Rick dropped off Teri at seven thirty as promised, pulling up to the curb just long enough for her to hop out. When I met her at the door, he acknowledged me only with a combination wave and jaunty salute before he drove away.
“He doesn’t like to leave the farm for too long,” Teri explained. I thought of the bruise I’d seen on her lower back the day before, then wondered again if I might be jumping to conclusions.
At the sales counter, she held out a ceramic platter covered in clear plastic wrap.
“What’s that?”
“Tarts, for Sarah and me,” Teri said. “I thought, since we’ll be here all day, we’d need something to snack on.”
“Beautiful! You made ’em?”
She nodded. “With our own fresh blueberries.”
I leaned over for a better look at the four tarts, each topped with a dab of whipped cream and a mint leaf. They looked delicious, and professional enough to have come from a bakery. Teri certainly did have her talents.
She set the platter on the coffee stand in back of the front counter and told me, “I didn’t know if you had anything else planned for lunch. . . .”
“Oh, I wouldn’t let the two of you starve. There are cold cuts, iced tea, and lemonade in there.” I pointed to a mini refrigerator next to the coffee stand.
Teri and I set to work, then, tending to the boarders. Soon afterward, Sarah showed up, still on her one crutch, with her son Jay toting Harpo in a carrier. This was the second time I’d met Jay, a tall, good-looking guy in his mid-thirties with a fade haircut. He’d inherited his mother’s easygoing disposition and was even following in her career footsteps as a high school math teacher.
After I introduced Jay to Teri, she helped me transfer Harpo from his carrier to my only available condo, meanwhile stroking his long, glamorous coat in awe. The beautiful, cream-colored Persian did look wonderful. I hadn’t seen him since I’d officially turned him over to Sarah, but she obviously was taking good care of him. He rubbed against my hand and purred as if he remembered me.
Sarah oohed over the tarts Teri had brought and hinted that she might not wait until lunchtime to sample one. Then she explained, “I’m volunteering Jay to help you out today, Cassie. Otherwise, I figure you’re going to be tied to that table all day with nobody to relieve you. Besides, somebody’s got to bring Harpo to you for your demonstration, and Teri might get busy here.”
Once more, I thought Teri looked startled by this suggestion, though again she quickly covered it. “Oh . . . good idea.”
“I can’t impose like that,” I told Jay. “It’ll take up your whole Saturday.”
He turned up his palms in submission. “My wife, Ginny, works Saturdays at Bed Bath & Beyond up at the mall, so I’m at loose ends anyway. And this Chadwick Day thing could be fun. You should see the main street! They’ve got streamers on the lampposts and red, white, and blue flowers all around the park gazebo. There’s a big banner across the street that says they’re going to have live music later on and a classic car parade. I wouldn’t mind catching some of those things.”
“Well, if you really don’t mind, I probably can use the help.” I glanced at my watch. “Yikes, it’s almost eight. I’d better get up to the corner and stake out my spot.”
Teri squared her shoulders, ready for action, and Jay asked, “What can I do?”
“Help with the canopy, for starters. It’s tricky to put up—I may need both of you.”
“You got it.” Jay spotted the long, zippered case leaning against the sales counter. He picked it up by the loop with one hand, far more easily than I could have.
Cars already had filled up all the legal spaces along the curb, so there was hardly any point in loading stuff into my CR-V. In the same amount of time, the three of us could carry everything up to Center Street ourselves. I hauled my six-foot folding table and let Teri bring my two pink nylon camp chairs. The trek up was only a couple of long blocks, but slightly uphill, so it gave us a mild workout.
When we reached my allotted patch of sidewalk, ten feet square, the three of us managed to raise the canopy on its telescoping pipe legs. Jay was especially helpful in securing the upper braces. Then, as per the chairman’s regulations, we traipsed back to my shop to get four heavy plastic jugs of cat litter. We secured one to each canopy leg with nine-inch bungee cords. Even in a hurricane, which didn’t seem likely, that baby wasn’t going anywhere.
