by Elaine Viets
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Trish said, wiping her eyes. That left muddy mascara smears, but she was too distraught to notice.
“I told him it would take time to get that much money in cash—I’d have to sell some holdings—but I’d get the half million.
“He said, ‘You have until next Tuesday. Used bills. Nothing bigger than a twenty. Miss the deadline and Justine goes to the pound—and not one in Fort Lauderdale, where you can find her. She goes to a kill shelter.’”
Trish erupted into fresh tears.
“You keep saying ‘he,’” Phil said. “What did he sound like? Is the kidnapper a man? Young? Old? Educated?”
“He used a voice changer,” Trish said. “He had a Darth Vader voice. That made it worse. Besides, no woman would be so cruel to a helpless baby.”
A vision of Cruella de Vil flashed in Helen’s mind. She’d wanted 101 Dalmatian puppies to make a coat. Cruella was fiction, but real mothers beat their babies. Helen hastily banished that thought, as if Trish could read her mind.
She glanced at Phil, and he raised an eyebrow, but neither detective said anything. They both knew men and women could be cruel, but why add to their client’s distress?
“We’ll get her back,” Phil said. He sounds so comforting, Helen thought, and looks so strong and competent, Trish has to be reassured. “And if you decide to give the kidnapper money, we’ll get that back, too,” he said.
“I don’t care about the money,” Trish said. “All I care about is Justine. If you do find the money, you can have ten percent.”
A fifty-thousand-dollar bonus, Helen thought. Trish casually tossed in that staggering sum as if it were pocket change.
“There’s a way to mark the money that the catnapper can’t see,” Phil said. “SmartWater CSI. It’s a forensic coding system. A tiny dab on the money and it will fluoresce under UV black light. I can buy a kit for about two hundred dollars, if you authorize it.”
“It’s not like those dye packs they put in bags to stop bank robbers, is it?” Nancie said.
“Nope. SmartWater can’t be seen without a black light,” Phil said. “It’s been used in Britain for years.”
“No reason the bad guy should profit,” Nancie said. “Do you agree, Trish?”
Trish nodded.
Helen jumped in with another question: “Did the kidnapper give any details about what time and where you’ll make the exchange?”
“He said he’d call me the morning it’s due with the details,” Trish said. “He warned me not to contact the police.” She gave a delicate, ladylike snort, almost a dainty sneeze. “As if they’d do anything.”
“He doesn’t want you to make advance plans,” Phil said. “Helen and I will be with you that morning. We’ll stay the night, if you want. Did the kidnapper say anything else?”
“I tried to tell him what Justine eats and the brand of litter she uses, but he hung up on me.”
“Have you filed a police report for your stolen cat?” Phil asked.
“Why? They won’t look for her,” Trish said.
“Good idea,” Nancie said. “We’ll need it to claim the cat and go after the catnapper.”
“How do we prove it’s your cat?” Helen said. “Does she wear a collar and tags?”
“She’s microchipped,” Trish said.
“Good,” Helen said. “What is the kidnapper’s phone number?”
“He didn’t give me one,” Trish said.
“The number he called you from should be in your cell.”
“Oh. Right,” Trish said. “I didn’t think of that. Here. You look. I’m afraid I’ll hit the wrong button and wipe it out.”
She handed Helen her cell phone, and the detective checked the incoming calls list. “There’s a call at four seventeen p.m. today with a 713 area code,” she said. “It’s your only call after you called Nancie at eleven fifty-six.”
“That’s a Houston area code,” Phil said. “Do you know anyone in that city?”
Trish looked puzzled. “No,” she said. “I don’t know anyone in Texas.”
“My guess is the catnapper’s cell phone is a throwaway,” Phil said. “To know for sure, we’d have to get the records from the cell phone company, which takes a court order or a subpoena.”
“Don’t you know a friendly cop who can check for you?” Trish asked.
“That only works in the movies,” Phil said. “The laws and department oversight have been tightened. Now cops risk their jobs for a stunt like that.”
“Let’s assume we have a sensible catnapper who used a burner phone,” Nancie said. “We have more important things to investigate. Find the kidnapper and you’ve got Mort’s killer.”
