Claws for Alarm

by Cate Conte

  “It’s about a piece of property.” Grandpa then muttered something about the traffic inching along our street. Summer on Daybreak. The weather was beautiful, the beaches were divine, the food was amazing, and the traffic was horrendous.

  “Property?” I wrinkled my nose. “That sounds boring.”

  He didn’t reply. We walked in silence for a bit, people hanging out their car windows pointing to JJ. It cracked me up—people thought cats on a leash were the funniest thing.

  Just as we reached Damian’s, Grandpa turned to me. “So how are you feeling about this woman, Doll?” he asked. That had been his nickname for me since I was a baby. Val had been so jealous when she was little that she’d insisted he give her one too. A better one, she’d said. So he’d started calling her Muffin and Pumpkin and other sweet-themed names. She’d gotten tired of them pretty quickly and decided she was happy to be just Val.

  “Jillian?” I shrugged. “I’m excited. This is a great opportunity for the café. I’m going to take advantage of it.”

  “As you should. Just don’t get in over your head. Or let your sister get in over hers. You know how she gets.”

  I wondered why he was asking, but Grandpa was probably just being Grandpa and trying to look out for me. “I do know,” I said. “And we all promised we’d help her if she needed it. You too, right?”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  “Cool.” I pulled open the door to the fish-market side of the Lobstah Shack. JJ squeaked with excitement. He knew he’d get a treat. Or perhaps an entire meal. One never knew with Damian.

  While the restaurant part of the shack had a number of people enjoying dinner, the fish market had only one customer. And from the looks of it, a disgruntled one. Even from halfway across the room, I could tell the suit worn by the guy standing at the counter was pretty darn expensive. There wasn’t a wrinkle to be seen on the back, and I wondered how he wasn’t sweating. It was already pretty warm out for early in the season. And his tone of voice as he addressed the poor teenager behind the counter was not happy.

  Grandpa and I glanced at each other and made a joint telepathic decision to hang back so as not to embarrass the poor kid, who was already red-faced. He kept looking behind him as if he were waiting for someone to swoop in and save him.

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” he kept trying to interject, but the guy wasn’t having it.

  “I just don’t understand,” I heard him say, with exaggerated incredulousness, as if whatever the kid was saying was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard and he had to drive the point home. “How do you not have fresh, wild-caught salmon? This is a fresh fish store. On an island.”

  The kid opened his mouth again to try to explain. I was about to go help him when Damian hurried out from the back, wiping his hands on a towel. He glanced over, saw me and Grandpa, and gave us a nod before he turned to the guy.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. He made a get out of here motion with his head to the kid, who gratefully escaped to the back.

  “I certainly hope so,” the guy said. “I need fresh, wild caught salmon.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t have any at the moment—” Damian began the same explanation the kid had tried to make, but the guy cut him off too.

  “I don’t want to hear any lame excuses. Do I have to take my business elsewhere? I need that salmon!” His tone had taken on a wild desperation, as if the world as he knew it might end if he left this store without that particular fish.

  Grandpa raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged. Entitled tourist. The majority of people who summered on Daybreak Island were a completely different league of humans than the year-round residents. They had lots of cash to play with and they wanted a ritzy place where they could do so. They’d pretty much taken over, building giant homes that overshadowed the legacy, simpler homes out here. A lot of the mom-and-pop shops had gone away, to be replaced by high-end food and coffee shops and fancy boutiques. Part of me appreciated that, as Ethan and I were hoping to open our own higher-end business on the island—a juice bar—but I could sympathize with the feeling that this little island had become a playground for the rich to use and abuse any way they wanted, then leave the residents here in the winter months to clean up the mess.

  “Sir.” Damian spoke in a firm, even tone that I’d never heard before. It actually shut the guy up. I was impressed. “We don’t have fresh, wild-caught Atlantic salmon because there’s a shortage right now due to overfishing.” He launched into a complicated diatribe about too many fishermen, dwindling populations, and climate change that also impressed me. Clearly he was taking this new part of his business extremely seriously.