I set up the table, draped it with my new runner, propped up the new Cat Lady sign, and filled a clear plastic, vertical holder with my brochures. Finally, we brought up some samples of merchandise from my shop, ranging from cat treats, toys, and collars to a few carpeted tunnels and towers.
Teri returned to the shop then, to help Sarah staff the counter. Jay and I opened the camp chairs and set them behind the table. I donned my dark green grooming apron with the shop’s name printed on the front, so I’d be a walking advertisement wherever I might roam.
The cops had closed the street to anyone not involved in setup. By eight thirty, tables and displays lined the main drag of town as far as the eye could see. The heat and humidity already foretold a scorcher, and I was glad that, now that she’d moved to an apartment, Mom had given me the family’s old party canopy for occasions like this.
“As long as you’re here,” I told Jay, “I’m going to stroll around and check out the other displays, before the crowds start swarming.”
“Sure, have fun.” He folded his tall frame comically, but comfortably, into one of the pink chairs. “Just be warned, though—if anyone asks me advice about their cat, I don’t know a scratching post from a lamppost.”
I laughed. “I’ll be back by nine, I promise.”
Wandering down Center Street, I noted that these days my town certainly boasted a good assortment of merchants, businesses, and nonprofit groups. Cottone’s Bakery, Chadwick Books, Towne Antiques, and the jewelry boutique Jaded all had sidewalk displays, with merchandise at special Chadwick Day prices. Beneath a canopy that read MAKING MEMORIES, a wedding and portrait photographer fussed with an arrangement of his images, blown up large.
Eye of the Beholder was even offering the silk screen of the woman and the leopard for sale at a discount. My stomach dropped. Though it was still more than I could comfortably afford, I hated to think of someone else snapping it up.
I checked in with Dawn, who already was blending chilled smoothies in front of Nature’s Way. Keith lounged nearby in a director’s chair, sporting his trademark black artist’s beret and waiting for customers to caricature.
The bank, the medical center, a lawyer, a Realtor, and an insurance company had put together less elaborate displays, mainly their business cards and brochures. The town emergency squad, the scouts, and the historical society all had taken spaces. As Upton had warned me, the Friends of Chadwick Animals, or FOCA, was set up about half a block from me. I didn’t anticipate any problem, though. Their caged dogs were far enough away not to bother Harpo. He was pretty unflappable and, at any rate, I planned to keep a tight hold on him. On the plus side, I might get some spillover from FOCA’s audience of animal lovers.
As I strolled back to my table, Mark showed up to intercept me. He smiled and held up a fistful of brochures from his clinic.
“You kindly offered to display these,” he said.
“Glad to.” I introduced him to Jay, whom he hadn’t met before. They chatted while I arranged the clinic’s brochures next to my own flyers in the plastic stand, to keep them safe from stray breezes.
“Poor you,” I told Mark. “On a day like this, having to work.”
“Only until two, so I should be able to drop by again later.” He paused and added, “Providing there’s not too much drama today.”
His serious tone made me study his face. “Expecting more problems?”
Mark took a step away from where Jay sat and lowered his voice. “I’m going to speak to Jennifer around closing time. I have no idea how that will go down, and in case it’s messy, I
don’t want our clients to overhear.”
I nodded. “Good thinking. Well, who knows? Maybe she really will have some explanation. Maybe her throwing out the note was an honest mistake.”
“Always a chance, right? Except, coming on top of so many other things . . .” Mark frowned. “I’m not good at disciplining people, I guess. But it has to be done.”
As he turned to go back toward his clinic, I gave his arm a squeeze. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, I may need it.”
The increase in foot traffic now told me, even before I checked my watch, that it was past nine and Chadwick Day had opened to the public.
I told Jay, “Feel free to roam for a while, if you want. I’ll mostly need you to bring Harpo up from the shop at about one for our demo. Until then, I should be fine on my own.”
He stood up. “For starters, I’ll get us both some cold water.”
