The Bengal Identity

by Eileen Watkins

  Sarah joined me, and we both contemplated our mystery boarder in silence for a minute.

  “The thing is,” I said, “whether or not Rudy stole her from somewhere, he took good care of her. I had the sense, when he was talking to us, that he really was attached to her.”

  “So did I,” Sarah agreed. “Maybe he took her from someone who was abusing her?”

  “That’s possible. Though she doesn’t look abused, and she’s very confident and trusting with us.”

  “No collar. Think she has a microchip?”

  I snapped my fingers and congratulated my assistant on this idea, which I’d stupidly overlooked. I reached into the condo while Ayesha was chowing down and probed the area around her nape and shoulders with my fingers. The cat stopped eating and flinched when I touched a rough patch about an inch long.

  “She’s got something here,” I told Sarah. “If it’s an implant, the vet did a heck of a sloppy job. Looks like the wound’s still healing.”

  “Maybe Dr. Coccia could check it.”

  I pondered this. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t take it upon myself to bring a boarder’s cat to the vet unless it became seriously hurt or sick. But this might be a special case.

  Glancing at the clock, I noted, “It’s almost five now . . . he’ll be closing. I’ll call tomorrow and see if he can fit us in. Unless Rudy gets back to me before that, with a darn good explanation for this dye job.”

  “Maybe it’s Ayesha who’s on the run from the cops,” Sarah fantasized while we started to close up the shop. “Rudy just felt sorry for her and helped her escape.”

  “There’s an idea. What’s the charge?”

  Another loud, wavering yowl told us that Her Highness had already finished her second supper.

  Sarah winced. “Disturbing the peace.”

  “That must be it.” I laughed, tossing a damp towel into the hamper. “She’s a cat on the lam!”

  Chapter 3

  After dinner that night I checked in with my mother, who lives in an apartment in Morristown, about forty-five minutes from Chadwick. She works as a paralegal for a big law firm with offices in the same town. Mom had actually taken a couple of days off this week, rare for her, for a nasty root canal procedure. I’d offered to come by, but she had a retired neighbor helping her out and sounded as if she was already recovering nicely.

  In truth, running my own business—especially one where I was responsible for other people’s pets—made it hard to get away on short notice. I don’t like to leave Sarah alone at the helm too often, either, since I technically am only paying her to assist me.

  Now I lounged with the phone on my beige-slipcovered sofa in the apartment above my shop, with my own three cats picturesquely arranged in various spots around the living room. “How are you feeling?” I asked Mom.

  “Not so bad today,” she told me, her voice still just a bit slurred. “Mainly, my jaw aches being forced open for so long. Naturally, it had to be the very last molar.”

  I could sympathize, having inherited my mother’s small jaw. It challenged every dental professional who worked on either of us.

  While my calico Matisse kneaded my sweatpants, Mom asked me what was new. I considered my answer carefully. Better not to mention the new boarder that appeared to be dyed and might have been stolen. My mother is a major worrywart, and the least hint of something being awry can get her going, especially where I’m concerned. So I just said things at the shop were great and tried to steer the focus back to her dental work and recovery.

  Not quickly enough, though.

  “And how are things going with Mark?” she asked. “You haven’t mentioned him lately.”

  “Oh, everything’s fine with him, too. He’s just been very busy, pulling some long hours.”

  Three months earlier, I had started dating Dr. Mark Coccia, a veterinarian with a clinic just six blocks away. We’d started off like a house on fire, thrown together by all the craziness in my life that spring. Lately, though, he seemed to have less free time, and when we did go out, he sometimes acted like his mind was elsewhere. Call me an optimist, but it seemed more like he had professional worries rather than a problem with me.

  I wasn’t going to tell Mom about any of that, either.

  “Huh!” she said now. “I know human doctors have emergencies, but I wouldn’t expect that problem with a vet.”

