Nancy J. Bailey - Furry Murder 01 - My Best Cat

by Nancy J. Bailey

  I took another deep drag on my cigarette and kept watching the lights.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ginny Robards

  Pensive

  I never understood how other women could slide in and out of relationships, or be promiscuous, or see more than one man at a time. Women are supposed to be emotional creatures. We’re like cats that way. We need to be choosy about who we give our affections to.

  I never dated again after Jimmy. He had just taken too much out of me. His eating habits had stayed with me, however, and I gained thirty pounds in that first year. It became too difficult to work and take care of cats and diet as well, and the weight just wouldn’t come off. So after awhile I quit worrying about it. Before long it was fifty and then sixty pounds. I threw the bathroom scales in the dumpster by our apartment parking lot.

  Liesl and I immersed ourselves in the cat fancy and were content with that lifestyle. It seemed neither of us needed a man. We had each other, and we had our Persians.

  Leisl had taken to going out at night for long walks. At home near the apartment, it didn’t bother me so much, but on cat show weekends it made me nervous. Now she was off again, and I lay propped up in the bed with my book, Eidel curled up under the covers next to me. I tried hard to concentrate on the story, but couldn’t.

  After her first cat, Muffy, had died, Liesl developed a morbid obsession with death. She started dressing in dark clothing and wearing black eyeliner. I didn’t find it at all attractive or appropriate for a twelve-year-old, but understood she was grieving and just expressing herself. Throughout her teenage years, she became more and more withdrawn from her peers. Instead, she spent all her spare time at the library, poring over books about law. I thought she’d become a lawyer someday for sure. She asked me questions incessantly, about everything having to do with justice and the legal system. Had I ever gotten a speeding ticket? Had I ever been in jail? She even wanted to know if I had ever spray painted graffiti anywhere! She had a very inquisitive mind. She never seemed disappointed to find my life was generally very uninteresting, but she never ran out of things to ask.

  Now she was in her thirties and seemed to have no social life at all. It was difficult to imagine Liesl having a tryst with a boyfriend, but stranger things have happened. I didn’t bother her with a lot of prying questions. She had always been a very private person, preferring to be the one gathering information rather than providing it.

  It was actually romantic to think of her having a rendezvous with someone. I thought about the movie, “The Sound of Music”, the scene with Liesl and Rolfe in the garden at night when she sneaked out to meet him. How beautifully she could dance, how her toes pointed. How beautifully she could sing. How Maria later urged her to, “Wait a year or two.”

  Ah, the passion, the pain of youth. I finally closed my eyes, with the music playing in my head.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kim Norwich

  Saturday Afternoon

  Reynolds was firing questions at these suspects like a machine gun. “What time did you get here Saturday morning? What did you do when you got here? Where were you when you heard about the murder?”

  He was so friendly though. As he rattled off questions, he would nod, jot down notes and appear as if it was all casual stuff. People warmed to him. I stood off to the side and watched their reactions. I could not perceive any liars, but sometimes it was difficult to tell when their eyes flicked over to the restroom. Murder made people nervous.

  About three o’clock he took a break. “Come on, Norwich.”

  He walked toward the door, reaching in his pocket for his cigarettes. He held the door for me. I led him outside. A stiff November breeze was kicking up, but the sun was bright. We stood next to the building out of the wind and had a smoke.

  “So what did you do up in Manistique, Michigan? What did you do for fun?”

  I looked up in surprise. Not only had he remembered the name of my hometown, but he knew how to pronounce it.

  “We went ice fishing,” I said. “We skated and snowmobiled.”

  “What is it, winter all the time there?”

  “Pretty much.” I took another puff.

  “Probably gets pretty damn cold up there in Northern Michigan.”

  I laughed a little, as the smoke escaped between my lips. A confirmation.

  “Do you still do any of that stuff?”

  I shook my head. “I hate the cold. I don’t like to be out in it.”

  “Ah, you’re not as Nordic as I imagined.”

  “Nope.”

  “I hate the cold too. I used to like to ski, but I don’t do that anymore. The idea of strapping two boards to my feet and sliding down a mountain got dumber as I aged.”

  I nodded.

  “Ever been skiing?”

  I shook my head. “Unlike you, I always knew that was a dumb idea.”

  He laughed.

  “What do you make of this murder, Reynolds?” I asked.

  “You’re just all business, aren’t you? Don’t you ever relax?”

  I shook my head. “Not when somebody gets killed on my watch.”

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll get them. We just have to go through all the hoops.”

  I looked up in surprise. “You already have a name!”

  “No.”

  “You know something!”

  “No I don’t.”

  “You’re lying! I can see it! Don’t lie to me, Reynolds. You suck at it.”

  He looked at me with amusement. He held his cigarette down low, away from him, and flicked the ashes. “Apparently I suck at a lot of things.”

  I paused. I couldn’t ask him for details. I didn’t expect him to compromise his professional integrity. But it was a little irritating to think that he was on to something, and I still had no clue who the killer was.

