“I know it sounds paranoid, but I almost feel like they’re all conspiring to undermine me—or the clinic,” Mark added. “But that doesn’t make much sense. And it’s not as if they’re flaunting these things in my face. In fact, I wouldn’t even know about some of the incidents if they hadn’t been pointed out to me.”
That piqued my curiosity. “You mean, the staffers are ratting on each other, too?”
He colored a bit. “I wouldn’t call it that.... The receptionists have just noticed some things. Jennifer Hood, who’s newest on the desk, has picked up on a lot of it. At first, she innocently commented to me that some procedure was different from the last clinic where she worked, or that she guessed the hours were flexible for some of the staff. That’s when I first realized people were shirking their responsibilities.”
I remembered Jennifer from my recent visit. Not only had I never seen her behind the desk before, but I could hardly miss her porcelain complexion, full lips, and long dark hair styled in loose, spiral waves.
“I thanked her for tipping me off,” Mark continued, “and after that I made sure to double-check certain things, too. Still, I’m busy with the customers and patients most of the time. It’s the staffers who work alongside one another who are in the best position to notice these mistakes.”
“People like Jennifer.”
He nodded. “She’s only twenty-two, but really sharp. And very gung-ho. She’ll come in early to get the front desk set up for the day, or stay late if there’s some kind of urgent situation. The other receptionists usually want to get home to their families, which is understandable, but it’s good to have someone who’s willing to go the extra mile.”
So, little Jennifer is probably single. I’d never thought of myself as the jealous type, but I started to worry about how “gung-ho” this new girl might be. And how far she might be willing to go to win Mark’s admiration and make herself indispensable to him.
For the moment, I kept these suspicions to myself. Would I even be having them, I wondered, if Jennifer weren’t beautiful?
We moved on to coffee and discussed the design for my Chadwick Day booth. Mark’s clinic had taken part during its first few years in town, but recently, no one there could spare the time to staff a table.
“I can display a stack of your brochures,” I offered.
“Would you? Then I won’t feel so guilty about not taking part at all.”
“What’re friends for?” I teased.
“Well, I hope we’re a little more than that.” Taking advantage of the turquoise booth’s extra privacy, he reached across the table to cover my hand with his.
Of course, at that very minute, his cell phone had to ring. With a wry frown, he answered the call.
“Un-huh . . . Mr. Stevens’s dog, the Yorkie? Yeah, I operated on him this afternoon. There’s a problem with his stitches?” Mark listened for a beat, then blew out a breath in frustration. “No, no, I’ll have to come back in and fix it. Who checked him before you came on?”
From Mark’s words and tone, I knew even before he hung up that our date would be cut short.
“Sorry, Cass, but we’ve got a minor crisis. A Yorkie that’s recovering from surgery got out of his cone collar somehow and ripped out his stitches. I’ve gotta go back and redo them.” He pulled out his wallet and reached for the check.
I intercepted it first. “Let me pick up the check this time.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. The first time we went out, you paid and told me, ‘You can get the next one.’ That was three months ago, so it’s about time I took my turn.”
Mark accepted that explanation with a smile and a nod.
A few minutes later, we were in his cobalt blue RAV4, headed down the main drag of town, Center Street. It was only a short hop to my place, after which he could continue on to his clinic.
I made it sound offhanded when I asked, “Who called you about the emergency, Jennifer?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I’m sure she’s long gone by now. It was Sam, the tech who’s on night observation.”
We rode in silence for a minute while I glanced at the CDs stockpiled on his console. Mainstream rock and jazz. I knew Mark had taken some lessons in jazz guitar as a hobby, and he’d played for me once. He wasn’t half bad.
“Keeping up with your guitar these days?” I asked.
Not the upbeat change of subject that I’d intended, because he frowned. “Nah, I’ve really let that slide. Just another fun thing that I don’t seem to have time for anymore.”
