The Bengal Identity

by Eileen Watkins

  No lights on anywhere. No sounds except hungry cats crying for their dinner.

  I stole cautiously into the playroom. “Mark? You here?”

  No answer. But in the center of the playroom, propped against a cat tower, I spotted a tall, flat package tightly wrapped in brown paper. A fat, red ribbon stretched around it vertically. A big bow near the top was secured in the middle by an oversized, advertising-style button with something printed on it.

  Still alert to some kind of ambush, I ventured near enough to read the words: WORLD’S MOST AWESOME CAT LADY!

  I heard Dawn, behind me, try to muffle a giggle. By now, the button, combined with the dimensions of the package, had tipped me off.

  “You didn’t!” I accused her.

  Mark emerged from the boarders’ hallway. “We did, actually. We went halves.”

  He helped me undo the ribbon, but after that I had no problem clawing off the brown paper, which had been meticulously folded and taped in the manner of a professional gallery. Dawn turned on the shop lights so I could fully appreciate the framed silk screen of the lady-leopard, now incredibly mine.

  The imagery seemed even more haunting and the colors even richer than I’d remembered. Also, the dimensions of the piece even larger.

  “It’s wonderful!” I murmured, half to myself. Then I envisioned my small apartment, the walls already covered with bookcases, cat shelves, and lesser-quality artworks. “But where on earth will I have room to hang it?”

  “Oh, well.” Mark pulled the print away from me and pretended to rewrap it. “If you really don’t have room . . .”

  I grabbed it back. “I’ll make room.” More seriously, I told him and Dawn, “Really, thank you both, very much.”

  “We thought it was the least we could do,” she said, “after we both talked you into trusting shady people who made trouble for you.”

  “Also, I thought you deserved some reward for outsmarting Schaeffer even when he held a gun to your head,” added Mark. “The Chadwick PD didn’t come through with a medal, so . . .”

  Privately, I reflected that no one I’d ever dated before would have been perceptive enough to surprise me with something like an artwork I’d admired . . . even if Mark might have gotten a little encouragement from Dawn. And after the support he’d given me throughout the challenges of the past weekend, I was definitely starting to see him as a keeper.

  I hugged both of them in thanks, lingering awhile in Mark’s arms.

  “Besides,” Dawn went on to explain, “pretty soon you won’t have Ayesha around anymore. I thought you needed something to remind you of the excitement she brought into your life.”

  The prospect did give me a pang of regret. “Yeah, it’s going to feel awfully quiet around here without her. Dyed or not, she certainly was a cat of a different color.”

  * * *

  Toward the end of that week, Don Brewster finally came to reclaim his Bengal queen. A slender man of medium height with thinning hair, he arrived dressed in jeans and a pressed chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled back. He wore no glasses, and a slight droop at the corners gave his eyes a sad but kind expression. His wife, Laura, did not make the trip, but he said she was doing well since her latest round of chemo, and her doctor was optimistic.

  “Just like I figured, she had no idea that Ayesha was gone, and was terribly shocked to hear about Pete,” Brewster said. “It’s just lucky that I could tell her you had the cat and we could get her back.”

  Sarah, her ankle good as new, brought the Bengal out on her leash and harness and let her jump onto the front counter to greet her real owner. Ayesha definitely seemed to recognize Brewster and rubbed against him assertively with her face and hip, as if she didn’t want to lose track of him again. Laughing, he pressed his cheek against her head in response.

  “She looks beautiful,” he said. “You’ve certainly taken excellent care of her.”

  “You should have seen her when she came to us,” I told him. “I thought she was a Havana Brown.”

  “It took us five baths to get all the dye out of her coat,” Sarah added.

  Knowing the older man had driven a long way, I offered him coffee and some fancy doughnuts from Cottone’s. While he relaxed, Sarah exercised Ayesha in the playroom to tire her out for the return trip. Brewster laughed out loud at some of her leaps and other antics.

  “I’d almost forgotten how much personality she has,” he said. “You folks have an even better play area here than we do at home.”

