“I’ll just use plenty of these,” she said, taking a fistful of the napkins. “So Sarah, how are you doing? Cassie told me about your accident.”
Sarah and Mom had met that spring, and ever since, my mother kept reminding me how lucky I’d been to find such a competent, responsible, and pleasant assistant. Little did she know that I confided far more in Sarah than I did in her about my everyday problems. That was partially because it would have been hard to hide them from Sarah and partially because she was less prone to pass judgment or have an anxiety attack.
Occasionally, she even conspired with me to spare my mother’s feelings. For example, when Mom offered her sympathies now over my assistant’s sprained ankle, Sarah echoed my explanation that she’d fallen in the parking lot, leaving out the detail that she’d been pushed by a would-be mugger.
Mom preferred her pizza plain, so Sarah and I started on the mushroom half. Meanwhile, I showed off my new table runner and sign, and both ladies got a kick out of them. We went on to discuss our agenda for Chadwick Day.
“You may want to wear something a little more . . . uh . . . fur-resistant on Saturday,” I advised my mother.
“Well, you mainly need me to help Sarah here in front, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yes, but she’s going to join me outside for a couple of hours, for a grooming demonstration with Harpo. He belongs to Sarah now, y’know.”
“You remember Harpo, don’t you, Mrs. McGlone?” my assistant teased.
“How could I forget?” Mom laughed, with an edge that suggested she was reliving that spring’s drama. “He’s certainly had more than his fifteen minutes of fame.”
Scoring a second slice of pizza, I stepped toward the front display window and pointed out into the deepening twilight. “I’m hoping to set up on Center Street, right near this corner. I don’t want to be too far away, in case I have any problem with Harpo or you need me back here.”
Sarah used a paper napkin to wipe her hands and mouth. “Well, that was a treat! But now I’d better get going.”
“Your life is a whirlwind of activity,” I told her, with a laugh. “Just don’t overdo it with that ankle.”
“Ah, it’ll be fine by next week.”
I held the front door open, as it was still easier for Sarah to park on the street and avoid the rear steps. As she hopped out to her car with the aid of her crutch, she called back, “Nice seeing you again, Mrs. McGlone.”
When I got back to the sales counter, Mom was closing up the pizza box with two plain slices still inside—curtailing temptation for both of us.
“How are your Pilates classes going?” I asked.
“Oh, they’re all right. I don’t go as regularly as I should. It’s hard to make time in the morning before work, and at night I’m too tired.”
I was sorry to hear that, because I’d been trying to nudge Mom into finding a hobby. Anything besides worrying about me, which she’d been doing more of since my father passed, three years ago. So far she’d tried her hand at golf, because some of her work friends played, and for a while she’d half-heartedly joined an evening book club. But nothing seemed to hold her interest for long.
“That certainly was a good pizza,” she said, collecting our plates and tossing them in the trash.
“Wasn’t it? Mark tipped me off about that place. He’s kind of a foodie.”
“Oh, really?” This caught her attention, because I guess I rarely volunteered information about my veterinarian friend.
“He made dinner for us at his place last weekend,” I added. “Some kind of pasta with chicken and spinach, and a big salad. He can really cook!”
“Sounds ideal, since I know that’s not one of your favorite pastimes.” Mom used the side of her hand to guide a few pizza crumbs from the counter into her napkin, which she neatly balled up and threw in my trash can. “Did he ever solve those problems at his office?”
I’d forgotten I even told her about that. “He’s still dealing with them. Frankly, I think one of his employees is causing most of the trouble, but I have to tread lightly. You know how it is—he can say negative things about his people, but he doesn’t like to hear me do it.” Time to move things along, I thought, before Mom segued into asking if Mark and I were serious, and if marriage and grandchildren might finally be on the horizon. “C’mon, let me show you around to refresh your memory.”