Mark pulled up in front of my shop, not even turning off the engine. I knew he was in a hurry to deal with the dog that had pulled out its stitches. Still, before I could slide out of the car, he planted a serious kiss on my lips. “We’ll do something Saturday, okay?”
“Ironclad?”
“Double-triple ironclad.”
As he pulled away, I wondered if our relationship would always be like this. As I’d told Mom, it was almost as bad as being married to a “human” doctor.
Maybe I would be better off with a garage mechanic. Though, God help me, not Todd Gillis!
Chapter 5
At home that evening, I opened my laptop to find that Keith Garrett, Dawn’s significant other, had already sent me a few cute sketches of long-haired cats for my table runner.
His note asked, How are these? I tried to give them some Jersey attitude.
I laughed, because he’d definitely done that, and it was just the touch the online illustrations had been missing. They were all fluffy and sassy, but after a few minutes, I picked one Persian that looked particularly well-groomed and vain. I downloaded the image and copied it into a file beneath the name of my shop. The fancy purple font set it off perfectly.
You work fast! I e-mailed back to Keith. They’re all great, but No. 3 is purrrfect! Send me your invoice, and I’ll drop off a check with Dawn tomorrow.
About five minutes later, his very reasonable bill arrived, accompanied by the message, Glad to be of service, Cassie. All my clients should make up their minds as fast as you.
Keith probably would have done the illustration as a favor, but I knew he struggled to make ends meet as a freelancer. I printed out the invoice, shut off my computer, and gave all my own cats a bit more food for the night. After I got into bed and turned out the light, though, I realized that I heard yowling. It sounded faint and far-off, but only because it was traveling through the solid walls and second floor of my turn-of-the-century shop.
Ayesha—damn. I hope she doesn’t keep the other boarders up all night.
Then I wondered why that should concern me. Did they have jobs to go to?
They’re cats. So, they’ll sleep during the day.
* * *
The next morning, when Sarah and I fed all the boarders and cleaned out their cages, I found that in addition to using her litter box, Ayesha had started “spraying” the upper wall of her condo. This was unusual for a female, but the fact that she wasn’t spayed and was a wild hybrid probably explained it. Along with the fact that she hated being so closely confined and was ready to jump out of her artificially colored hide.
Sarah and I gave her another bath that morning with a strong shampoo, and more of the brown faded from her coat. Now we could clearly see the rosette pattern all over. I suspected, though, that after one or two more washes, her coveted golden background hue might finally resurface. I’d been reading up on Bengals and now knew what to look for.
With Chadwick Day a little more than a week off, I knew I should get the design for my table runner to the printer, so I set off with my laptop under my arm. Alpha Printing was a good six-block hike, slightly uphill, but I could pass Dawn’s on the way back and drop off the check for Keith.
As far as I knew, Dawn and Keith had been dating exclusively for about three years, but had never moved in together, much less discussed marriage. She once joked to me that her very conservative Jewish mother couldn’t accept the idea of Dawn being involved
with an agnostic Irishman. Still, I doubted that would stop someone as strong-minded as Dawn from following her heart. Most likely, she and Keith were just free spirits, perfectly comfortable with a looser arrangement.
One of the things I loved about downtown Chadwick was my ability to get plenty of exercise running errands, instead of making time to go to a boring gym. At the print shop, I showed my concept for the table runner to the owner, Dave Gross—a rotund guy with a comb-over that fooled no one and a good-natured grin. He also thought Keith’s design was clever and promised he could have the runner done for me “at least by Friday,” meaning the day before the street fair. Cutting it close, but what could I expect after I’d put off the project until the last minute? I thanked him and moved on to Dawn’s.
When I handed her the check for Keith, she laughed. “He’s going to faint. None of his clients ever pay him this promptly! He did a corporate ad campaign last spring, for big bucks. They gave him a small down payment, but he’s still waiting for the rest.”
“Must be tough, being a freelancer. At least if my clients don’t pay, I can hold their pets for ransom.” I thought of Ayesha, and a Persian I’d boarded recently named Harpo. “Of course, when the owners go and die on me, then I’m stuck with their cats.”