  “Ayesha certainly made the most of it,” I told him. “Even before we figured out about the dye job, we could see she was more athletic than our usual boarders.”

  Though I wasn’t trying to make him feel guilty, Brewster picked up on my subtext. “I hope she wasn’t any trouble. These cats can be a little strong-willed, and they’re very vocal.”

  “We had some adventures, but they weren’t really Ayesha’s fault.” Easing him into the story, I told him first about the night she went into heat, because I figured he should know that Mark gave her a shot. When that didn’t upset him, I recapped our hair-raising experiences on Chadwick Day.

  This was obviously more than he’d expected. “My goodness, the people who killed Pete were still after Ayesha? And you had to go up a tree to catch her?”

  “I saved you the article from our local paper.” I fished it from beneath the front counter and handed it to him. “Your wife might enjoy reading it.”

  He scanned enough of the story to see I hadn’t exaggerated. “Ms. McGlone, I don’t know what to say. You’ve gone to so much trouble. . . .”

  “Well, I knew Ayesha was valuable, but I would have done it for any cat that was left in my care. It actually was a little easier with this lady, because she’s pretty well trained.”

  Brewster frowned thoughtfully. “I want to reimburse you. She’s taken up space at your shop, you’ve fed her, exercised her, bathed her . . . and rescued her from what could have been a terrible situation. I almost don’t know how to compensate you for all that.”

  I couldn’t take advantage of the man, knowing he must have medical bills to pay for his wife’s care. “How about this? Just pay me one week’s board, if you’re able. Her food didn’t amount to that much”—I lied—“and everything else was my pleasure. Frankly, the whole escapade brought my shop a lot of publicity, especially the spectacle on Chadwick Day.”

  At Brewster’s insistence, I quoted him the boarding fee, and he wrote out a check. I accepted it and added, “I just have one more request. You said that you and Laura aren’t planning to breed any more cats?”

  He nodded. “She hasn’t got the energy, and we can certainly live on my income. I think we’ll just keep the few Bengals we have left, including Ayesha, as pets.”

  “Then all I ask, in case there was any question, is that you have her spayed. I’m afraid my experiences at that breeding farm have really soured me on the idea of bringing any more hard-to-place cats into the world.”

  With a warm smile, Brewster shook my hand. “We would have done that anyway, but you have my word.”

  He coaxed his Bengal princess into her original black carrier—with a waterproof pad on the bottom for the long drive home—and they departed. Sarah and I admitted to each other that we would sort of miss having Ayesha around to keep us on our toes.

  I was turning one of our other boarders out into the playroom when the shop phone rang. Sarah answered it, then put the caller on hold. “For you, Cassie. Arnie Lang? Isn’t he the guy you told me about, with all the tattoos?”

  I nodded, crossing to the front counter. The rock club manager whose aunt had a pet hoarding problem? What could he want with me? A little worried that he might want me to take some cats from his aunt’s house, I picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Cassie? Don’t know if you remember me. We talked a bit on Chadwick Day.”

  Like I meet so many men covered in scary ink and with salt-and-pepper hair hanging down their backs. “Sure, I remember. Wh
at can I do for you?”

  “Actually, I might be able to do something for you. I was just up at Gillis’s Garage, for about the third time since I’ve been in town. He says my heap needs a new transmission and maybe a new suspension system. I’m gonna bite the bullet and fix those things, but I’ve already put so much dough into it.... Now that NOYZ2 is doing well, I think I’m gonna treat myself to a new set of wheels. Anyhow, Bob thought I should give you a call.”

  I felt like I was missing something here, since I knew no more than the next person about car repair or car buying. “Me?”

  “He said you might be in the market for a used van,” Arnie clarified. “You’ve seen mine, not that it’s much to look at now. It came with a dry cleaner’s name on it, so I just painted it all black. Got a lot of cargo space, though.”

  He quoted me a price that I had to admit sounded like a bargain. Still, if his “heap” was always breaking down on him, how could I be sure it wouldn’t do the same with me?