Trish melted into tears again. “Mort loved Justine,” she said. “He wouldn’t let anyone take our baby. He fought for her to the death.”
Murder has transformed Mort into a saint, Helen thought. We need some information before Trish completely canonizes him. “Who would want to kill your husband?” she asked. “Did Mort have any enemies? Maybe an unhappy client?”
“I don’t think any of his financial clients were unhappy. I didn’t understand the details of what he did, but he made lots of money.”
“What about his love life?” Phil said.
“Mort is—I mean, was—seeing two women. One is Jan Kurtz, an assistant for Deidre Chatwood. Dee breeds and exhibits prizewinning show cats—Persians. Her cattery is called Chatwood’s Champions. She’s had at least one national champion in the Gold Cup Cat Fanciers’ Association.
“Mort’s other girlfriend, Amber Waves, calls herself an actress,” Trish said, and sniffed. She wasn’t crying, she was sneering. “Some career. She had a scene as an extra in the movie Rock of Ages with Tom Cruise. That was filmed in Fort Lauderdale, you know. Amber was in the pole-dancing scene.
“Two seconds of show business went to her head. Now she wants to open her own studio. She tells everyone, ‘Pole dancing is a respectable fitness workout, and I’m an actress. Did I tell about my scene with Tom Cruise?’ Whether you want to hear it or not, she’ll give you the details.”
“Is Amber Waves her real name?” Phil asked.
“Nothing on that girl is real,” Trish said.
“Mort was also giving financial advice to an important cat show judge, Lexie Deener. He thought it would help Justine win in the big Gold Cup Cat Show. I said Justine would win without bribes, but he insisted, and I figured it couldn’t hurt. Mort knew money. Besides, if Justine does lose when that woman judges her, well, I’ll be able to appeal her decision.”
Do cat shows work that way? Helen wondered. Now wasn’t the time to ask.
Trish lowered her voice. “Mort said he knew a major secret—a very damaging secret—about Lexie, but he wouldn’t use it.”
“What kind of secret?” Helen asked.
“He wouldn’t tell me. For all his faults, Mort wasn’t really a bad guy.”
“Was he keeping it in reserve, in case his financial advice went bad?” she asked.
“Mort didn’t give bad advice,” Trish said. “He almost never failed. That’s why people fought to be taken on as clients.”
Phil tapped his cheek, a signal he was asking a tough question.
“And who are you seeing?” he asked.
“Why is that important?” Trish hissed. Helen expected her to swipe at Phil with her pink claws.
“An attractive woman like yourself might incite jealousy. It’s important to know about your life as well as Mort’s if we’re going to save Justine.”
“I can’t see why you need to know, but I’m dating an attorney, Arthur Goldich,” she said. “But only after my husband moved to our other residence. Everyone likes Mort and he’s successful, but an attorney has more prestige.”
She’s said “attorney” twice, Helen thought, and that so-called prestige is debatable.
“What kind of lawyer?” she asked.
“Arthur specializes in foreclosures.”
“O
h,” Helen said. After Florida’s real estate tanked, foreclosure lawyers were as prestigious as roaches.
Trish heard her disapproval. “Don’t believe what you see on TV,” she said. “The media likes to show veterans and old people getting thrown out of their houses. The truth is, most people who lose their homes are gamblers, flipping property for profit. Arthur says they should honor their financial commitments.”
Helen bit back a reply. Nancie saw the fire in her eyes and stepped in quickly. “I’ve already discussed my concerns with Trish about the police. I’ve tried to prepare her for the worst, though I hope it won’t happen. There’s still a chance that Detective Boland will come to his senses or the prosecuting attorney will say there isn’t enough evidence.”
“Mort knew the prosecutor,” Trish said.
And that could work against you, Helen thought.
“Yes, well, there’s a possibility that you could be arrested, and I don’t think you’ll get bail,” Nancie said.
Trish’s control cracked. “Then how will I get my Justine back?” she wailed. Helen felt her heart contract. Trish might be a snob, but she loved her cat.
