“Classes are finished, so we’re spreading the word about the demo. Dave, you’ll say something by way of introduction?” Dave nodded, and Marietta checked her watch. “Good. Let’s start in ten minutes.”
I checked that I had my tube of stinky fish paste in my training pouch and then set the pouch on top of Leo’s carrier. The O’Briens looked a bit surprised at my gear, and Sue wrinkled her nose when I opened the fish-paste tube. “It’s pretty stinky, I know, but Leo loves the stuff,” I said as I unzipped the carrier and lifted Leo to my face. He pushed his cheek into my chin and mmmrrrowwllled. “No fish paste until after you run, Leo mio.”
Tom caught my eye and waved from behind the growing group of spectators and pointed at Norm, who also waved. We had agreed that they should stay out of Leo’s sight until after the performance.
“Where’s your teaser?” asked Dave. His voice had a worried edge.
“My what?”
“Your teaser. To lure him over the obstacles?”
“I don’t use one,” I said. “I trained him with a clicker and, well, the stinky fish paste.”
Sue and Dave exchanged a look, and Dave said, “So you’ve trained him like a dog.”
I started to respond, but when I looked at Dave I saw Jared standing behind him with a big grin on his face and a clicker held up in one hand. He gave me a thumbs up with the other. I smiled back and said nothing.
At the appointed hour, Dave introduced himself as vice-president of the Fast Cat Feline Agility Club and explained the basics of the sport. He directed those who wanted more information to the club’s display and promised to be there to answer questions after the demo.
“Okay, Catman, we’re up next,” I whispered to Leo. “You know what to do, and remember, you run for the random-bred cats of the world.”
I stepped to the arena entrance and Leo went rigid when he saw the obstacles. He squirmed and let out a loud Mmrrrowwlll! A soft laugh rippled through the spectators outside the enclosure and I heard a voice say, “He’s ready.”
I set him down at the start line and said, “Stay.” More laughter, but it quickly morphed into an appreciative murmur when people saw that Leo stayed put and watched me while I got into position. Then I pointed to the first obstacle, the stairs, and said, “Leo, stairs!” He scurried up the three steps and down the other side. From there I signaled him over the one-bar and two-bar hurdles, around a left turn, through the tunnel and then a hoop. “Easy, easy,” I said, signaling him with my palm to slow down as he approached the weave poles. “Weave, weave,” I said out of habit, but he didn’t need me to tell him. From there he shot forward over the three- and four-bar jumps, through the second tunnel, and through the final hoop. “Leo mio!” I squealed. He turned toward my voice and launched himself, and I caught him in my arms. He draped himself over my shoulder and let out a loud “Mmrrowwwllll,” which I understood to mean “Fish paste now!”
People started to clap and cheer, and I heard “Wow! That was amazing” and other comments, and then Alberta asking people to hold down the volume because it might make the cats nervous. Leo didn’t seem bothered by the racket, and I carried him back to the kennel and squeezed out a jackpot stretch of fish paste for him.
“You guys totally rocked it!” said Jared, his grin even bigger than the one he’d flashed in support of clicker training. “You gotta compete with him!”
“He’s entered next week,” I said, grinning, and then I kneeled to put Leo in his carrier with another smear of fishy nomness.
“Nicely done, Janet,” said Dave.
“Outstanding!” came a familiar voice, and I turned to see Tom grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I had no idea he would run like that!”
“That was so exciting!” said Norm. “I wish Bill were here.”
I couldn’t stop smiling.
Sue didn’t say a word, but she was busy getting Dessie ready for her turn. She picked up the lithe little cat in one hand, a feather teaser in the other, and went to the course enclosure. Dessie started out fine, but when she exited the first tunnel, she leapt into the air and spun around as if something had startled her, then streaked to the far side of the course and straight up the netting to the top of the panel. She hung there, eyes wide and tail flicking, until Marietta brought a ladder into the enclosure and Dave climbed it and brought her down. Sue’s face was crimson when she came back to the staging area.