  “Thanks,” I said. “That is tempting. But actually, I need something I can use for my cat grooming business. It would have to have a power source in the cargo bay, and maybe water, too. . . .”

  “Yeah, I figured that. But y’know, those guys at FOCA have converted a couple of old vans for their rescues. I talked to Becky about that once, and she said it doesn’t have to cost much. They probably could put you in touch with whoever they use.”

  I wondered about this. Business had been good lately, and I’d been able to put some money aside. I wasn’t sure, though, that I wanted to blow it all on rehabbing a vehicle that had seen better days. It would have to cost me, with the conversion, significantly less than a new van.

  “Maybe I should talk to them about it, then,” I told Arnie. “Can I have a couple of days to think it over?”

  “Abso-tively. Go over to Gillis’s, if you want, and check it out. My old wheels ain’t going anywhere.” He laughed loudly. “S’why I want to sell ’em!”

  I thanked him again, hung up in a bit of a daze, and related the conversation to Sarah. After all, she is a former math teacher and pretty savvy about budgets and finances.

  “What d’you think I should do?” I asked.

  My assistant shot me a wary glance. “Oh, gee, Cassie, I don’t know. That could be a really bad idea.”

  “Huh? How come?”

  “Well, just look at all the excitement that keeps comin’ our way, minding our own business and running this little shop here in Chadwick.” She struggled to maintain her expression of mock alarm. “Think how much more trouble we could get ourselves into if we go mobile!”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Eileen Watkins’s next Cat Groomer mystery

  FERAL ATTRACTION

  coming soon wherever print and e-books are sold!

  Chapter 1

  “They’re taking over our community! They’re vicious, and who knows what diseases they’re carrying?”

  “They do all kinds of disgusting things right outside my front door. My grandkids visit me, and I don’t want them exposed to that.”

  “Our walking group used to love strolling down the trails with our binoculars, looking for new birds. Now we keep coming across dead bodies.”

  “This is a nice, upscale neighborhood. They don’t belong here.”

  I squirmed in my stiff metal chair. When I’d agreed to accompany my friend Dawn to this condo meeting tonight, I hadn’t expected a melee. Especially given the age and conservative bent of the residents. Although The Reserve at Chadwick wasn’t technically an active-adult community, most of the forty or so people jammed into the meeting room looked past middle age. Dawn and I probably stood out, not only because we weren’t residents but because we were actually under thirty.

  It was a prosperous, sedate crowd dressed in comfy corduroy and practical pullovers; I even spotted one turtleneck patterned with tiny autumn leaves. Still, something had set them on fire with rebellion tonight.

  I asked Dawn in a whisper, “Are these meetings always so . . . lively?”

  She shook her head. “According to Mom, most of the time very few people attend, and the agenda is pretty boring. But like I warned you, this issue has everyone riled up.”

  The four condo board members, seated behind a long table at the front of the room, also looked unnerved by the strident complaints. They included Lauren Kamper, the board president; Sam Nolan, property manager and vice president; Joan Pennisi, secretary; and Dan Greenburg, treasurer.

  Lauren now leaned into her microphone and tried to regain control of the gathering. “Folks, we can’t have everyone speaking at once. The chair recognizes Ted Remy.”

  A strongly built, balding man stood up at his seat. “Some group came here a coupla months ago to fix this problem. They were supposed to catch all these stray cats and take ’em away. What happened with that?”

  A woman a few seats to his left, with short gray hair and a shrill voice, replied, “They only caught a few, and a week later they brought them all back! What the heck good does that do?”

  Sam Nolan, tall and lean with salt-and-pepper hair, thumbed through some paperwork on the table in front of him. “That group”—he found the information he was looking for—“Fine Feral Friends, reported that they were able to capture, neuter, and vaccinate ten of the cats.”

  “And they did it for free,” noted Dan, the nearly chinless treasurer.

  Joan, the motherly looking secretary, suggested, “We can call them to come again. . . .”

  “Forget that!” shouted a pudgy man in a rust-colored sweater. “Ten cats? There’s at least two dozen, and they’re breedin’ all the time. We need to get rid of ’em, permanently.” He swept his finger across his throat.

