by Elaine Viets
Finally, I get to meet Mort’s girlfriend, Helen thought. She’s why I’m cleaning ten cat boxes a day.
Dee padded down a back hall to a large, sunny room with pearly white walls. Helen saw a pair of blue-eyed beauties at a waist-high white table. Jan looked like she’d stepped off a romance novel cover, with her creamy skin and what could only be called raven tresses tumbling down her back. She should wear a silk skirt and a bustier, not a pink polo shirt, white shorts and flip-flops, Helen thought.
Jan was combing a white cat’s back, while the cat stretched luxuriously and rumble-purred.
“This is Jan Kurtz and my beautiful baby, Chessie,” Dee said. She scratched the cat’s small, delicate white ears, and Chessie yawned in her face.
“Jan, this is your new assistant,” Dee said. “I’ll be in my office.”
“Boy, do I need you,” Jan said. “Can you start work right now?”
“Absolutely,” Helen said. She felt a surge of triumph. This was easy. “What do you need?”
“Clean the ten cat boxes,” Jan said.
“Scoop them?” Helen asked hopefully.
“No, they have to be emptied, washed and dried.”
Helen’s surging triumph deflated like an old balloon.
“But first, come meet the other cats.”
The floor-to-ceiling glass windows facing the water had a series of white carpeted shelves. A longhaired orange cat lounged on the lowest shelf. “That’s Red,” Jan said. “She’s a spay. She’s being campaigned for a national win this year.”
On the next shelf was a cat whose glowing coat was a river of hot fudge.
“This is Chocolate, and her deep, rich brown looks good enough to eat,” Jan said. “Her coat is dark, long and thick, even in the summer when some Persians blow their coats.”
“Is she a breeding queen?” Helen asked, proud that she knew the term.
“A real queen mother. Choc is bred twice a year and produces the most beautiful kittens. She’s a good mother.”
“Doesn’t that come naturally?” Helen said.
“It should, but it doesn’t. Red showed little interest in nursing and nearly ate one of her last kittens. She was getting a little old for breeding by then, and Dee had her spayed.”
Choc licked Jan’s hand with her pink tongue. “She’s grooming me,” she said, scratching the cat’s ears. “Good girl.”
She patted Chocolate’s broad head and moved to the cat on the next shelf, a soft, pale gray cloud. “This is Mystery,” she said.
“Such a pretty shade of gray,” Helen said.
“Blue,” Jan corrected. “Pedigreed cats are blue, not gray. Mystery is a laid-back kitty. Most Persians are.”
With that, all three cats sat up, ears alert, short tails lashing, avid eyes on the scene outside. Mourning doves and tiny yellow-breasted finches fluttered around a bird feeder heaped with seed. The cats chirped and squeaked.
“Cat TV,” Jan said. “The birds are quite safe—this bunch never ate anything that didn’t come off a store shelf—but the Audubon Society here loves watching their feathered friends.”
Helen pointed to the barbed wire twined around the feeder’s pole like a deadly vine. “What’s that for?”
“It’s Dee’s squirrel deterrent. It doesn’t work. They still steal the birdseed. We wash the cats in that sink there,” she said, pointing to the long, deep metal sink on the wall near the grooming table.
Next to it were two more grooming tables and a shelf of thick white towels. Along the far wall were five wire cages the size of bedroom dressers. Each held a plush bed, a cat-sized hammock, a carpeted shelf and a rainbow of toys—mice, balls, catnip pillows.
“The cage doors are open,” Helen said.
“When they’re not in season, the cats have the run of the house,” Jan said. “I’ll say this for her: Dee socializes her cats. Some catteries confine them in cages, but Dee’s cats love people. Makes them good pets and good show animals. Midnight likes the front of the house, but the queens hang around here for their baths and cat TV.”
In the corner of each cage was a small litter box.
“There’s your first chore,” Jan said. “There’s a stack of plastic litter boxes over there. Next to it, in that big green plastic garbage can, is fresh litter. The old litter gets dumped in the big metal can with the lid on it.
“Fill ten new boxes first, then collect and clean the used ones. Wash them in the porcelain sink by the litter supply. Meanwhile, I have to bathe Mystery and comb Red.”