I scanned the audience while the O’Briens put one cat away and got the other out. Alberta had her back to me and seemed to be hugging someone. When she let her loose and turned around, I saw that it was Louise Rasmussen. She had sunglasses on, which seemed odd until I remembered that Alberta thought the woman’s husband had given her the makings of a black eye. As I watched, Louise appeared to introduce a man to Alberta. Her father, I guessed. He was turned sideways to me and I couldn’t get a proper view of his face. Marconi? I’d soon know.
Dave and Jimma had a nice run. Jimma did all the obstacles and got a few extra leaps in as he tried to catch the odd creature dangling from Dave’s teaser wand. I got a look at it when they finished, and confirmed that it was indeed a feathered mouse. I decided that an afternoon stroll through the vendor stalls would be in order. Leo would enjoy a mouse with feathers.
As soon as Dave had Jimma back in his carrier, Jared brought Moose out. He was big even for a Maine Coon, and I was sure he must outweigh Leo, Dessie, and Jimma together. Stretched full length he was probably as tall as Jared. He was a brown tabby with yellow-green eyes, and he wore the fur around his head and neck like a king’s mantle. Long tufts of fur stood out beyond the tips of his ears, giving him a wild look that belied his gentle demeanor. Jared lugged him into the course enclosure and set him down. The big cat flicked his left front paw, then the right, for all the world like a sprinter loosening up at the starting blocks. Moose held his long tail high in the air and fluffed out wide as my forearm. He was not a cat you’d want to cross. Jared said, “Moose, go!” and they were off. The boy and his cat were a team, and my eyes went wet as I watched them run.
“Stunning,” said a low voice behind me. Tom smiled when I turned my head, and the lump in my throat got bigger when I saw that his eyes were moist, too. Was it Saint-Exupery who said, “Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction”? I thought so. And there was no denying that we saw animals, and good bonds between animals and people, in the same light.
Beyond Tom I saw that Alberta was still talking to Louise Rasmussen. The man with Louise was now in full view, and I saw that we’d already met. It was indeed Anthony Marconi, my mother’s new love, Louise Rasmussen’s father, and that odious Charles Rasmussen’s father-in-law.
eighteen
The euphoria I felt after Leo’s spectacular agility performance stayed with me through most of the afternoon. I served as leash runner for half of Tom’s class, moving leashes from the start gate to the end gate for competitors to collect on their way out. Drake had an all-but-flawless run in the excellent class. He lost a few seconds when he sat up part-way through the down-stay on the pause table, but otherwise ran clean and true. Tom did a little victory jig on their way out, garnering a wolf whistle from somewhere in the stands. Rhonda Lake and her lovely Eleanor had a clean run that finished Eleanor’s AX—Agility Excellent—title.
Jay’s class was next and, not to be outdone by Leo, he ran fast but with a close eye on my directions and earned his first AX leg with third place. I dished out a half dozen quarter-size hunks of roasted chicken from the container in my ice chest and played a nice game of tug-the-bungee-duck, to Jay’s growly delight. I took him for a short walk, then put him in his crate with a new marrow bone and fresh water inside and two bright new ribbons hanging on the door. I spent another three-quarters of an hour helping in the ring, and then Ray Williams, the chief ring steward, said he had plenty of people if I wanted to take a breather. T
ime to shop, Janet demon whispered. I checked Jay and Drake and Leo, then shoved a couple of twenties and my credit card into my pocket, locked my billfold in the van’s console, and closed the door.
Something rustled in the tall grass across from my van and I stood still to see what was there. Nothing for a moment, and then a pair of bright yellow-orange eyes appeared among the dry brown stalks. “Hello,” I said, and knelt. “You must be Jorge’s little rainbow girl.” The cat stepped toward me and made a meow-face, though I didn’t hear anything. “Would you like something to eat?”
I rinsed out a plastic coffee-cup lid and filled it from the container of cat food I’d brought with us. “Here you go,” I said, moving slowly toward the cat. Her coat was, as I’d been told, a glorious mix of colors—black and orange and gray and white—all swirling and mingling in wild patterns. She mouthed another silent comment and watched me but didn’t move away, and as soon as I backed off, she sniffed the food and took a bite. I left her in peace and set out to find Jorge, among other things I needed to do.