  The guy huffed and puffed a little but didn’t seem to have any comeback to that. Instead, he muttered, “A fish market with no fish. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” And he turned and stalked out, not even glancing at me and Grandpa as he passed us.

  I caught a glimpse of his perfectly tanned (and possibly Botoxed) face, slicked-back hair, and shiny blue tie and felt an instant dislike. Once the door had slammed shut behind him, we moved to the counter where Damian stood, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

  “He was a sweetheart,” I remarked.

  “But you handled it well, son,” Grandpa added.

  Damian shrugged modestly. “Rich people,” he said. “The world revolves around them, don’t you know that?” He came around the counter to give me a hug and shake Grandpa’s hand, and rub JJ’s ears. “So what can I get for you?”

  “Fresh, wild-caught salmon?” I suggested.

  He gave me a look. “You’re funny.”

  Grandpa perused the selection in the case. “How about the swordfish?” he asked me.

  I nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  Damian gave JJ some fish in his special bowl and went to wrap our purchase. He handed us our bag. “There’s more in there for JJ too. Good to see you guys,” he said. “Maddie, we’ll have to get together soon. I want to do a new marketing campaign for the fish market.”

  When Damian had first started his business, I’d offered to help him out a bit. Now I’d become his unofficial publicist. “Sure,” I said. “Come by whenever. Hey, did you ever find out who owned that fancy boat?”

  Damian shook his head. “No. Everyone’s abuzz about it, though. And it’s kind of making people mad. Cutting down on available space for other boats.”

  I laughed. “Rich-people problems. I wouldn’t be surprised if it belonged to that guy who was in here.”

  “You know, neither would I,” Damian said.

  Chapter 8

  “Mads. Have you seen Ollie?” Lucas stuck his head around the door where I was organizing shelves with my new JJ merchandise the next morning.

  It was Saturday—exactly two weeks until the fund-raiser—and I’d woken up super early with thoughts of the event and all the associated tasks running through my head. Between marketing it and helping Val plan it, the next two weeks’ activity would be fast and furious. Plus, I needed to make sure I had extra JJ merchandise on hand, if we were going to be getting more publicity and more traffic. I wondered if Jillian’s team included a professional marketer or two and made a mental note to ask. It was only me and one of my volunteers, Clarissa, doing social right now for the café, using Instagram as our main marketing channel.

  “Right here.” I pointed to the floor where Ollie literally lay on my feet. He had become my second sidekick pretty much since day one when Lucas had brought him home, and he was less likely to forego hanging out with me for napping, unlike JJ. He was a sweet dog, a pit bull mix whom Lucas had rescued twice—once from a shelter, and most recently, last winter from his ex-girlfriend. Ollie was grateful to be here, and he loved everyone. He hung out with me when I worked, he went on walks with Grandpa, and he liked to be in the café when Ethan was cooking because Ethan always gave him snacks. He’d bonded with JJ so well it was like they’d grown up together. The two of them had become best buds. Olli
e also liked to hang out with the cats in the café. As long as there were no cats that were terrified of dogs, I always let him. I’d wondered what it would be like introducing a dog into our house, but it had been seamless, like he’d always been here.

  “I should have known.” Lucas grinned ruefully and stepped into the room. “He barely cares about me anymore.” Ollie wagged his tail, but didn’t get up. I was getting a cramp in my foot, but didn’t have the heart to move him. At least until I’d finished with these particular shelves. “I think he’s more your dog these days.”

  “What can I say. Animals love me.” I winked at him. “But that’s not true. He adores you. Hey, what do you think of these?” I held up a new T-shirt I’d recently had made. JJ’s face was on the front pocket, and the café sign with the name—JJ’s House of Purrs—took up most of the back in sprawling script.

  “Very cool.” Lucas inspected it.

  “I put a couple up online and they already sold. I’m going to get more made. I’m hoping when we start marketing the fundraiser, we’ll get lots of orders.” I folded it and placed it on the shelf. “We still hitting the beach later today?”

