The Bengal Identity

by Eileen Watkins

  Embarrassed, I waved a hand. “No, really, it was just student stuff. Nothing gallery-worthy. But I have to say, this makes me realize how far I’ve gotten away from my school days. I’m so rusty now! Yesterday I was trying to draw a cat cartoon for Chadwick Day, and I felt like a complete beginner.”

  Nidra tilted her head sympathetically. “It’s true—any skill, just like a muscle, needs to be exercised to keep it in shape. Obviously you enjoy your job, and it takes a lot of your time, but maybe you still can fit in a little drawing or painting now and then?”

  “I guess I should try.” I hadn’t even realized how low I felt until that insight brightened my spirits. With a laugh, I told her, “And maybe you should practice psychology on the side!”

  “I do find it fascinating,” she admitted. “That’s probably why I like surrealism.”

  Nidra’s phone rang then, and she went back to her desk to deal with a business matter. Meanwhile, I pondered some of the things we’d discussed. I did feel I’d landed in the right line of work, which gave me the chance to help animals and their owners with their problems. Interesting, though, how I continued to be drawn to the mysterious, and even dangerous, in art and even in the human mind. Maybe that’s why I get a rush out of helping to solve murders?

  I returned to the silk screen of the woman who saw her secret mirror reflection as a proud, alert leopard. This time I also checked the small sticker on the wall nearby, which gave the name of the artist and the title of the work: Alter Ego.

  A different interpretation, for sure, of the Cat Lady.

  * * *

  On my walk home, I checked my messages. Mom reported that she’d gone back to work with no more problems from her tooth. She still managed to find something to stress about, though.

  “Did you know about this? Hope it’s not close to you!” And she included a link to an article from the county newspaper:

  VICIOUS CAT STRIKES AGAIN—MAULS TODDLER IN BACKYARD

  The story reported another attack, the day before, in the vicinity of Rattlesnake Ridge. A young mother had been gardening while her four-year-old wandered around the yard eating an ice-cream cone. While the woman’s back was turned, the child spotted a “big kitty” at the edge of the yard and tried to lure it with the ice cream. When he got close to the cat, it lashed out at him, and he screamed. His mother grabbed the garden hose and doused the animal until it ran off. The boy seemed only to be scratched, not bitten, but he’d receive a series of uncomfortable rabies shots anyway, just to be safe.

  The young mother described the animal as about twice as big as a domestic cat, tawny with small black spots and a slight ruff around the face. The article noted that this description also fit the creature that had recently mauled the small dog.

  Animal control had consulted with Scott Naughton, director of the county SPCA, to determine why the wildcat might be attacking people and pets and how to catch it.

  “From the description, this doesn’t sound like either a pure bobcat or a domestic cat,” Naughton was quoted as saying. “Both witnesses—in the case of the dog and the boy—said it had a normal, long tail. Bobcats have short tails, and they’re also usually nocturnal and too timid to approach humans. Of course, this one might have rabies, or it might have had contact in the past with people who fed it, so that it’s lost its natural fear.”

  Naughton speculated the new predator might be a cross between a bobcat and a large domestic type. “That rarely occurs in nature, but it’s possible someone created such a hybrid on purpose. Sadly, that’s not illegal, though in my opinion, it’s highly irresponsible.” He offered his expertise and services to help capture the animal before it did any more harm.

  Sounds like Todd Gillis’s dream pet! If I thought he knew anything about crossbreeding animals, I’d have suspected him of creating this nasty hybrid.

  Otherwise, though, the news story lifted a weight from my mind. The animal had struck again while Ayesha was confined at my shop, and it looked different from her. At least I didn’t have to worry that she’d been the one terrorizing Rattlesnake Ridge!

  Let animal control and the SPCA worry about who bred the “killer cat.” I need to find out where Ayesha came from.

  And just in case whoever ran over Rudy is still hunting for her, I’d better do it fast!