It was just after three, but we still had a nice crowd of spectators outside watching the final canine runs and inside looking at the various felicentric exhibits and, of course, the vendors. Alberta had five or six people at her table so I moseyed down to the local cat fanciers’ table where a handsome Birman sprawled across a variety of handouts on everything from litter and scratching posts to cat training to health issues and care. A little girl just tall enough to reach comfortably across the table stood with her hand resting on the Birman’s shoulder, fingers wedged in under the strap of his harness, eyes fixed on the cat’s beautiful face. I swear he was smiling back at her, and I could hear him purring from the other end of the table.
My favorite vendor’s booth featured gorgeous dog collars, leashes, harnesses, and show leads bedecked with ribbons, fabric, and, in a few cases, charms and glittery stones. I didn’t see anything I needed for my guys, but a navy-blue fabric collar embroidered with ducks —five different species—caught my eye. It would look great on Drake. Yeah, until it soaks in lake water or snags a gezillion burrs, whispered the voice of caution. I smiled at the booth’s owner. “I’ll think about it,” I said, and headed for the exit, amazed that I’d spent a mere six dollars for a catnip mouse and two homemade ginger dog biscuits that smelled good enough to eat.
I was halfway back to my van when raised voices near the ring caught my attention. The sun was hanging just above the tops of the naked trees clustered along the edge of the property, and I raised a hand to shield my eyes and squinted to see what was going on. Alberta and Louise stood shoulder-to-shoulder, and both seemed to be talking at once, but a low-slung blue spruce blocked my view of the rest of the players. Candace and Rudy Sweetwater walked over from their car. Candace stood beside Louise, Rudy off to the side. His habitual sullen disinterest had been replaced by a fixed glare and clenched jaw, but I couldn’t see who had inspired his change in demeanor.
A man’s voice broke through the ambient sounds of people talking and leaves stirring in the wind. An angry voice. I had heard it before and knew its owner even before I rounded the spruce and saw Charles Rasmussen reach past Candace Sweetwater, making her recoil, and grab his wife by the arm.
“Stop this nonsense! You’re coming with me,” he pulled Louise two stumbling steps forward and I caught sight of Anthony Marconi. Rasmussen shook a finger in the older man’s face and shouted, “And you are moving to St. Agnes’s Home tonight. It’s all arranged.”
Louise tried to pull away and Rasmussen shook her by the arm. Then everything seemed to happen at once.
Alberta shouted something incomprehensible and shoved with both hands against Rasmussen’s midriff.
Candace shoved Rasmussen’s shoulder with both hands. He called her a stupid bitch, and Rudy howled and flew at Rasmussen, both arms swinging. Rudy’s mother grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away from Rasmussen.
Marconi threw a punch that missed Rasmussen’s chin and glanced off his shoulder.
Jorge appeared, waving a water jug and yelling in Spanglish. All I could make out was “not wetback” and “little cat.”
Rasmussen shoved Marconi, who took a dozen stutter-steps backward before he found his balance.
Louise flailed her free arm at her husband and screamed, “Let me go! You’re not doing this to me again! Not ever!”
Tom ran in from somewhere and tried to pull Rasmussen away, saying, “Okay, calm down everyone, let’s ta …” He was cut short by the back of the bigger man’s hand to his cheek.
I ran toward the fray, wondering vaguely how much clobber power two medium dog biscuits in a plastic bag might wield if I swung really hard.
Rasmussen took a step toward the parking lot, dragging Louise by the arm. She stumbled and lost one of her shoes.
Tom came back at Rasmussen, a look in his eye that I hope never to see again. Tom’s shoulder dropped back and I knew he was winding up a punch, so I was ready when Tom snarled, “Coward.” Rasmussen’s upper body swiveled toward Tom, but his feet were still moving in his original direction. Rasmussen still had hold of Louise, but he swung his free arm at Tom. Alberta brought her cross-body purse around at the end of the shoulder strap and caught Rasmussen in the ear. Marconi took a one-handed swing at Rasmussen with his fancy walking stick but came up short and knocked his own hat off. Tom’s arm shot toward Rasmussen’s face, but I ducked in close and kicked my foot into the oaf’s line of travel and the two men never connected. Rasmussen’s foot sent a burst of bright pain up my shin and his body seemed to rise off the ground, and then he fell, hard and heavy. Louise went down, too, but Rasmussen lost his grip on her and she rolled away from him. Her father and Alberta helped get her up and out of the way. Candace Sweetwater had a death grip on her wild-eyed son.