“The catnapper will know if you’ve been arrested,” Phil said. “He must be watching you. He knew exactly when you got home.
“Coronado Investigations has a dummy number on a cell phone. We can set it up to forward your calls to us and have you record a voice mail message. We’ll screen your phone calls. If the catnapper calls, I’ll say I’m your office assistant.”
Trish hesitated.
“Someone on your level should have an assistant,” Helen said.
“I’ll do it,” Trish said. “You have to get my Justine back. For her sake. There’s a big Gold Cup show in June and I know she’ll win. But what will you and Phil do until the catnapper calls next week?”
“I’ll be your office assistant and monitor your calls,” Phil said. “And I’d like to trace that red cat medallion we saw near Mort’s, er . . . near Mort. I think it may lead to the killer.”
He called up the photo on his cell phone. “Ever see this before?” he asked Trish.
“No,” she said.
“It says ‘Coventry’ in gold around the edge. Does that mean anything?”
“That’s in England, isn’t it? I think there’s a big cat show in Coventry, but I’m not familiar with the international shows,” she said. “But if you think it’s important, you should investigate it. Will Helen help you?”
“No,” Nancie said. “Time is limited. Justine is a show cat. Helen needs to get a job in that world. Trish, you’re wired into the local scene. Is Dee, the show cat breeder and exhibitor, hiring anyone at Chatwood’s Champions?”
“She’s always hiring,” Trish said. “Dee’s a difficult woman and her staff rarely lasts longer than a month. Jan’s managed to hang in there six months, which is a record. I’m sure Helen could get a job at her cattery. Persians require lots of brushing and bathing. I’ll give her a reference and say you worked with Justine. You have a cat, right, Helen?”
She nodded, too discouraged to speak. Phil would be answering the phone and she’d be up to her elbows in cat hair.
Nancie passed Trish a sheet of expensive plain cream stationery. “Write the reference now,” she said. “Helen can look for a job first thing tomorrow.”
“You’ll have no problem getting hired,” Trish said. “Dee goes through employees like cats go through litter.”
Terrific, Helen thought. We all know what happens in a litter box.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday
Dee Chatwood’s door belonged on a fortress. Helen lifted the snarling lion’s-head door knocker carefully—it looked like it might bite her. A uniformed Latina maid answered.
“I have a job interview with Ms. Chatwood,” Helen said.
The maid nodded. “Ms. Chatwood is taking her morning swim,” she said. “I’ll take you to the pool.”
Helen felt like she’d been swallowed by a leopard. The walls of the vast entrance hall and living room were a dizzying display of animal-print paper, reflected in the shiny black marble floor. Palms lurked in the corners. On a sleek black couch, a Persian cat with ebony fur and gleaming copper eyes looked down its short nose at Helen.
“Beautiful cat,” Helen said.
“His name is Midnight,” the maid said. “He’s a stud.”
A stud? Oh, right, Helen reminded herself. Dee runs a cattery. Stud is Midnight’s job. She was glad she didn’t say anything dumb.
She followed the maid past a wall of oil paintings, all Persians with flat, haughty faces. The cats seemed to disapprove of Helen and her bloodlines. The portrait of a silver-haired Persian, labeled CHATWOOD’S SILVER SHADOW—CAT OF THE YEAR, 2008, hung over a case crammed with huge blue ribbons, the coveted cat-show rosettes. The shelves held dizzying numbers of framed photos of longhaired cats, plaques and trophies. They weren’t bowling trophies, either. Each had a figure of a cat, and some could have been sculptures.
The hall led to a screened-in pool the size of a lake, with a view of the Intracoastal Waterway. The house shouted money. The mustard mansion was built around a swimming pool with a bell tower. Yeah, a bell tower, a phallic object that thrust up from the edge of the deep end, where a diving board would be. The tower was taller than the house. The morning sun shining on the bell blinded Helen.
Then she saw a big-boned blonde in a leopard-print retro bikini doing the backstroke near the bell-tower end. Dee Chatwood.