  Chapter 8

  Next, I did a general search online for anyone in the northeast who might be missing an exotic cat. Found one article about a Savannah stolen the previous month in upstate New York, but he already had been located and returned to the breeder. No recent Bengal losses or thefts had made the news.

  Over the rest of the afternoon, I made a list of e-mail addresses of all the licensed Bengal breeders I could find in the tri-state area, then composed a generic message:

  Did you recently lose a female cat, or have one stolen from you? I am a professional cat boarder in New Jersey. Someone left a Bengal with me under questionable circumstances and has not returned to claim her. I am not seeking any reward money, just to return her to her rightful owner. Please reply to this e-mail only if you can prove the cat belongs to you.

  I addressed the e-mail to myself, with blind carbon copies going to all the breeders, and hit send.

  I still wasn’t sure how I intended to make someone prove Ayesha had come from their particular cattery, but her behavioral quirks should help. Also, after a couple more baths, her real coat should show up in all its splendor, and maybe I’d find something distinctive in its pattern to identify her. In the ad, I did not include the name that Rudy had called her, because it was unusual; if a breeder could come up with Ayesha, that would be a definite point in his favor. And I made it clear I wasn’t seeking a reward, so they’d be less likely to think that maybe I’d helped to steal her.

  At least contacting the big, legit breeders was a start. If none of them worked out, I could begin responding to classified ads from what might be less reputable sources.

  Tomorrow, Monday, I’d check with both the local shelter and animal control to tell them about Ayesha. Those might be the first places someone from nearby would think to go if they had lost an animal. I could explain to both agencies that I was fostering the cat for the time being, in cooperation with the Chadwick PD, because they suspected she might be evidence in a crime.

  Tired from my detective work, I was trying to decide whether to exercise another boarder, watch a bit of TV, surf the Web, or just read, when my cell phone sang out. I hoped it would be Mark, but saw an unfamiliar number and the name Gillis Garage on my screen.

  Oh, no! Is Todd going to start calling me now? It shouldn’t be anything about my car or my bill. This is Sunday—the garage shouldn’t even be open.

  I didn’t answer, but after the caller recorded a message, I played it out of curiosity. Heard the gravelly voice of a mature man who probably smoked too much.

  “Hello, is this Miss McGlone? It’s Bob Gillis from the garage. This might sound strange to ask, but . . . have you seen my son Todd?”

  I called the man back. Apparently, Todd lived with his parents in town, and they hadn’t seen him since the previous afternoon.

  “His cell phone’s not working, but he’s terrible about letting the battery run down,” Gillis said. “We’ve been worried that maybe he had a car accident, but the cops say there haven’t been any reported. I can tell they think he’s gone off with some other guys, drinking or whatever. But I know Todd wouldn’t take off like this, not without even calling us to check in.”

  “I can see why you’d be worried,” I said, “but why did you think I’d know where Todd was?”

  Bob’s embarrassment came through over the line. “Maybe I jumped to conclusions. Todd said he returned your car to you the other day, and the two of you got to talking. He said you were . . . um . . . attractive, so I thought maybe you and he hit it off.”

  Lord, does he think Todd spent the night at my place? Well, maybe his parents were eager to believe that some woman had finally shown an interest in
him. “He did return my car and drop me off at my shop, but after I paid my bill, he left. That was Friday, and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Oh.” Gillis let out a huff of frustration. “Well, then, sorry to bother you. His mom and I already called all his friends that we could think of, and then I remembered that he mentioned you.”

  Annoying as I found Todd, I couldn’t help sympathizing with his father. “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday morning. He said he was going for a drive, but he’d be back in the afternoon. He’s got a red ’02 Camaro he’s always tinkering with, and he likes to open it up on the back roads. His mother always worries that he’s going to get in a wreck, out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “He didn’t give you any idea where he was headed?”

  “Naw, he was playing it mysterious. His birthday is next week, and he said he might get himself ‘a real nice present’ this year. I thought maybe he went to look at another flashy car. . . . He was reading the classifieds yesterday morning, in the Courier, but if he answered an ad, I don’t know which it was.”