Although Mom had visited my shop a few times before, I updated her on the latest features, including the new alarm system. She didn’t question the need for that, knowing I’d had a break-in the past spring. Next, we visited the nearly full boarding quarters, where Ayesha greeted us by climbing her new screen door. I explained to Mom that she was an exotic breed called a Bengal, she’d been dropped off about two weeks ago, and would probably be picked up by her owner soon. I did add, “She’s very valuable and kind of mischievous, so now and then she may need extra attention.”
Mom was already giving her that, though she seemed less admiring than apprehensive.
“There are no pick-ups or drop-offs scheduled for Saturday,” I went on, “and I’ll clean the litter pans and feed all the boarders before I leave. Some of them will need to eat again, though, in the middle of the afternoon. Sarah can do some of the feeding, but since she’s still on the crutch, she’ll need your help. Why don’t you give me a hand now, to get the hang of it?”
Mom did help me scoop dry food into most of the cats’ bowls. But when we opened one condo, the Siamese—not happy to be confined in a strange place—snarled at us; Mom jumped back as if she’d been snakebit. A few boarders, including Ayesha, needed canned food, which took a bit more time and care to dish out. The impatient Bengal sprang forward to swat at the can, and Mom dropped it with a shriek.
This made me do a rethink. When I lived at home as a kid, we had indoor/outdoor cats. The times that Mom had visited my apartments, she tended to keep a distance from my pets, but I always assumed she just didn’t want fur on her clothes.
Now I began to wonder.
“She wasn’t trying to hurt you, she was just playing.” I rested a hand on my mother’s shoulder and noted the stoic thrust of her small, round, Irish chin. “Do you have a cat phobia?”
“I wouldn’t call it a phobia,” she insisted. “It’s just that they’re so fast . . . and unpredictable. And they make that nasty hissing noise.”
Good Lord. No wonder she hadn’t been terribly supportive about my choice of career. She’d always seemed okay with dogs, though, as long as they weren’t too big or vicious-looking. Maybe there are cat lovers and dog lovers because the two species have very different body languages.
Whatever the reason, Mom might have a steep learning curve before she really felt relaxed around felines.
“The last thing you’ll need to do”—and by now, I didn’t have high hopes for this, either—“is let a cat out into the playroom for a while and then put it away again. We’ll try that with Jimmy, since he’s very sweet.”
The handsome gray Chartreux had finished his dry meal, so I opened his door and let my mother gingerly take him out. I demonstrated how she should hold a cat against her body, facing over her shoulder, so he felt secure. We took him into the playroom, and I showed Mom how to get him to chase the fishing pole toy. Jimmy played with it right away, helping to boost her confidence. Then he scampered up onto the shelves, halting on one about five feet up.
My mother looked dismayed. “Now what?”
“That’s fine, they’re supposed to climb on those. If you have to bring him back from a really high shelf, you can lure him with the toy or a treat. Since this isn’t too far up, though, just go lift him down.”
I might as well have asked her to defuse a bomb. Mom is short, so the shelf was about at her eye level, and she could not figure out how to take hold of Jimmy. Probably, she was afraid he would claw her face! She reached toward him and then backed off so many times, from different directions, that even this mellow boy laid his ears back and looked read
y to scratch her.
One rule in handling most animals: Do it with conviction, or don’t do it at all!
I handed Mom a cat treat, which did bring the gray cat down to a lower level. But she still was afraid to let him take it from her hand, so she just set it on the shelf. I should have insisted that she at least pick him up, but my impatience won out and I did it myself.
“I dunno, Mom,” I said. “Sarah can’t really carry the cats until she gets rid of her crutch, so this is something I would need you to do. And if there was any kind of emergency, like if a boarder got loose, you’d have to be the one to catch it. But if you’re really afraid . . .”
“I’m sorry, Cassie.” Her head of auburn waves drooped. “I didn’t know you needed me to be so . . . hands-on. And I didn’t think it would bother me this much.”
I put Jimmy away and accompanied Mom back to the front of the shop, her cat-free comfort zone. “I probably could help you get over your fear a little at a time. I don’t think we can accomplish that, though, by this Saturday.”
