plenty to keep her busy, dealing with the boarders and any drop-in customers. Though we’d been having fewer of those, too, since the road work had started.
Once inside the shop, I found a message on my front counter phone from my neighbor Mrs. Kryznansky. That didn’t surprise me much, since Sarah had prepared me for the woman’s complaints.
“Ms. McGlone, I know you have contacts with the local police. Can you get them to stop this awful noise and disruption on our street? I actually had a picture fall off my wall the other day from that terrible drilling! I asked the head man how long it’s supposed to go on, and he said they’ll be working on our street all month. How is that allowed? I’m hoping there’s something you can do.... Thanks!”
I shook my head over the message. The jackhammers were done, anyway, so her pictures should stay in place from now on. And annoyed as Adele Kryznansky might have been, at least she didn’t have cats from four paying customers staying on her ground floor and getting agitated by the din. Plus, I knew all too well that the Chadwick police had more urgent problems to deal with right now. I didn’t look forward to the road work stretching out all month, either, but removing and replacing a mile or so of deteriorated sewer line was a big job. Afterward, I supposed they’d also be rebuilding the curbs and the sidewalks, though at least that should be less noisy.
On the sales counter next to the phone, I found a handwritten note from Sarah—her graceful, legible schoolteacher penmanship put mine to shame. She told me everything had gone smoothly that day, and a repeat customer wanted to bring his cat in the following Monday to board. She also hoped I’d had a fun, “star-studded” experience at the expo.
Poor Sarah’s doing her usual half shift for me tomorrow, with all the disruption outside and the complaints from Mrs. K. I’ll make it up to her and pay her for a whole day. And just maybe, if I can talk to Bonelli at a less-than-frantic moment, I’ll ask if anything at all can be done about the road work noise.
Perry nailed it, didn’t he? I always end up being the problem solver.
I hated to disappoint Sarah by telling her how badly the “star-studded” part of the expo had gone. At any rate, I wasn’t free to do that.
Reporters from both the local paper and a TV station had attended the opening of the expo. What would they report, or not report, by tomorrow? Maybe just that Jaki’s interview had to be cut short because of technical problems? There would be no suppressing that part—the whole audience had seen it. But the guard’s death probably could be kept under wraps for a while if the cops wanted it that way.
I ran a quick check on my boarders. Sarah had promised to let each of them out in the playroom for half an hour during the day and had fed them just before she left. Now that things outside were quiet, they seemed calm enough. The only sign I found that the day’s noise had disturbed them was a hairball coughed up by Mia, the Siamese. I cleaned it out of her cage, then soothed her with a stroke and a little more dry food.
All those tasks done, I climbed the stairs to my apartment and called to my three cats. Black Cole and calico Matisse came trotting to the top of the stairs, while orange Tango galloped up like a Shetland pony, his version of sarcasm. I’m always amused by the way the same cat can slink around soundlessly when he wants to keep a low profile, or thunder across a room when he wants attention. At various pitches, they all voiced complaints along the lines of, It’s about time you got home!
After feeding them, I wandered around the apartment checking for signs of stress and boredom. All I came across were teeth marks on the corner of a magazine I’d left on the trunk/coffee table and a few new snags in my vintage chenille bedspread. The first mischief I probably could blame on Cole, since he liked to gnaw; the spread damage looked like Tango’s work. Not too bad, though, when you considered how I’d neglected them, while pampering other cats, over the past few days.
As a child living in a suburban home, I’d had a variety of pets: turtles, fish, birds, and often both a dog and a cat who always coexisted fairly well. It was Cassie’s Peaceable Kingdom, you could say, and my parents just lived in it. My dad had tolerated all of the creatures about equally, but I knew my mom abhorred anything in the reptile family. I didn’t find out until last year that she also had a mild phobia about felines.
My first cat, Candy, had been a calico like Matisse and an equally good sport. When I’d been too young to know better, I’d dressed her in doll hats and sweaters, and she’d sat still for that indignity long enough for me to snap pictures. My felines lived a long time—Candy had made it to twenty—so although I always had owned at least one, overall I hadn’t had that many. And the three living with me now represented the most I’ve ever shared my space with at once. I’ve seen victims of animal-hoarding situations, and know too well what can happen when you take on more pets than you can decently care for.