  Now Bob had me worried about his son. Could the ad have been some kind of trap—had Todd gone expecting to look at a car, and gotten beaten up and robbed? Or did he test-drive an unsafe vehicle and crash?

  “I wish I could help you,” I told Gillis, sincerely. “Guess all you can do is ask the cops to be on the lookout for his Camaro, since that should be easy to spot. After forty-eight hours, they can do a missing persons search. But I hope Todd gets in touch with you before then.”

  “Thanks, Miss McGlone. I can see why he likes you—you’re a good person.”

  As I switched off my phone, I felt rotten about ever making fun of Todd, if only because his dad seemed to be a nice guy.

  At least, I felt bad until I remembered Todd’s interest in Ayesha. Was it possible that he had tried to break to into my shop the night before?

  It might fit with the idea of getting himself a “real nice” birthday gift. He didn’t ask what it would cost to buy her, and I told him she was a boarder. Would he actually go to the extreme of trying to steal her?

  I didn’t really know enough about Todd to pass judgment on that.

  For dinner, I broiled half a chicken breast, nuked a potato, and tossed a simple salad with the leftover greens from Dawn. Meanwhile, I reflected on my lack of cooking skills—or was it just patience?—compared to Mark. I felt bad again about the way our Saturday night had ended, but reminded myself it was up to him now to get back to me. I’d been through one relationship where I’d been made to feel that everything was my fault, and wasn’t about to fall into that trap again.

  Although I’d told Mark the story of my abusive ex, I’d refused to divulge the guy’s name. Always a chance that, being the intense type, Mark might obsess over it or even decide to look him up and get in a fight with him. That painful chapter had closed and should stay that way.

  As I ate, I tried to start reading a new psychological thriller I’d gotten from the library. It was too dark for my present state of mind, though, and after dinner, I tuned in to one of those quaint British murder mysteries on PBS instead. My pets vied for couch space next to me, with Mango winning out this time.

  Dawn called to make sure there had been no more disturbances at Cassie’s Comfy Cats since she left. I reported that, for now, the intruder seemed to have learned his or her lesson.

  “I would think so,” she said, “with the window locks, the loud alarm, and the Chadwick cops showing up so quickly. All of that should discourage anyone.”

  “And if anybody tries to break in while I’m actually here, I can just slash them to ribbons with my razor-sharp tongue,” I added, in chagrin.

  Dawn’s throaty laugh told me she got the grim joke. “I trust that you and Mark patched things up?”

  “I left him a phone message. He hasn’t called back.”

  “Ouch. Maybe he’s still licking his wounds.” She paused. “Veterinarian joke unintended.”

  “Yeah, Mark and the Yorkie.” I felt the need to change the subject. “Dawn, maybe you can give me some advice. I figured I had everything lined up for Chadwick Day, but now I’m having second thoughts. Sarah is supposed to bring Harpo so the two of us can use him for a grooming demonstration, but that means leaving the shop empty for at least a couple of hours.”

  “Is that a problem? How much business would you be doing, anyway? The publicity you’ll get from the demo should more than make up for it.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But now I’m worried that the person who tried to break in yesterday might give it another shot.”

  “I dunno. This will be the middle of the day. And why would he go to the trouble, when there are probably easier places to break into? Unless . . .”

  “Yeah, unless there’s a reason he picked my place. What if he’s after Ayesha?”

  Silence as Dawn pondered my problem. “Maybe you could leave Sarah in the shop and do the demo by yourself? Harpo’s easy to handle.”

  “It may come to that,” I agreed. “Sarah’s not exactly a threatening figure, but just having the front counter staffed ought to make any cat-napper think twice.”

  That night, though, I dreamed about the long-haired, tattooed man I’d seen at the Gillis garage and in the diner. He had tied up and gagged Sarah and was stealing Ayesha. The Bengal had morphed into a full-sized leopard with a jewel-studded collar, but she let him walk her out of my shop on a leash. They made their getaway in a red Camaro with Ayesha sitting proudly in the passenger seat, as tall as the man.