When she reached the edge of the pool, Dee climbed out, toweled off her short platinum hair, and asked, “You’re Helen Hawthorne?”
“I’m here for the job at your cattery,” Helen said. “Trish Barrymore recommended me.”
Up close in the bright light, Helen could see that Dee was fifty, fighting to look forty. Her waist had thickened, but the swimming kept her fit. She had skin like fine brown leather and long red claws. Her Botoxed forehead was frighteningly smooth and her collagened lips were overripe, but the effect was curiously attractive.
Dee slid into a black caftan with feline grace and settled herself at a wicker patio table. Helen half expected her to lick the stray water droplets off her arms.
The maid came back carrying a tray with two silver pitchers and glasses. “Water?” Dee asked. “Orange juice?”
“Water, thank you,” Helen said.
“Sit down,” Dee said. “Trish speaks highly of you.”
“I’ve heard good things about your cattery,” Helen said. “Congratulations on your Cat of the Year.”
“We’re small but choice. We have five cats: three breeding queens, one stud and a spay.” Dee gulped her water thirstily, and poured herself a glass of orange juice.
“Is the stud Midnight?” Helen said. “I saw him in the living room. He’s gorgeous.”
“He knows it,” Dee said. “None of the females are in season right now, so he has the run of the house.
“I’m campaigning two this year,” she said. “Are you interested in breeding cats?” Her green eyes narrowed and she studied Helen carefully.
She’s on the alert for something, Helen thought. All I can do is tell the truth and hope it’s what she wants to hear. “No,” she said. “I like cats. I have a rescue cat, Thumbs. He has six toes and he’s neutered.”
“Good,” Dee said, nodding approvingly. “Polydactyls should be altered. Their offspring have a higher incidence of birth defects.
“I’m glad you don’t want to be a breeder. I got burned once. Now I make my employees sign an agreement that they won’t breed or show cats for five years after they work here.”
“Fine with me,” Helen said.
“I’m not going to hire and train my competition. Breeding cats is a labor of love. I’m lucky if I break even. Persians require constant care.” Dee downed half her juice.
“Lots of brushing?” Helen asked.
“Combing. Daily,” Dee said. “Their fur mats easily. My cats must be bathed once a week, more
if they’re going to be shown.”
“Do your cats like baths?” Helen said. Thumbs would claw off her arm if she tried to bathe him.
“Love them,” Dee said. “I start bathing them when they’re babies. They learn to enjoy them. The process takes hours, but the cats find the experience pleasant—and if they don’t, they’ll let you know.”
She swiped her red-tipped nails at Helen’s eyes, and Helen jumped back.
“Good,” Dee said. “You have quick reflexes. You’ll need them.
“We’re extra busy this week. I’m showing Red and Chessie at the regional Gold Cup show in Plantation on Saturday and Sunday, and my other girl up and quit. Walked out on me with no warning. Really, people have no work ethic. They’re bone lazy.”
Helen’s antenna went up. In her experience, employers who complained about lazy staff were cheap and demanding.
“What do you pay?” Helen asked.
“My wages are very generous,” Dee said. “Eight-oh-four an hour.” She said it with a flourish, as if she doled out bags of gold.
The cats aren’t the only queen around here, Helen thought.
“What are my duties?” she asked.
“You’ll change ten cat boxes daily—five in the cattery and five around the house. Gabby, the maid, will show you where the others are. You’ll have to wipe their eyes daily and keep their noses and bottoms clean. You’ll help with the grooming and bathing.
“During the shows, as well as the day before and after, you’ll be expected to work eight to ten hours.”
Helen knew the answer to her next question, but asked anyway. “Do we get overtime?”
“Of course not!” Dee sounded so shocked, Helen feared she’d lose her chance for the job. “I’m paying you eleven cents above Florida minimum wage. And don’t ask for sick leave. I don’t pay people to lie around in bed.”
“What about benefits?”
“You’ll get one major benefit,” Dee said, and smiled. “A regular paycheck. Every Friday. You’d be surprised how few people appreciate that.”
Dee stood up. “Jan Kurtz, my head girl, is working in the cattery now. I’ll take you back.”