Tigger wandered up to us, as if summoned by the word cat. Dawn scooped him into her arms and sat on a low bench near the oak display counter, her eggplant-colored boho skirt pooling around her ankles. “So that hit-and-run victim really was your guy? What the heck is up with that?”
“Darned if I know.” I gave her the rundown on what I’d been able to deduce so far, with the help of Bonelli and Mark. “Todd, from the garage, told me about some big cat killing a woman’s dog up on Rattlesnake Ridge. Mark said that was actually true, and for a while I thought it might have been Ayesha—that Rudy was trying to hide her from animal control. But Mark knows a little more of the story and said that was probably a bobcat, maybe rabid. They haven’t caught it yet, though.”
Dawn’s amber-brown eyes widened. “Really? Gee, Rick and Teri’s farm is up by Rattlesnake Ridge.”
I snubbed my nose. “Sounds like a delightful area.”
“It’s beautiful, in spite of the name. Wild, though. Dense woods, caves leading to some old iron mines. Keith and I have hiked up there a couple of times . . . but you do have to watch out for rattlesnakes. I wonder if Teri and Rick had any trouble with the bobcat.”
“Just don’t offer to go there to pick up any produce,” I advised, with an edgy laugh. “Make them keep bringing it to you!”
“On that subject . . .” Dawn put her kitten down and led me over to her tiered display of fresh fruits and vegetables. “I see you’ve got your laptop along today, but can you take at least some of this stuff home with you?”
“Oh, I think so. I’ve built up my muscles, wrestling with all those cats.” I picked out a nice head of escarole and a medium-sized zucchini. Maybe I’d save some for Mark—he’d probably put them to better use than I could. As I also plucked a couple of prime Jersey tomatoes from the display, I uncovered a skinny green leaf with serrated edges. “Uh, Dawn, I’m not much of a gardener, but . . . is this a tomato leaf?”
She peeked over my shoulder and chuckled. “Hmm . . . maybe not.”
“What do you think it’s doing, mixed in with the produce?”
My friend still grinned. “Actually, there’s a logical explanation. Some people do grow tomatoes and pot together. The plants need the same conditions, and from a distance it can be hard to tell them apart.”
“So they’re less likely to get busted,” I realized. “And you know this because?”
“C’mon, Cassie. I run a health food store. Some of my best customers, and friends, are neo-hippies.”
“Looks like one of your suppliers may be, too.” I turned the leaf in my fingers, examining it. “Sloppy of them, to let the evidence get mixed in with their delivery.”
Dawn lost her smile and snatched the leaf from me. “What are you, a narc? I think you’ve been spending too much time down at the police station with your detective friend. Jeez, it’s not that big a deal. Weed is even legal in New Jersey now, for treating some medical conditions.”
“Teri and Rick didn’t look sick to me,” I pointed out.
“Don’t you dare tell Bonelli and get them busted. They have the best produce around!” She popped open a clamshell container of raspberries. “Here, taste one of these.”
I did, and had to admit it beat the supermarket kind by a mile. Bright pinky-red, juicy, and sweet, with just a hint of tartness.
“Well?” Dawn prompted me.
I considered that she was giving me all this produce for free, even throwing in the raspberries. Though that might have qualified as a bribe, I relented. “Okay. I guess whatever happens on Rattlesnake Ridge can stay on Rattlesnake Ridge.”
* * *
By the end of the week, Ayesha started settling in at the shop, though occasionally her vocalizations still rattled some of our customers, who could hear her all the way out by the sales counter. I went to a big-box pet store on the highway and bought her a more secure mesh harness, designed for a small dog, and a real leash we could use to walk her. My Ayesha-related expenses kept mounting, but I clung to the faint hope that someday her real owner would reimburse me.
Now, on a nice day, Sarah would take Ayesha for a short spin around the parking lot in back. The Bengal generally behaved, though she did show an intense attraction to the neighborhood birds and sometimes resisted coming back inside.