  Not especially violent, the dream was an almost comical mash-up of my real-life worries and the artwork I’d admired in the gallery. Still, I woke around three a.m. with a sense of dread.

  Eventually, I settled back to sleep, but with the superstitious feeling that maybe I ought to skip Chadwick Day altogether.

  * * *

  The next morning, I was getting the shop ready for Sarah’s arrival when I heard a scuffle and a scream from the rear parking lot. Hurrying out, I found my sixtyish helper sprawled on the gravel, her flowered easy-care tunic askew above her blue knit slacks, and her gray curls mussed.

  “Are you all right?” I wondered if she had tripped somehow. “What happened?”

  Sarah actually muttered a mild four-letter word, very much out of character, as I tried to help her to her feet. When she put weight on her left leg, though, she gasped in pain.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Don’t try to stand, then. Just sit down on the steps.” I helped her over to them.

  She caught her breath and finally answered my second question. “Some punk just now ran past me and knocked me down.”

  “Back here in the parking lot?”

  “I think he was trying to grab my purse, but I hung onto it.” She clutched the large brown satchel against her lap. “When I screamed, he ran away.”

  “That’s awful!” It was the first purse-snatching attempt I’d heard of since I’d moved to Chadwick. My adopted town doesn’t have much random crime—mostly domestic disputes and the occasional fistfight at one of the backwoods bars.

  “Lucky I got a low center of gravity.” The little woman threw me a crooked smile, then rubbed her leg. “But I do think I did something to my ankle.”

  I considered closing up and driving her to the emergency room, until I realized this was more than just an injury—it was a crime. “I’ll call the cops.”

  “Oh, please. It wasn’t that big of a—”

  “That guy didn’t get your purse, so he’s liable to pick on somebody else. Besides, after the police question you, they’ll get you to a hospital to have your ankle checked. You won’t sit around all day in Emergency.”

  Gamely, Sarah tried again to put weight on the foot but sank back down on the step in defeat. “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

  * * *

  If young, square-jawed Officer Jacoby was getting tired of answering calls to Cassie’s Comfy Cats, at least he did
n’t show it. He questioned Sarah patiently about the would-be purse-snatcher, though she couldn’t tell him much.

  “I’d just got out of my car and started for the back door when I heard somebody walking fast behind me,” she said. “Making noise, y’know, on the gravel. That got my attention, because nobody should be back here except me, Cassie, and maybe a customer.”

  “He came in from the street?” Jacoby asked.

  She shook her head. “Must’ve come through those trees, where the houses back up to the lot. Before I could even look around, he slammed into me from behind, and I went down. I figured he might come back for my purse, so I screamed my head off, and he ran back the same way he came.”

  “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Only from the back. Not too tall, slim, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. Both dark—navy blue, I think. From that angle, the hood blocked his face completely.”

  At least that description didn’t sound like Todd Gillis, I thought.

  “Might’ve been just a kid,” Jacoby said. “Kind of a lame-brained move, anyway, to knock you down and not expect you to scream.”

  “At nine in the morning, too,” Sarah noted. “There could’ve been witnesses. Another minute and Cassie might have come to the door to let me in.”

  “Wish I had,” I told her. “That might have scared him off sooner, and I might have seen his face.”

  A minute later, EMTs arrived, and one examined Sarah’s ankle. He diagnosed it as just a bad sprain, but thought she should get an X-ray to be sure, so the ambulance would transport her to the nearest medical center.

  “Call me if you need to be picked up later,” I told her as she was leaving.

  “That’s okay, honey. First I’ll try my son, Jay. He’s just tutoring for the summer, so he should be able to take time off. If you don’t mind, though, I’ll leave my car here until we see if I’m able to drive.”

  Watching the ambulance pull away, I faced another day of caring for the boarders and the human customers all by myself. I’d lost more than just an extra pair of hands, though, because Sarah had become a friend. I worried that, at her age, even a badly sprained ankle might not heal so quickly.