Sarah helped with the feeding and litter pan duty in the shop, but upstairs, those chores all fell to me. After doing them tonight, I finally got to relax. The wrap sandwich I’d eaten before I left the expo seemed like a distant memory, so I grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator. Organic vanilla with little bits of the beans in it, very tasty. From Nature’s Way, Dawn’s shop. Since I’m not fond of cooking, being tight with someone who ran a health-food store had greatly improved my eating habits.
Dawn had been my best friend in high school. We’d gone to different colleges but reconnected a few years after graduation. That she and I now owned businesses within blocks of each other was no coincidence. Her success running a shop in Chadwick actually had inspired me to take the entrepreneurial plunge.
I always enjoyed visiting Nature’s Way. The building had started life at the turn of the century as a feed store, and Dawn had preserved as much of that atmosphere as possible. She’d kept the vaulted ceiling with its exposed beams, given the rough plank walls just a light wash of pale green paint, repurposed the built-in shelving, and installed a beautiful oak-and-glass display counter from an old pharmacy. Along with health foods, Nature’s Way sold related goods such as natural cleaning products and toiletries, and New Age trinkets and jewelry.
I hadn’t spoken to Dawn in a couple of days, which was unusual, and I felt the need to connect with her now. She’d always helped me to make sense of stressful, overwhelming situations. But how much should I tell her about the craziness happening at the expo?
I didn’t need to worry about that. When Dawn answered the phone, we instantly got off on a different subject.
“Oh, Cassie,” she said, an edge of pain to her voice, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner. I spent most of this morning at the doctor’s.”
“You did? Why, what’s going on?”
“Nothing too serious, but I broke a bone in my foot. So dumb! I was carrying a case of canned goods in from the storeroom, tripped on the hem of my skirt . . . and dropped the case on my foot! Of course, it would have been a day when I was wearing sandals instead of shoes or boots.”
Tall and willowy, Dawn affected a neo-Bohemian style of ethnic, ankle-length skirts and dresses that went well with the theme of her store. I’d never known her fashion choices to cause her injury before, but I guessed there was always a first time. “You poor thing! You should have called me.”
“I knew you were busy with the expo, and Keith was coming by anyhow. So I just limped to one of the chairs by the wood stove and sat with my foot up until he got here. He took me to an urgent care clinic. The doctor there took an X-ray, put me in one of those big Frankenstein-monster boots, and told me not to walk on it.”
I winced. “That’s got to be a drag. Will you need surgery or anything?”
“Fortunately, no. The doctor said it should heal okay in the boot. But I’ve still got to stay off the foot for at least six weeks.”
“I’ll bet it hurts, too. Did he give you something for pain?”
She sniffed. “You know me, I won’t take anything too strong. Right now I’m on regular Tylenol. I can still feel a throb, but I’d rather at least be able to function.”
“Can you still run the shop like that?”
“Not very well, but Keith’s helping me. He brought me some crutches he had left over from a hiking accident, and once we adjusted the height, they worked pretty well. Still, I’m not much use except to sit behind the sales counter. We opened late today and will probably close early. When things are slow, he can even do some work at the counter on his laptop.”
Dawn’s significant other, Keith Garrett, was a freelance commercial artist. Although he had a studio in his loft apartment across town, I supposed he could create his designs electronically anywhere.
“Well, that’s lucky.” I still felt unreasonably guilty that I hadn’t known about Dawn’s accident sooner. “I wish I could help you, but I’m committed to this expo for the whole weekend.”
“I know you are. I’m just disappointed that I can’t get over there to see one of your grooming demos and to stroll around. I thought I’d go on Sunday, but now I’d never be up to all that walking. I couldn’t even climb the stairs from the shop to my apartment—I had to use the old freight elevator.”