  “It’s the same in many ways. He’ll have a full day booked but need to squeeze some more patients in for emergencies. If there’s an animal recovering at the clinic, and it develops a problem near the end of the day, he’ll have to stay and cope with it.” Matisse, jealous that I was paying attention to someone besides her, began rubbing her face against my phone. I gently deposited her on the floor before continuing. “Plus, Mark’s in practice with Dr. Reed, and they alternate working Saturdays and staying late one weeknight.”

  Though all of this was completely true, even to myself I sounded as if I were making excuses for Mark’s preoccupation. I expected Mom to pounce on this, but her pain medicine must have had a calming effect—she completely let it slide.

  “Anyway,” I added, “I’ll probably be seeing him tomorrow.” I didn’t have an appointment yet, but I felt sure the case of the camouflaged cat would intrigue Mark.

  “That’s good.” I heard Mom yawn. It was only ten o’clock, but she’d always been an early-to-bed, early-to-rise type. Even when not on pain medication.

  “I’ll let you get some rest,” I said. “Feel better.”

  “Oh, I am already. I’ll probably go back to work tomorrow. But thanks for calling, dear.”

  Clicking off, I took stock of my feline companions. Having been evicted from my lap, Matisse now sat among the windowsill plants and gazed out at the twilight. Her dark-gray and rust patches marched like stepping-stones down her white back, and her tail occasionally switched when something aroused her hunting instinct. The window air conditioner must not have been cool enough for sleek black Cole, because he stretched in a backward arc on the sofa next to me, airing his belly fur. Mango, an orange tabby, caught the chilly air flow more directly by perching on a narrow shelf, one of a series that I’d mounted on the living room wall. Besides letting the cats survey their domain from on high, they also provide an escape route during skirmishes.

  All three could be considered rescues, although only Cole came from an actual shelter. I’d accepted Matisse to help a friend deal with her cat’s unexpected and unwanted litter, and I’d found Mango scavenging in a restaurant Dumpster. Fortunately, they all got along pretty well and did their part to keep this single career woman from feeling lonely. Most of the time.

  Following my conversation with Mom, I found myself missing Mark tonight even more than before. Well, no reason I couldn’t call his cell to see if he had an opening in his schedule tomorrow. I could fill him in ahead of time on what little I knew about Ayesha. Maybe I could even steer him onto the topic of why we hadn’t seen as much of each other lately.

  My call, though, went to voice mail. I briefly explained about the mystery cat and asked him to let me know in the morning if I could bring her over to the clinic.

  I snapped on the TV to catch the local news before bed. Even tonight’s newscaster reminded me a little of Mark, with his straight dark hair and high cheekbones, though he lacked the vet’s striking blue eyes.

  The evening’s news was fairly mundane. A crew had been brought in to remediate asbestos discovered at the old high school, hopefully before classes resumed next month. The mayor promised that this year’s Chadwick Day celebration would be bigger and better than ever. (It was the first one I’d be experiencing, so I wouldn’t know the difference.) The body of a man, apparently hit by a car, had been found out on rural Morton Road, with no ID. (Some lowlife probably came across the dead man and took his wallet, I thought—despicable!)

  Nothing about a house fire, though, or a stolen exotic cat. I pressed off on the remote and decided to turn in early. Maybe tomorrow Dr. Coccia could
help me come up with some clues as to Ayesha’s true identity.

  * * *

  “Isn’t that the damndest thing!” Mark ruffled the brown cat’s fur against the grain, pretty much the way I had, and saw the uneven dye job.

  “Sarah and I already gave her a good washing, which is the only reason you make out the spots at all,” I told him.

  “Wonder what kind of dye they used.” He scratched the side of Ayesha’s face. She leaned into his touch, purring, and I envied her. “I think there is a kind that’s nontoxic hair dye for animals, but the average person probably wouldn’t know about it.”

  “Who would? Maybe somebody involved in showing cats?’

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Anyone could order it online, though, if he was really concerned about not poisoning the cat.”

  Mark also checked Ayesha’s eyes and mouth. She only raised one paw in a mild protest, with claws sheathed. “I don’t see any sign of the stuff making her sick,” he said. “I’d have to draw blood to be sure . . . but I can’t do that without the owner’s permission. I’d need to shave a spot on her neck, so he’d know.”