“The police are on their way!” Marietta Santini arrived at a run and I half expected her to pin Rasmussen to the ground with a chair as she might an aggressive dog. Instead she pointed at him and snarled, “What’s your name?”
He struggled to his feet, his eyes narrowed into a piggish squint and his breathing choppy and loud.
“I’m Charles Rasmussen.” His face was a shade somewhere between cranberry juice and grape jelly and his remaining hair stood away from his scalp at an odd angle. “You’re all going to be sorry!” He squared off with Marietta. “And who the hell are you?”
Marietta snorted. “I’m the woman who’s going to swear out as many complaints against you as I can. Now get off my property.”
Rasmussen swayed a little, though whether from fury or pain I couldn’t tell. He cracked his neck to the side and brushed a leaf off his sweater. “You people are pathetic. You,” he glared at Tom. “I know who you are. I have friends at the university, you know.” Rasmussen looked at each of us in turn. “I have friends everywhere. Even,” he nodded toward the driveway, where Homer Hutchinson had just emerged from his unmarked car, “among the police.” He sputtered something incoherent at me, then turned his venom on Alberta. “I’ve taken care of those damned cats of yours. Filthy things. Cats and rats at one blow.” Rasmussen let out what might have been a laugh. He pivoted toward the parking lot, but turned back and shouted at his wife and father-in-law. “You’ll get nothing. Nothing. And you, old man. Just wait.” He climbed into his luxury SUV and sent gravel flying as he gunned it onto the road.
Everyone stood in a stunned little cluster assessing the damage until Alberta broke the silence. “What has he done? What did he mean?”
We all looked at her and I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“He said he’d ‘taken care of’ the cats.” Her hair seemed to be standing on end, and she turned wide eyes toward Louise. “Dear God, what has he done?”
Louise was a bit quicker on the uptake than I was, maybe because she knew the jerk so well. She fished her phone from her purse and handed it to Alberta. “Call Sally Foster. Nu
mber 4 on my speed dial. Have her get some others to start looking.”
Alberta’s eyes went wide, and she murmured “Oh no oh no oh no” as she waited for someone to answer. Then she spoke quickly. “Sally, please please. I’m on the other side of town. Please get some people and go check all the places the cats hang out. I think …” She made a strangling sound and burst into tears.
Louise grabbed the phone and spoke into it. “Sally, it’s Louise. I think Charles may have put poison out for the cats. Please get some people out right now and check.” She looked at Alberta and listened, then ended the call. “Her book club is there. They’re all going out to check everywhere. She’ll call me back.”
“Oh no oh no.” Alberta’s eyes were red. “I have to go …”
But Hutchinson wouldn’t let any of us leave until he got statements from us. “I think we should have a paper trail with this guy,” he said. He interviewed Alberta first and she was about to leave when Louise’s phone rang.
Louise listened, then told us, “They’ve looked everywhere they could think of, even under the shrubs around the golf course. No sign of anything.” Louise patted Alberta’s shoulder and went on. “They picked up all the food that was out, and they’ve even emptied the storage containers. Sally’s husband is cleaning them, and Chris Schneider is off to get more food to replace what they’ve tossed.”
Alberta blew her nose and said, “Oh, they’re all so, so … Why would he do such a thing?”
“Chris is a chemist. He’s going to check a sample of the cat food, at least that’s what Sally said. They’ll dispose of it all just in case, but they want to know whether Charles actually put anything in it.” Louise pulled herself up straighter, and said, “That’s Charles for you. I doubt he really did anything. There was hell to pay last year when Beryl Reese’s husband put rat poison in his shed and the neighbor’s dog ate some. Charles wouldn’t risk the lawsuit. He just thought of it and said it to scare you. To hurt you.” She laid a hand on Alberta’s arm. “Sally said they’ll all take turns checking on the cats this evening, just in case. But believe me, Charles is just plain full of it.”
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