  And there was the understanding, the silent agreement that passed between us at that moment. I knew I couldn’t ask, and he couldn’t say more. He just stood there and grinned at me. And then I was smiling back at him. Couldn’t help myself.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Cecilia Fox

  Saturday Morning

  In high school I had read a story about the Black Plague and how it had taken over London in the early 1800’s. People dropped like flies, left and right. It was carried by rats, and rats proliferated rapidly around the shipping docks where goods came from other countries. The rats popped out of cases and crates of everything: Tobacco, rice, wine and brandy. The story told how they clambered up the masts of ships and gnawed on the boot laces of sailors in the crow’s nest. They destroyed tons of imported wool, shredding and chewing and nesting in it. They ran over sailors’ bunks while they slept, tearing the feathers out of pillows where their heads rested and fearlessly helping themselves to thinning rations of hard tack and salt pork in the galley.

  Thus began a country-wide search for cats. People brought them from everywhere: Their farms, their homes, their alleys. Tabby cats. Fluffy cats. Black cats. Cats with extra toes and short tails and entire litters of kittens. Cats who had been pampered house pets all their lives were called to service in the greatest Cat Draft in world history.

  Mass carnage followed. There were rat bodies everywhere. People heard thumping on the docks as cats murdered rat after rat, body slamming them against walls and dropping them into the sea. Cats walked along the railings and searched in the deepest alcoves, among the cases of dates and olive oil, tails trailing through the dust and cobwebs of the dark and musty shipping yards. Even when the cats became bloated with rat innards, they continued to kill as if they knew it was their duty.

  Not long after the cats were released, nary a rat was to be found among the shipyards there. The cats were celebrated with fanfare and a giant cat statue was erected looking over the harbor, much as the Copenhagen Mermaid still does today.

  The story so delighted me that it stayed with me through the years following high school. Finally, one night I did a search
on the Internet to see if I could find it again. I wondered if there was any truth to it.

  I quickly began to wish I hadn’t done the search. Not only could I not find the story, but when I looked up the Black Plague, I found that it had actually occurred in the 11th century. There were horrendous details that I couldn’t seem to stop reading. Victims suffered chills, fever, diarrhea and vomiting. Blood vessels exploded. Lymph nodes swelled. Blood spread under the skin, causing it to look black, hence the name Black Death. It killed most of the people infected with it, and while it was quickly eradicated by the use of antibiotics, they were of course unknown in those times. It was highly contagious and spread by flea bites from an infected host. While rats were indeed listed as the primary source for this abomination, I found to my horror that cats too were also susceptible. They could die from the Plague.

  I remembered the one time Kenya was sick with an upper respiratory infection, incidentally happening the same time I had the flu. The vet told me that we could have given it to each other. I thought how odd it was that he would be so in tune, to share not only my tuna sandwiches, my pillow, my sun-drenched afternoons, but also my illness.

  The idea of cats as fellow victims in this world was just too much for me to bear as I trudged back into the show hall that Saturday morning. I decided to stop thinking about it and try to focus on something else. Maybe I’d start a new knitting project.

  But of course, in the back of my mind lurked the nagging question: Where was he?

  Would she bring him back today?

  It was hard to imagine Kenya being unhappy, but I knew he had to be missing me. For an instant, a panicked thought raced through my brain – perhaps that crazy bitch had had him euthanized! But then I told myself that if his spirit left this world, I would surely feel it.

  I waited for her by his cage, thinking up things I would say if she showed up without him. Ultimatums I could give her. “You get that cat back here before ten,” I would tell her. “Or I’m reporting you to CLAW. You will never breed or show another cat in this association!”

  Or I could grab Zephyr and hold him up and say, “Kenya comes back, or Zephyr dies. It’s your choice.”

  Of course, she would think me incapable of doing it. She’d probably laugh in my face. And she didn’t really care about Zephyr anyway.

  What did she care about? What could I use against her? What could I take from her that would matter to her?

  Maybe if I offered her money. I had six thousand dollars saved up in a retirement fund. I could offer her all of it. Surely he was worth that much, even to her.

  But Roxanne came in that morning as usual, totally snubbing me. She breezed right by me, plopped Zephyr’s carrier down on the grooming cart and pulled him out. And I was suddenly unable to speak. She threw Zephyr into his cage.

  She didn’t even look at me. She didn’t say hello. She gave me no indication as to where Kenya was, instead turning away to flirt with Jack. I heard her say she was going to freshen up. And then that was that.

  When she didn’t come back, and Jack had disappeared too, I thought they were having a late morning tryst. But then suddenly the police were there, and someone told me Roxanne was dead.

  And there was the questioning. The police approached exhibitors one at a time, taking them aside and detaining them sometimes for as long as twenty minutes. I looked around for Andrew, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was his partner, the photographer. Everyone was pinched and nervous. The exhibitors huddled together in clumps, occasionally bursting into hysterical laughter.

  I couldn’t find my knitting. It had been under Kenya’s cage the night before. I would have liked something to do with my hands. I pulled out Zephyr’s litterbox and gave him fresh litter and water. I was reaching under his cage for the packets of cat food, when I heard a voice, singing.

  “Ding, dong, the bitch is dead, the wicked bitch, the witch ol’ bitch, ding dong the wicked BITCH is DEAAAD….”