“Oh, gosh. Lucky that’s still operating.” Usually, Dawn reached her second floor via a winding wrought-iron staircase toward the back of her sales area; that would never work with crutches and the padded boot. The elevator, reconditioned by our favorite local handyman, Nick Janos, was a relic from the days when the store had sold large bags and bales of animal feed.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m lounging around in the apartment, bingeing on British murder mysteries on cable, and waiting for Keith to come by with Thai takeout for dinner. How about you? Did the road-work racket finally let up outside your place?”
“At seven, thank God. Tonight they had my driveway partly blocked, so I had to leave the van on the street. Hope it’s still there in the morning.”
She laughed. “I’m sure it will be. Who’d try to make off with something that has a huge cartoon of a cat on the side?” Dawn said this with a touch of pride, because Keith had designed that preening Persian for me. “And how’s the big expo going?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should burden her with the whole messy story. But we’d worked on so many intrigues before that she’d probably want to know and might even be able to help. So I told her everything, even about the disappearance of Gordie and the death of the security guard. If I ask Dawn not to repeat something, I know it’s locked in the vault until I give her the all-clear.
“And you don’t think the missing cat could have been just a mix-up?” she asked.
“By the time I left, around six-thirty, he still hadn’t been returned. If one of Jaki’s people or someone on the hotel staff had taken him, they certainly would have known how to get him back to her room.”
“Maybe he got loose somehow, and the person who was in charge of him is afraid to admit it.”
“I guess that’s possible, though Jaki’s assistant already had put Gordie into his carrier. From what I overheard in the parking garage, Jaki is half-hysterical over losing him. She’d just been saying during the interview that she takes him everywhere. That when she’s stressed by performing or touring, he’s a big comfort to her.”
“That’s rotten. Why would someone steal her pet? Is he valuable?”
“I doubt that he’s able to breed, and Harry Bock said there’s not much point in stealing any cat to show because you need their paperwork.”
“Still . . .” Dawn reflected a minute. “People have stolen famous artworks that they could never resell to a museum, just to be able to hang them in their homes and look at them.”
“But anybody could get a nice-looking Scottish Fold cat without going to the trouble of stealing one that’s so high-profile.” And certainly, I thought, without killing someone in the process. “I think he was taken specifically because he was Jaki’s cat.”
“Mmm. She’s had pictures of him all over the Internet, hasn’t she?”
“She has. I guess a crazy fan could have taken him just to be able to say they now owned the famous Gordie—to have a link to Jaki. But also, she and her family have been getting weird, stalker-type messages lately. I’m guessing this person wants leverage. Maybe they’re holding Gordie for ransom, or maybe they want something else from Jaki.”
In my mind, I couldn’t help picturing the tall, gawky guy who’d watched my demo while wearing the T-shirt with Jaki’s photo and the message, Marry me! Then I felt bad about suspecting the singer’s fans, including the Jak-ettes, just because they acted a bit too enthusiastic.
Over the phone, I heard the freight elevator clunk to a stop just outside Dawn’s apartment. Keith shouted a hello.
“C’mon in. I’m on the phone with Cassie,” Dawn shouted back.
“Hi, Cassie,” said Keith into the phone. “I hear you’ve got the road-work blues.”
“I shouldn’t complain, compared to what Dawn’s going through. So glad you’re at least able to help her out! Listen, I’ll let you two enjoy your dinner. I have some research to get back to.”
“Ah,” said Dawn, who caught my meaning. “Good luck!”
Setting aside my phone for the rest of the evening, I brought my laptop into the bedroom to pursue a new angle in my investigation.
This delighted the cats, who followed me. I never allowed them in the bedroom while I was sleeping, because among the three of them, someone was sure to cause mischief that would wake me up. While awake, though, I enjoyed their company, and my mishmash of bedclothes in assorted floral and striped patterns were all easily washable. I’d done the room in my personal take on cheap country chic—this was Chadwick, after all. The space was just large enough to accommodate a queen-sized iron bed, an old trunk at the foot for extra linens, and a few pieces of secondhand furniture. The dresser, nightstand, and chest of drawers all had seen better days, but looked pretty cool after I’d painted them all pale green. The rag rug camouflaged any cat accidents and could go in the washer.