  Dawn shot me a pleading look. “Cassie, can you explain to them? About Trap-Neuter-Return?”

  At this point, I would sooner have stuck my head into a hornet’s nest than provoke this crowd. But to speak up for the animals was, after all, the reason I’d offered to come along this evening. Gathering my courage, I raised my hand until Lauren pointed at me.

  “And you are?” she asked, sounding wary.

  I stood up. “Cassie McGlone. I own Cassie’s Comfy Cats, a grooming and boarding business in downtown Chadwick. I’m here tonight at the request of my friend Dawn Tischler”—I glanced down at her—“whose mother is a resident here at The Reserve. She’s off on the senior Caribbean cruise right now.”

  Joan bent her head to take notes on my credentials.

  Lauren wore her highlighted blond hair skinned back in a low ponytail, which at least emphasized her good cheekbones. She seemed impatient now with my recital of my bona fides. “And your interest in this matter, Ms. McGlone?”

  “I’m also a certified animal behaviorist, and Dawn asked me to explain the reasons behind the Trap, Neuter, and Return approach. See, if you just remove the wild cats, others will come to take their place. It’s best to neuter and vaccinate the members of the existing colony so they can’t reproduce and can’t spread any diseases to pets or people. They also won’t get into as many noisy fights with one another, so they’ll cause less disturbance.”

  “Trouble is,” Ted interrupted, “people keep feeding them. It says in our bylaws that you’re not supposed to feed wildlife. And that’s what these cats are!”

  “Even that doesn’t stop them from killing the birds,” complained the lady from the trail-walking group.

  From the back of the room, a woman’s strong contralto rang out. “May I say something about that?”

  Sam responded with a tight smile. “Might as well, Ms. Ward. After all, you’re a big reason why our community’s in this situation.”

  When I saw who had spoken, I yielded the floor and took my seat. I had not met Sabrina Ward yet, but Dawn admired her tremendously and had told me much about her. The woman had a long history of feminist and animal activism. Now Sabrina lived at The Reserve and was the staunchest champion of the feral cat colony.

 
About seventy years old, she rose to her full, diminutive height with the help of a cane. A dark knit cap barely tamed her long, wavy hair—dyed a burgundy shade and threaded with gray. She wore a purple paisley shawl as a muffler and a faded denim jacket over a loose, flowered thrift-shop dress. As if she needed glasses, Sabrina squinted in the direction of the board members’ table. Even so, she somehow radiated steely will and determination.

  “It’s true what you say, Ted. Residents who feed the cats close to their homes aren’t helping the problem. That’s why the FFF people and I have set up feeding stations farther out in the woods. Once the ferals get used to eating there, and nowhere else, they’ll be less likely to hang around the town houses.”

  “Those feeding stations are dangerous, too,” a rosy-faced man with a blond comb-over protested.

  “Chair recognizes Bert Chamberlain,” said Lauren.

  Bert stood. “They’re too near the community trails. I was walking my dog Jojo the other day and he got into some of the cat food that was left out. I stopped him before he ate very much, but an hour later he was so sick I had to rush him to the vet. He was even having convulsions.” With a catch in his voice, the man added, “They’ve still got him there, trying to figure out how to treat him.”

  “She probably put a hex on him!” The lady with the short gray hair stabbed a finger in Sabrina’s direction. “She’s a witch.”

  Dawn shifted irritably in the seat next to me. “Oh God, some of these people! How does Mom stand to live around them, day in and day out?”

  A better question, I thought, might be how Sabrina fit into this community. Not only would her appearance and attitudes make her conspicuous, but if she dressed from thrift shops and couldn’t afford eyeglasses, how was she even able to live here?

  Meanwhile, Sabrina ignored the accusation and regarded Bert gravely. “Mr. Chamberlain, I’m very sorry about your dog. But I doubt it was just the stale cat food that made him so sick. More likely, someone in this community poisoned the food in hopes of harming the cats, and Jojo was an accidental victim.”