  “You bet.” Saturdays were super busy in the morning, and I had a full schedule with clients booked beginning at nine, which was awesome because it was still early June and we hadn’t even hit full visitor/tourist capacity yet. Some of the sign-ups were my regulars, but there were other names I didn’t recognize. But I was also making it a point to have some fun, and I planned to knock off early afternoon to take advantage of the weather. That’s why I had a shelter manager, after all.

  This was gonna be a good season. I could feel it. I was here with my family, I was helping cats, and best of all, I had Lucas. My heart was pretty full these days. And I wasn’t taking it for granted for even one second.

  “Cool. And then we can go out for dinner tonight since we cooked last night?” He cocked his head at me. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  I extracted my feet out from under Ollie and went over and threw my arms around his neck. “Because I’m happy.”

  I could feel him smile against my cheek. “Good, babe. I’m happy too.” He hugged me a little tighter. Ollie came over to sniff around our feet. He never liked to feel he was missing out on something, especially hugs.

  “I would love to get dinner tonight,” I said when I’d finally let go. We hadn’t had a date night lately because I’d been so busy getting the café ready, and his animal grooming business was really picking up the past few weeks. I ran a hand through my tangled hair. I hadn’t even showered yet, but wanted to get some stuff done before we got busy. “You should get one of Ethan’s muffins on your way out.”

  Before he could answer, the door to the café burst open, startling us all. Ollie stood up and barked. I usually didn’t even unlock the door this early, but I’d gone outside for something and forgotten to lock it behind me when I’d returned. Lucas grabbed Ollie’s collar before he could bound to the door.

  I went over to see who was there. “I’m sorry, we’re not—Oh! Jillian. What are you doing here?”

  Jillian Allen stood in the doorway, grinning like the cat who’d eaten a canary. I hated that saying, but it was completely appropriate at the moment. She brandished a bag full of pastries and a giant box of coffee from one of the fancy island bakeries. Which immediately made me cringe, given that Ethan had been baking and making coffee all morning.

  She shoved the bag at me. “Those are Danish. The special ones that your grandfather likes,” she said with a wink. “Now. Do I have a surprise for you!”

  The special ones my grandfather likes? How on earth would she know that? I glanced self-consciously at my ratty T-shirt and shorts and frantically tried to remember if I’d even brushed my teeth. I was not prepared for company, especially company like this.

  “A surprise?” I managed, glancing behind me at Lucas, who looked equally as surprised at the way she’d barged in. “What kind of surprise?” I could hear a ruckus behind her, but couldn’t see past her to figure out what it was.

  She stepped aside and bent at the waist, sweeping her hand forward as if she were introducing the Queen of England. “Peyton Chandler!”

  My mouth dropped open as my eyes traveled past her to the woman standing slightly out of sight, waiting for her introduction. At first I thought I had to have misheard her. Peyton Chandler was one of the renowned actresses in the business, known for playing cheeky roles depicting badass women, including a superhero in a popular series. She’d been around for a long time and had reinvented herself over the years until she’d reached her current peak—she’d been starring in the Catwoman franchise for the past five years. It wasn’t an accident—Peyton’s career had taken a turn toward roles with strong animal connections after she’d made headlines for her animal rescue efforts after a major hurricane blasted its way along the East Coast nine or ten years back. She’d been part of major efforts in New Jersey and New York, and had been commended for her hands-on work that had saved many cats and dogs—and even a ferret family.

  She had bonded with one of her rescues, a rare flame point Siamese female who had been found drenched and bedraggled, floating on a piece of someone’s house. No one had ever claimed the cat, so Peyton kept her, naming her Rhiannon in a nod to her obsession with rock legend Stevie Nicks and showering her with the best kinds of things money could buy for a feline, as well as constant companionship. Word was, Peyton and Rhiannon went everywhere together, and the cat had even starred alongside her human in a number of movies because Peyton had refused to have a stand-in. I’d also heard Rhiannon had her own dressing room on every movie set, as well as a personal chef and a part-time “petter”—someone who would sit and pet her during the scenes when Peyton was busy.