By the light of my bedside lamp, wired by Nick from an old lantern, I began my high-tech search on the Internet.
The stalker was someone obsessed with Jaki, though probably he didn’t know her very well. It might help to study just what kind of image she was putting out there. I had heard a couple of her hits on the radio, had seen her perform on an awards show, and had once come across a video for “I Need My Space” online. When I searched the web, though, I found many other videos that included clips from her first TV series, cameo appearances acting on other shows (most notably, Galaxy Wars), concert footage, and interviews. And of course there were promotional videos for at least half a dozen of her best-known songs, which supposedly Jaki penned herself.
I checked out the last group first. These were artsy compositions, keyed to the song lyrics, that spun fantasies ranging from romantic to rebellious. For Jaki’s wistful ballad of loneliness and frustration “Free Me,” the lovely brunette ran and danced in slow motion across a field beneath an overcast sky, sometimes glancing behind as if something were chasing her. To the tune of her sultry rocker “Vicious Circle,” she swaggered around in a black crop top, leather mini, and stiletto boots, and at one point grabbed her anonymous partner forcefully by his tie. In the hip-hop number “Bits and Pieces,” she performed in front of a wall of colorful graffiti, abetted by four equally limber male dancers. I recognized this song as the one the Jak-ettes had been singing and dancing to back on the plaza at the hotel.
While this research was entertaining, it didn’t help me pin down what kind of stranger might be drawn to Jaki, or why. Her image shifted like a chameleon’s, from sweet and vulnerable to boldly sexual to hip and sassy. It was smart marketing, of course, designed to appeal to a wide spectrum. The really young girls and their parents could view her as an acceptable role model, while the older teens, especially boys, might prefer the tougher, hotter Jaki. Well, she had trained as an actress. No doubt she saw these different faces simply as roles she needed to play.
YouTube also offered some concert footage that showed the petite brunette commanding a stage in front of a vast audience, bantering with the band or her backup singers, and again performing both a sweet, vulnerable love song and a streetwise, sexy dance number. For an interview at her California apartment, Jaki shot the breeze with a writer from an e-zine (unseen behind the camera) and tossed off glib answers to all of his questions, as if nothing could throw her. I could see why girls her own age and younger would look up to her as the epitome of cool, totally in charge of her own life.
But was that really true?
And which side of her persona appealed the most to her troublesome stalker? The brazen vamp? The fun-loving hip-hop chick? Or the lonely, frightened girl running blindly from a threat that could come from anywhere, at any time?
* * *
Around eight-thirty, when I just wanted to watch some silly TV and forget the whole issue, I got a call from Perry. Maybe the rest of our demos had been canceled, after all?
“Hi,” I said. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“You are, Cassie . . . as long as you still feel safe coming to the expo.”
“I think so. It’s not as if you’ve got a sniper on the loose who’s picking off people at random . . . do you?”
A tight chuckle. “The cops don’t seem concerned about that, and if they were, you can be sure we’d shut the whole event down. As long as you’re willing to come back, though, I do have a special favor to ask. I’ve rescheduled your first grooming session tomorrow for ten instead of nine.”
“Sounds as if you’re the one doing me a favor. What’s up?”
He hesitated. “At nine, can you come up to Jaki Natal’s suite? She wants to meet you.”
It was my turn to laugh nervously. “Of course she does, seeing as we’re both such big celebrities! Seriously, though, why—”
“You gave your card to her father, and Jaki noticed that we talked with you in the parking garage. I mentioned that you deal with cats professionally and have even helped solve some cat-related crimes around town. . . .” He sighed, as if in apology for getting me involved. “She figures you might have some special insight.”
A year ago, I might have pooh-poohed this idea. But a few times since then, I’d worked closely with the police, or other official organizations, to check out angles they didn’t have the time or manpower to investigate. And after all, when I’d given Hector my card, I had offered to help in any way I could.
“All right,” I told Perry. “Nine it is. Just tell me where to go.”
He gave me directions, saying the security staff would be told to expect me. “Come alone,” he added.
Had I suddenly graduated from police informant to undercover agent?