Saturday morning, while Sarah was exercising Ayesha in the playroom, a new customer came in. He brought two non-pedigreed and unrelated cats that he needed to board while his family relocated from Newark, Delaware. He worked for a pharmaceutical company with its headquarters not far from Chadwick, and enthused about how convenient the commute would be and what a nice house they’d been able to get for their money in our town. I hoped he’d spread the word that Chadwick was a happening place, though I wouldn’t want it to boom too much and lose its nostalgic charm.
Luckily, he had called ahead, so I did have a condo free, but only one. I settled his two cats together and hoped that, with three levels, they wouldn’t object to sharing the space.
I was on my way back to the front counter when Sarah called out from the playroom, “Cassie, come quick!” Afraid the high-strung Bengal might have hurt herself, I hustled back there.
But Sarah was laughing. She held one of the colorful fishing poles with a stuffed mouse at the end of the string. Ayesha gripped the toy rodent in her mouth and pulled the string taut, crouching low and growling like a puppy.
“She plays tug-of-war!” Sarah declared. “Did you ever see a cat do that?”
“Can’t say as I have.” I worried for Sarah’s safety when she approached Ayesha, but she only had to stroke the spotted head and the cat let her take the toy away. “She’s a character, all right!”
Later that afternoon, Detective Bonelli called to say she had not been able to find a Rudy Pierson who fit the age and description of the dead man, and suspected it was an alias.
“We got a call from the Days Inn out on the highway about a guest who disappeared, leaving his bill unpaid,” she said. “The desk clerk saw Pierson’s photo on the news and ID’d him as their missing guest. We sent an officer over to check the room. It had a duffle with a few clothes, a bag of dry cat food, a litter pan in the corner, and some black stains left in the bathtub.”
“That must be where he dyed the cat,” I jumped in. Since bathing Ayesha, I had done a little research on nontoxic dyes for pets. According to the online reviews, they didn’t always produce the color you expected. Maybe Rudy had hoped to dye her black and settled for a dark brown?
Bonelli went on. “There was also some kind of map drawn on a piece of paper, with landmarks. Looks as if it might be a trail through woods, but we can’t tell where it is. No guarantee it was even a location in New Jersey.”
“
So whether or not there really was a house fire somewhere, Rudy must have holed up at the motel long enough to decide what to do with the cat,” I guessed. “Maybe he was headed for this place in the woods when he got hit by the car.”
“That could be. Doesn’t tell us, though, whether or not the cat is stolen.”
I sat down on a low, blue-carpeted cave in the playroom to think this over. “What if we go with the possibility that she is? Mark seems pretty sure that she’s a Bengal, and I agree. We could contact Bengal breeders in both states and ask if they’ve had any thefts.”
“We?” Bonelli asked, her tone wry.
“I’d be happy to help. I can start out just by searching under ‘Bengal cat lost, northeast US.’ But I also subscribe to a couple of cat magazines that run ads by breeders. The top ones probably will have Web sites, too.”
“Are you going to take a picture of the cat you’ve got and ask them to identify her? Because any breeder could easily lie and say she was stolen from them. If she’s worth that much money . . .”
“You’re right, of course. And even a photo wouldn’t give them a true idea of her appearance right now. Her spots are still kind of muted by the dye.”
The telephone fell silent for a beat while we both considered our strategy.
“If it was a dog,” said Bonelli, who was more of a canine enthusiast, “you could ask them what tricks they’ve taught her or what commands she’ll obey.”
I smiled. Few cats obey any commands, and Ayesha was more strong-willed than most. But . . . “Great idea! She’s been trained to walk on a leash. And Sarah just found out today that she plays tug-of-war.”
“The cat?”
“Yep. Those are things only her real owner would be likely to know.”
I heard fresh enthusiasm in the detective’s voice. “Okay, let’s try that approach. Make a list of any breeders that you can find, and we’ll figure out how we’re going to handle this—whether to place an ad or reach out to them individually.”
The Bengal Identity Page 5