  Yes, probably not a great idea to tip Rudy off that I’d brought her to a vet. “She’s got a fresh scar between her shoulder blades. Can you check whether she has a chip? That should give us some information about who really owns her.”

  Mark fetched his pet scanner and passed it over the area a couple of times. “No reading.” He examined the healing wound and frowned. “That was a nasty gash. Could be that somebody took her chip out, and not exactly with surgical skill.”

  I found it hard to imagine that Rudy would treat the cat so callously. Maybe someone else did, and he’d rescued Ayesha from that person?

  “I’m thinking she’s valuable,” I said. “Hard to tell with the dyed coat, but what breed would you say—”

  “Bengal, definitely, with those rosettes. I worked on a couple when I was in Philly, and she’s got the perfect body type. She’s an adult, maybe three years old. Looks like she’s got a champion coat pattern, too, underneath all this brown. If she’s an F1 or F2—close to the Asian leopard cat strain—she could be worth four, maybe five figures.”

  Even more than I imagined. “Might really be worth it to steal her, then!”

  Mark straightened and looked me in the eye with concern. “And now you’ve got her in your shop. If this Rudy guy did take her and thinks you’ve discovered his game, he might not be too happy when he comes back.”

  Though I heard the warning, I couldn’t resist an evil grin. “Hey, why do you think I brought her over here?”

  A tight laugh from Mark. “Oh, now she’s my problem, eh? No thanks—I have more than enough on my plate right now.”

  That gave me the opening I needed. While he gently guided Ayesha back into her carrier, I asked, “What’s wrong, Mark? I know something’s been going on with you lately.”

  He zipped up the carrier and sighed. “It’s just been crazy around here. One thing after another. People I’ve been working with for years, that I thought I could trust . . . I don’t like to talk about it, though, until I have proof.”

  “You can always talk to me,” I told him quietly, even though the door to the examining room was shut. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else. I just don’t like to see your work issues coming between us.”

  Mark slipped the stethoscope from around his neck and studied me for a second, his handsome face sober. “You’re right. That has been happening, hasn’t it? I’m sorry.” He pulled me into his arms for a quick hug. “Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night? Ironclad, no cancellations for any reason. Then I’ll fill you in, as best I can.”

  It was what I’d been hoping to hear, and I smiled. “Ironclad? I like the sound of that. Now I’d better let you get to your other patients, and take Ayesha back in case Rudy comes looking for her.”

  “Be careful, Cassie. Seriously. The kind of trouble you had a couple of months ago . . . you don’t want to go through that again.”

  “Well, I do have an alarm system now,” I reminded him. “But thanks for worrying. Give me a call and we’ll firm up tomorrow night.”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  En route back to my shop, Her Highness let it be known that she’d been cooped up too long in the cramped carrier. Not by yowling as much as by clawing at the nylon mesh panel until I worried that she might actually tear through it. The minute I stepped in the door, I told Sarah, “We’ve got to let this wild child loose in the playroom!”

  She chuckled. “No problem. Just let me put Mrs. Lowenstein’s Burmese away.”

  A few minutes later, I released Ayesha from her portable prison into the cat-safe area, which was outfitted with all types and sizes of carpeted tunnels and towers, as well as many floating wall shelves built by my faithful handyman, Nick. Our newcomer quickly took in her surroundings, then launched herself from the tile floor straight onto a shelf about five feet from the ground. She leaped effortlessly from there to the next shelf, another two feet up, and paused to survey her human underlings with a haughty air.

  “Wow,” said Sarah. “She really does move like a panther, doesn’t she?”

  “Mark has pronounced her a Bengal, probably with a good dose of Asian leopard cat,” I said. “At least she doesn’t seem at all aggressive, though we shouldn’t take too much for granted. She’s going to need a lot of time in this space and a lot of interactive play. We can split that—you take maybe half an hour a day, and I’ll do the same.”