“Excellent idea. It’s getting steamy out here already.”
Down toward Riverside Park, a country-western band started to play the rousing Bon Jovi song, “Who Says You Can’t Go Home?” A good choice, I thought, to set the right nostalgic tone for the summer day.
As strollers began to fill the street, the interest in my display surprised me. Over the next couple of hours, quite a few visitors stopped by. Some asked the usual questions: “Don’t cats groom themselves?” and “Why do they need their own boarding kennel?” I told them that longhairs and some other breeds developed matted coats and skin issues if they weren’t groomed properly, and that because cats could be so temperamental, many pet groomers would not even deal with them. I also explained that some cats fared badly in boarding facilities where they could smell dogs nearby and hear constant barking.
Whether or not those folks ever became customers of mine, at least they left with a greater understanding of why there was a need for my services.
Among the cat owners, a few told me they’d gotten long-haired cats, sometimes as rescues, without realizing their coats would need so much care. I explained how to deal with a few common problems and showed them the tools I used, without aggressively pushing them to buy anything. I also encouraged them to come back at one, when I’d be doing the demonstration with Harpo.
Many commented on the brochure that showed my shop’s condo system and playroom. A number of passersby also took up my invitation to “Ask the Cat Lady” about behavioral problems.
“I have two rescues that fight constantly, and it’s terrible. One keeps attacking the other. Now I have to keep one in the garage all the time, and it doesn’t seem fair.”
I asked this lady a few questions about how her house was set up. Then I told her to start switching the cats’ rooms sometimes—putting Cat No. 1 in the garage while Cat No. 2 had the run of the place—so they would smell each other in both spaces. I also told her to play with the bully cat more, to drain off some of his hunting aggression.
“Then try feeding them a few feet apart with a sturdy, see-through barrier in between,” I suggested. “Keep doing that until they’ll both eat quietly that way.” Finally, I advised her to put up some shelves within easy access of the floor, so the meeker cat could climb to escape the bully.
Taking my tips seriously, she actually made notes on the back of a flyer. I invited her to call and let me know how things worked out.
Someone else said his eighteen-year-old cat was starting to use the upstairs bedroom closet as a litter box, something she’d never done when she was younger. The vet had found no medical issues except some arthritis.
“Where are your actual litter boxes?” I asked her owner, a well-groomed older man wearing a T-shirt from a charity marathon.
“We’ve just got one,” he said. “It’s in the downstairs mud room.”
Not hard to diagnose the problem here. “You need a second box. With the arthritis, it might be hard for her to climb up and down stairs. She gets the urge, but the first-floor mud room is too far away, so she goes wherever she is. Try adding one in the upstairs hall or bathroom.”
The guy wrinkled his nose. “My wife isn’t going to like that.”
Suck it up, guys! But I wanted to work with him—I knew litter box issues were the top reason why many healthy cats went to shelters or even were euthanized. “Wouldn’t it be better than having her mess in your bedroom closet?”
He acknowledged this, thanked me, and took a brochure.
Jay returned in time to hear some of the last exchange. He waited until the fastidious guy had left, then joked, “You should probably charge for your advice, too.”
Not such an outlandish idea, I supposed. I did have credentials, after all, as an animal behaviorist. The other tips, I’d picked up just by talking with vets, reading articles by experts, and working with so many cats.
“I never thought of it,” I said, “because to me, the solutions are mostly common sense. A problem cat usually needs more of something. More, or more comfortable, litter boxes. More play time with his owner. More positive associations with some other animal or person in the house. And more levels to climb, explore, and feel safe.”
“To you, it’s common sense,” Jay pointed out, “but not to the average person. I’m just saying, you could charge for consultations.”
As noon approached, he went to get us some lunch, happy to stretch his legs again. Meanwhile, I saw the green Schaeffer’s truck cruise slowly by in the distance, just beyond the police sawhorses. If Rick needed to make a delivery somewhere in town, he must have been having a hard time working around the barricades.