  Needless to say, Peyton’s doting on her feline friend had earned her a cult following in the rescue world, a whole other fan base than her typical Hollywood followers. Rhiannon had even gotten her own magazine covers a few times. And Stevie Nicks herself had paid tribute to the pair at a gala in Los Angeles a few years ago, where Rhiannon was invited to be the guest of honor.

  And now Peyton stood on the threshold of my cat café, with the famous feline in her arms, smiling at me. I blinked, wondering if I just needed more coffee. But despite my disheveled appearance, I was excited about Rhiannon. I loved flame points.

  Rhiannon hid her face in the crook of Peyton’s elbow. She was a cool-looking cat, with big blue eyes and orange markings throughout her face, ears, and tail. Her paws were also orange. The rest of her body was white with a tiny glimmer of rust color showing through, especially when the sunlight through the window hit her fur. She wore a sparkly pink leather collar topped off by a little dangly paw-print charm. It fastened with a rhinestone buckle and was attached to a matching leash, which also had multiple matching paw-print charms dangling from the handle. I’d heard Rhiannon had her own clothing and accessory line. This must be part of it.

  I did wonder why Peyton had chosen pink as her color. It seemed to clash with the orange. Personally, I would’ve gone for green. That was usually what I put on JJ. I liked to call him an Irish cat.

  I’d met only one flame point Siamese before—a friend of mine in California had one. You barely ever saw them in shelters or rescue places. That was a fact for most Siamese breeds. They were fancy cats, and unless you had a bad breeder who was dumping cats they considered “defective,” you usually didn’t stumble across them in a rescue capacity.

  Peyton swept past Jillian like the Hollywood royalty she was, stopping with a dramatic tilt of her head, sending her cascade of thick, blond hair tumbling down her back. She wore a simple black skirt and red silk tank top with a pair of open-toed Louboutins that literally made me drool. “Hello,” she said, in that breathy voice that had caused many men to swoon, at least in her younger days. I wasn’t exactly sure how old she was—she looked darn good for whatever age she happened to be—probably late forties, certainly past the typi
cal Hollywood prime age. “I’m Peyton. It’s lovely to meet you, Maddie. I’ve heard so much about this wonderful place. And this is Rhiannon.”

  I forced myself to stop gaping at her. “I-I’m honored to meet you both,” I managed, feeling completely inadequate. “And this is, um. This is Lucas. My boyfriend,” I added, jerking my thumb behind me at where Lucas still stood.

  “Hello, Lucas.” She smiled at him, that open, welcoming smile that sent her followers swooning.

  “Great to meet you,” Lucas said.

  An impatient face loomed over her shoulder, nudging her forward. She sent a quick frown his way before turning back to me. “This is Chad Novak. My agent.”

  She stepped aside to reveal a man in an expensive suit with slicked back hair and what looked like a perpetual frown darkening his face. My eyes widened. It was the guy from Damian’s fish shop. The one who’d been a complete jerk to Damian and his employee. He recognized me too. It took him a second, then I saw the recognition hit. He gave me a curt nod.

  Her agent. Yikes. Nice guy. I wondered if he’d been acting that way on his own, or if it was an extension of her.

  Another woman stepped in behind them. She was older, probably late sixties, judging by the lines carved around her eyes and mouth. Her silvery blond hair fell in waves to her shoulders, which were wrapped in a violet silk scarf.

  “And this is Esther. My assistant. She comes with me everywhere,” Peyton said with a little laugh.

  “Hello. So nice to meet you all,” I said, awkwardly reaching out to shake hands with Esther, who was closest to me.

  “Someone needs to keep an eye on you,” Esther said, and I got the sense she was only partly teasing. “Maddie. Lovely home.” Esther shook my hand, thankfully, so it wasn’t dangling in midair. Chad didn’t bother.