  “She’s shaping up as a pretty labor-intensive boarder,” my assistant observed. “Think we’ll ever see that guy Rudy again?”

  “I have no idea. But on the upside, we do have a heck of a mystery to solve.” I told her what Mark had said about the cat’s wound—that someone probably had cut out her microchip.

  “Oh, man.” Sarah shook her head of short, graying curls. “Cassie, I can see that working for you, I’ll never be bored.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Speaking of excitement . . .” I picked up a fishing pole toy with a bunch of feathers at the end of a long string. “I’m going to try to tire this wild animal out.”

  Of course, it ended up more the other way around. As soon as I started wiggling those feathers, Ayesha homed in on them like they were her next meal. I tried to keep ahead of her, but it wasn’t easy—she was fast. When I dragged them over the wall shelves, as high as I could reach, she happily gave chase and always nailed her prey in seconds. Starting to flag, I stood still for a while and just flipped the string to bounce the feathers high in the air. Ayesha shot straight up to catch them, executing some Olympic gymnastic moves in the process.

  When she finally started breathing hard, I let her have the toy. The athletic cat, so gentle with people, grabbed the tightly bound bunch of feathers in triumph and began ripping at them with her teeth. I’d hate to be any bird she caught, though at least she’d probably kill me quickly.

  I turned to find Sarah watching me with crossed arms and a bemused smile.

  “Glad you found that entertaining,” I said, “because you’re doing the afternoon session. I’m beat.”

  “Rudy said she walks on a leash, too.”

  I sniffed. “If we ever do that, it’ll be indoors. I wouldn’t want to try to catch this lady if she ever got away.”

  Having stripped most of the feathers from her toy, Ayesha stalked up to me now, sat at my feet, and let out one of her distinctive warbles.

  “I suppose now we want to be fed again.” I called over my shoulder to Sarah, “What flavors do we have left? Any water buffalo?”

  My assistant chuckled. “None of that, but will the venison do?”

  “Close enough.”

  With Ayesha back in her condo, dining once more, I sat at the sales counter and revived myself with a cold Diet Coke. I returned a call from one of our best customers, Cindy Reynolds, who brought in her Maine Coon cat about once a month to be tidied up. Luckily Bear, who weighed over twenty po
unds and had the coat of a miniature yak, knew the grooming drill by now and rarely gave me or Sarah any trouble. But Cindy knew he still took a lot of time to groom and paid us accordingly. She made an appointment for the following week.

  After that, I opened my laptop computer and tried to create a design for a table runner similar to the one Dawn had ordered from the local printer. If I got something to him this week, maybe he could still have it ready in time for Chadwick Day. Experimenting with different fonts, I tried to come up with whimsical purple lettering similar to what was on my front window.

  And maybe a cartoon of a fluffy cat?

  For the next half hour, I attempted to draw one. But despite the fact that I’d minored in art in college, I wasn’t happy with any of my efforts. As recently as ten years ago, I’d been painting, drawing, and using a computer to create my own artworks. Had I lost my chops, as musicians say, that quickly? Lately, I’d been channeling all my artistic talent into sculpting the coats of various felines. Still, you’d think if I could draw anything decently, it would be a cat!

  Maybe I was being too hard on myself, but I wanted a more slick, professional-looking image. I looked at a few online sites that offered graphics for royalty fees, but came away frustrated. Nothing there was exactly what I’d had in mind, either. If only I could get someone to draw it for me. . . .

  Keith, of course! Dawn’s longtime boyfriend was a graphic artist who also did caricatures on the side. If I was going to pay for an image, I might as well give him the work and get just what I wanted. He should be able to create something for me, if he wasn’t too busy. I shot him a quick e-mail to ask, and gave him an idea of what I was looking for.

  Sarah, meanwhile, had been leaning on the sales counter and checking messages on her cell phone. I knew her two grown children e-mailed and texted her regularly to let her know what was going on in their lives. I could tell she also was catching up with the local news, because she made a “Tsk!” sound and added, “Imagine all the kids who’ve gone through the town’s high school over the years and were exposed to that asbestos.”