The street was really filling up now. I knew Chadwick had a population of about eight thousand, and it felt like at least half were on the street today. Whole families browsed together, a few including babies in strollers. Now and then, someone who wasn’t up to walking—usually elderly, but not always—cruised by on a medical scooter.
Jay came back with a couple of gyros from Chad’s wrapped in tinfoil. A smart guy, he’d also brought a wad of paper napkins, because this specialty of the diner’s could also be sloppy.
As we sat behind the display table trying to eat our lunches discreetly, muffled voices echoed from the direction of the park gazebo. I knew the mayor, the head of the chamber, and other local dignitaries were speaking, and I heard the name of General Grayson Chadwick—a minor player in the Revolutionary War, and the town’s founder—invoked more than once. I’m sure the rest of the speeches sounded pretty much like the one Upton had given in my shop, about how Chadwick was transforming itself from just another shabby small town off the beaten path into a picturesque getaway with a tree-lined main street, neighborhoods of well-kept old houses, artsy shops, top restaurants, and even specialty services. I supposed my business fell into the last category.
Finished with his gyro, Jay folded his tinfoil tightly to catch any last drips of cucumber-yogurt sauce. “Probably time for me to go get our star attraction.”
“It is, thanks. Let your mom get him into the grooming harness, then just snap on the leash before you put him in the carrier. If you have any questions, ask her.” As Jay stood to go, I added quietly, “And let me know how she’s getting along with Teri, okay?”
He grinned. “You bet.”
In the meantime, I cleared as much stuff as I could off my table, thinking I should have brought a second one just for grooming. I spread a towel on top to catch any fur, and hoped that Harpo wouldn’t get scared and relieve himself on my new banner. The FOCA dogs did sound off occasionally, and, as Upton had warned, many fairgoers had brought along their own pooches.
Once the Persian arrived, he did attract quite a bit of attention. Although his backward-curling tail had disqualified him from being a top show cat, he still sported a spectacular, full coat, which Sarah had kept in fine shape. She claimed she’d purposely neglected it this week so I’d have some mats to work with, but they were very few. Jay held the leash and even played carnival huckster—“Step right up, folks. Learn to groom your cat right, without a cat fight!”<
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As soon as the first couple stopped by to watch, more folks kept coming. I demonstrated how to use a shedding rake to thin out Harpo’s dense undercoat and a wide-toothed comb to loosen the knots in his fur. I explained that if you ever had to cut any out, you needed to be very careful not to nick the cat’s very thin skin.
Now that my display featured a live animal, more kids drifted over from the FOCA table to marvel at the Persian. Harpo remained a very good sport as they asked to stroke his fur and marveled at how light and fluffy it was. He did shrink back once, when someone’s Doberman sniffed the edge of my table, but he didn’t panic. The owner quickly tugged the dog away.
Fortunately, only one or two of the adults asked me questions about the cat’s innocent connection to that local murder a few months back. I tried to answer in a way that wouldn’t provoke too many questions from the children.
I was able to keep this up for more than the hour I’d planned before I finally sensed Harpo was starting to mind the crowds and the heat. “He’s had enough,” I told Jay as I guided the cat back into his carrier. “He did good, though. And thanks so much for the assist.”
“Glad to help.” Jay carried the Persian back to my shop.
While he was away, another of the day’s attractions began—the parade of classic cars. They’d been scheduled to rally in the municipal parking lot at the northern end of town, near the old train station, and now they cruised slowly through the crowd. The oldest vehicles, such as a 1920s Ford and a 1940s Nash, led the way. From there, they gradually became more modern. Two bicolored models from the ’50s with huge rear fins, and a ’60s Volkswagen bus painted with psychedelic flowers, drew especially loud cheers from the crowd.
Suddenly, an argument broke out toward the end of the parade. At least two men were yelling, one sounding really hysterical, and the onlookers seemed to be holding him back. A young, freckled cop who’d been chilling near my street corner snapped to attention and strode off in the direction of the noise.
The Bengal Identity Page 15