My phone rang then. The screen showed an out-of-state number, which could have been a solicitor . . . except the caller was leaving a message.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Mom asked.
“It can wait.” I put the phone back in my pocket.
She smiled knowingly. “Mark, eh? I can take the hint. I’ll leave so you can talk to him in private.” She retrieved her linen jacket.
Seeing her out the back door, I gave her a goodbye hug. “Don’t feel bad, Mom. You might not be much of a cat wrangler, but you’re still a terrific mother and a heck of a good paralegal.”
“Well, those things are higher on my list of priorities. But I’m sorry to leave you without anyone to watch your shop Saturday.”
I shrugged. “I’ve got one more day. Maybe I can still find someone.”
Once she had left, I double-locked the back door and set the alarm, as I always did these days. Then I played the phone message and heard a man’s upbeat voice.
“Hi, this is Don Brewster. I understand one of my former employees, Pete Reardon, brought you a cat that might be mine. Detective Angela Bonelli said, to prove I’m the real owner, I should tell you this—not sure why, but—anyway, the cat’s full name is Brewster’s Champion Crown Princess Ayesha.”
Chapter 13
I was as excited to return Brewster’s call as he was to hear from me. I told him I had been e-mailing breeders and scouring ads for any mention of a lost female Bengal.
“Wow, I’m sorry you went to all of that trouble,” he said. “The truth is, I haven’t been looking for her, because I didn’t realize she’d been stolen.”
That sounded odd. “You mean, because you have so many cats, or . . .”
“No, but I never had that much to do with the business part of the cattery until recently. It was really my wife’s project, but Laura’s been ill for the past few months. Very ill . . . She’s had a recurrence of breast cancer. So she’s been gradually getting out of the business, let most of her staff go and sold a few cats. After I started handling things, I noticed Ayesha was gone. I just assumed Laura sold her to another breeder, but you say Pete had her?”
I told him how Reardon, going by a different name, had brought the Bengal to my shop with her coat dyed brown.
“Well, that’s a damned strange thing!” Brewster said. “If he wanted to sell her, why do that? It would diminish her value. Be hard even to prove she was a Bengal.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I figured there must be something underhanded about it. Maybe the sale was prearranged, but he still wanted to keep her under wraps? Didn’t want to call attention to her breed before the deal went through? When he left her at my shop, he swore he’d be back for her in just a couple of days. But he also seemed scared of something.”
“And then he was found dead? That’s so hard to believe.” Brewster grew quiet for a second. “I hope we’re not to blame.”
Seizing on any possible explanation, I asked, “You and your wife? Why?”
“Pete was one of the employees we let go. He was never one of our most conscientious workers—a lot of late arrivals and sick days—but I think that’s because his job with us was part-time, and he had to work at others to make ends meet. He did have a way with the cats and really seemed fond of them. I suppose when we fired him, he saw a chance to make up the loss of income by stealing Ayesha.”
I had once thought that Rudy might have stolen the cat to rescue her from an inhumane situation, but that didn’t sound like the case with the Brewsters. Of course, I hadn’t seen their facility, but Mrs. Brewster did sound as if she was being sensible about finding her animals new homes, now that she was less able to take care of them.
Brewster continued, “Actually, I was surprised to think my wife sold Ayesha, because she always was one of our favorites. I never asked Laura specifically about it, because I thought it would make her sad, and she’s been too sick lately to even visit the cattery.”
The perfect crime, I thought. Pete must have found some opportunity to take advantage of his former employer’s disorganization and confusion.
“Ayesha was always affectionate and pretty well-behaved,” Brewster reminisced. “She also had wonderful conformation and that show presence every breeder looks for. She won a championship as a two-year-old in the Lehigh Valley Cat Club show and she gave us a litter of beautiful kittens last year. We’ve already sold most of them.”
So the aristocratic Bengal was already a mom—not too surprising.
Although I was ninety-nine percent sure this guy was the real deal, I subtly put him to one more test. “Somebody spent time training her, too. Pete told me she had a special talent, something you’d only expect a dog to do.”