  “Andrew! For heaven’s sake, she’s your –“ I turned as I spoke, and then my jaw dropped. I froze in mid-sentence. There stood Andrew, grinning broadly, bouncing on his toes, and in his arms was my own Kenya Strut.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tracy Pringle

  Saturday Morning

  The appearance of the body would only be good for the cat fancy. News crews were already gathering. I did a quick swipe through my hair with a brush, then a quick swipe over Baloo with a cloth. I had put just a dash of Bay Rum on it. I gathered him up in my arms and walked toward one of the camera crews. Baloo hissed and I rapped him sharply on the top of the head.

  As I had planned, the camera swung toward me. I gave it my most radiant smile and held Baloo close. A tall young woman approached with a microphone.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Tracy Pringle.”

  “Tracy, I am assuming that you are one of the exhibitors here today.”

  “That’s right. This is my champion, Baloo.”

  “And Baloo is what kind of cat?”

  “He is a blue Abyssinian.”

  “We understand that there’s been a murder here in the show hall today.”

  “Yes, isn’t it terrible? Really awful!”

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “Vaguely, yes.”

  “And did she have any enemies that you knew of?”

  “Well, as I said, I knew her only vaguely. She wasn’t very popular.”

  “Oh, no? Why is that?”

  “Well, she didn’t really love her cats. She wasn’t in the hobby to improve her breed. At least, that was her reputation.”

  “And is that the goal of cat showing, to improve the breed?”

  “Oh of course.” I held Baloo out, stretched to his magnificent full length. “See, this is what a great show cat looks like. This is how he handles. We work and work with them, and we mold them into a domesticated creature that can be not only a companion animal, but something beautiful to admire.”

  Just then I noticed that sour-faced redheaded security guard standing watching me. I gave her my biggest smile. “That,” I added. “Is what the cat fancy’s all about!”

  “Thank you, Tracy.” The camera swung back to the reporter. “This is Cori Putnam, coming to you live from the Crawford Hall Sports Arena.”

  I gave the security guard another big smile and turned away.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Wesley Taft

  Saturday Morning

  It had been a long night. SuMe was still under the bleachers, and showed no sign of coming out. When I shone the flashlight beneath, I could sometimes see the reflection of her eyes, like golden grapes looking out at me. She was always in the same spot. The poor thing hadn’t moved all night. Max was angry with me and hadn’t come around all morning. I didn’t know if he was even in the show hall.

  I had heard that the evil wench was dead. I felt no sense of remorse whatsoever. I was even kind of hoping that whoever had done it had made her suffer for awhile. I kept the thoughts deep inside, though. I didn’t dare reveal such things to anyone and in fact I kind of scared myself by thinking that way.

  I tried not to think that it might have been Max who had done it. He did have a temper. He and I were at our wits’ end with grief over Rusty’s disappearance, and now this crisis with SuMe. I secretly wondered if it might have pushed him over the edge.

  It occurred to me that now, Rusty was really gone forever. I actually had a stab of physical pain at the thought of it, right through my sternum. There was no hope left of getting him back. Nobody else knew where he was. Roxanne had taken her vicious vendetta right to her grave.

  I wanted to whisper his name aloud – Rusty – just to make him real. But I stopped myself. I had to accept that he was gone. I had to mourn him. But right now I had another kitty who needed me.

  I took the flashlight again and shone it under the bleachers. “Su!” I called softly. “Come on out, little thing!”

  I had peeled open several of her favorit
e flavors of the soft food, and shoved them under as far as I could reach. In the daylight now I could clearly see the mass of metal bars, crisscrossing, making it impossible to reach her. She was obviously still terrified.

  “I brought you some soup,” a voice said. I looked up to see Kim, the security guard, standing with a large Styrofoam cup in her hand.

  “Oh, that is too kind of you!” I struggled to my feet. My joints were stiff from so many hours on the floor. I took the cup, which felt warm in my hand. She handed me a plastic spoon and a small package of Saltines.

  “Did you hear anything last night?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Not at all. And I was awake the whole night.”

  She sighed. “I knew I shouldn’t have left.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You can’t get good help these days. That night watchman – ugh.”

  I smiled as I peeled the top off the cup of soup. I had seen him. “Jethro” was the word that came to mind. He was popping bubble gum and actually carried a stack of Marvel comic books under his arm.

  “Did you know the victim?” she said.

  I felt a sudden surge of panic. Oh God, don’t ask me about that.

  “Yes I did,” I said quietly, trying to keep my voice calm.

  She nodded, appearing casual, looking off around the room. “Well, it happened sometime this morning after the show started. Or at least after exhibitors started getting here. So it’s not surprising that you didn’t hear anything.”

  I nodded and stirred the soup, and took a bite. Chicken noodle, and it was delicious. I smiled at her gratefully. Her eyes met mine, and she smiled back, and I could see that she was guarded, reading me. I sighed. She knew I was nervous.

  “I don’t know who killed her. But she was an awful person.”

  “So I hear,” she said.

  I looked down toward the bleachers wistfully, thinking I might see SuMe crawling out. She followed my gaze and patted my arm lightly. “We’ll figure it out.”