Brewster pondered that for just a minute. “Oh, you mean walking on a leash? Did he tell you about that? Yes, Laura trained a few of our cats that way, starting when they were kittens. The Bengals are so high-energy, y’know, it helps if you can take them outside sometimes.” He paused to chuckle. “And with Ayesha, sometimes when you tried to take a toy away from her she’d latch onto it harder and pull back, even growl like a puppy. Whad’ya call that?”
“Playing tug-of-war.” That erased the last wisp of doubt for me. “I guess your wife will be glad to get her back. When do you think you can come and pick her up?”
I heard him pause. “You’re in northern New Jersey, right? That’d be about two and a half, three hours from here? Gee, it’s hard to say, because we have a busy schedule these days. Laura’s on a pretty intense chemo cycle right now, so I’m shuttling between the hospital and my insurance office. In another week she takes a break, though, so I could come up then. That is, if you don’t mind keeping Ayesha a little longer.”
“Not at all. As you say, she’s a nice cat. It’s enough just to know I’ll be able to return her to you soon, safe and sound.” I didn’t mention compensation at this point. He might think, like Mrs. Meacham, that I was shaking him down for money.
“I sure do appreciate you taking care of her. Must have been strange to have her just dumped on you like that. And then, what happened to Pete! The detective said they’re investigating it as a homicide?”
If Bonelli had told him that much, I supposed there was no harm in confirming it. “They originally thought it was just a hit-and-run accident, but now they’ve come across some evidence that suggests it might have been deliberate.”
“Gosh! With what I knew of Pete, I can’t imagine why anybody’d want to kill him. You don’t think it could have anything to do with the cat, do you? Detective Bonelli asked me a lot of questions about our breeding business and all that.”
“I’m sure she’s just following up every possible lead,” I told Brewster.
“Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll e-mail you a link to our Web site, and scans of our brochures and our breeders’ license, just so you’ll know we ran a legit business.”
“That would be great. Then
just keep me posted on when you’re able to come for Ayesha. In the meantime, I promise to take good care of her.”
As I got off the phone, I decided to keep quiet about the fact that I had located the cat’s owner and he planned to come for her soon. Maybe I was getting paranoid, but on the off chance that somebody else was trying to snatch her, it might provoke them to more desperate measures.
Which brought me back to the Chadwick Day dilemma. I still had reservations about depending on Teri, who was pretty much still a total stranger, to watch my shop all day. A better option might be to hire a professional pet sitter. How to find somebody trustworthy, though, on such short notice?
Then I remembered that veterinary clinics often could provide leads like that. I’d call Mark’s place tomorrow.
Just as long as Jennifer doesn’t answer the phone and volunteer. But no, she wouldn’t do that. It would mean too much time away from her duties at the reception desk, and from Mark!
* * *
The next morning, after I’d opened for business, I called the clinic. I reached Elena and explained my situation. She gave me names and numbers of two local pet sitters, with good reputations, that they kept on file.
I called both. The first told me she was swamped for August, with all the people going on vacation. No one answered at the other number, so I left a message.
Sarah and I gave Ayesha another bath and watched what seemed like the last of the dye wash out of her coat. As we dried her, the background color finally shone through as a rich, burnished gold, with the rosettes standing out like thumbprints over most of her body and dark stripes marching down her legs. It was nice to know that we’d be returning her to the Brewsters in the same condition as when she’d been cat-napped.
I was ready to enlist Sarah’s help to groom Olga, a fifteen-pound Siberian with stubborn fur mats, when I got a call from Dawn.
“How did things work out with your mother last night?” she asked.
“Oh, not so well,” I admitted. “I knew she wasn’t a major cat enthusiast, but I never realized she was actually afraid of them. She got the shakes when she had to feed the boarders and didn’t even have the nerve to lift one of them down from a shelf. It’s a shame, because I think she really tried. But with Mom here tomorrow, Sarah would still have to do all the real work, and she’s not up to that yet.”
The Bengal Identity Page 13