Helen and Jan worked for the next hour. Jan groomed both cats, talking to them softly. They rubbed their heads against her hand and begged for scratches. She played with them, waving a wand with shiny Mylar strips and teasing them with feathers.
“I’m not goofing off,” Jan said. “This is how the judges get the cats’ attention at the shows. It’s also exercise for them.”
Helen’s job wasn’t nearly as pleasant. She filled the fresh boxes with litter, emptied the used ones in the cattery, found Gabby Garcia, the maid, and then carried five more fresh boxes—two to upstairs bathrooms, one in a guest bathroom, two more in a utility room off the kitchen—and removed and cleaned the old ones. Then she swept up cat hair in the cattery, wiped down the grooming tables, and tossed loads of wet towels into the washer and then the dryer.
By four o’clock, her arms ached and her nose itched from the cat hair, but her work was done and so was Jan’s.
“Tonight we can leave on time,” Jan said. “It will get hectic in a few days.”
Jan looked surprisingly fresh after a day of bathing and combing cats.
Her dark hair held its curls and her skin was still creamy and makeup free.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jan said. “This has been a hellish week. My assistant Petula quit, Dee went on a rampage and yesterday was worst of all.”
“What happened?” Helen asked.
“My—my fiancé was killed,” Jan said. “Murdered, actually. I found out about it on TV. Last night on the ten o’clock news.”
“How horrible,” Helen said.
“It was,” Jan said. “I cried all night. Mort was a lovely man, and we planned to marry as soon as his divorce was final.” She wiped away more tears.
“I’m very sorry,” Helen said.
“I didn’t want to come in today, but Dee said she’d fire me if I didn’t. I can’t afford to lose this job. The kitties are a great comfort, and work helps me forget a little.” She sighed and said, “Well, you don’t want to hear me talk about Mort.”
“Oh, but I do,” Helen said.
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday
Helen, grumpy, hot and cat-hairy, was glad she didn’t run into anyone back at the Coronado. She went straight to her apartment, showered, changed into clean clothes and poured herself a glass of white wine.
After a few sips, she was ready to talk with Phil. She found him typing furiously at his computer in their second-floor office. She paused a moment to study him. She liked his silvery hair, and his slightly crooked nose gave him an offbeat handsomeness. He had a cute little wrinkle in his forehead when he was working intensely.
He looked up and said, “Helen! You look nice.” He got up and kissed her.
“I didn’t ten minutes ago,” she said. “I’ve been slaving over a hot cat box—ten cat boxes—while you’re working on a nice, cool computer.
“Any interesting calls come in today on Trish’s phone?”
“One from the Police Benevolent Association,” he said, “and two from her boyfriend, Arthur. He was surprised to find his fiancée had a secretary.”
“So they’re engaged,” Helen said.
“That’s what he said. She didn’t mention it. I’ve been hard at the computer. I’ve had a breakthrough in the case.”
Helen sat in her black-and-chrome partner chair, and Phil rubbed her neck and shoulders. “You’re tense,” he said. “I’m glad you got the job, but it must be rough.”
&n
bsp; “I can whine later,” she said. “Tell me about the breakthrough.”
“I think the red medallion by Mort’s body is from the Gold Cup Coventry All Breed Cat Show,” he said. “It’s a big-deal show in Britain.”
“That’s no cute kitty,” Helen said. “Why the ferocious feline?”
“Cat shows will sometimes rent a big-cat mascot,” Phil said. “A panther, a tiger or a leopard, and then give out medallions with its image. I was at a cat show in Fort Lauderdale that had a cougar.”
“Brilliant,” Helen said.
“My middle name,” Phil said.
“Now we have to figure out who went to the Coventry cat show.”
“Already did that,” Phil said. “I did some research on Arthur, the boyfriend.”
“The foreclosure lawyer,” Helen said. “I couldn’t believe Trish said he had more prestige than Mort. I wanted to tell her about the classy foreclosure lawyer who put Su casa es mi casa on his yacht.”
Phil kissed her again. “I admired your fortitude,” he said. “Arthur is even richer than Mort, and he is prestigious, at least in his profession.”
“Humph,” Helen said. “I have more respect for garbage collectors. They serve society.”
“Okay,” Phil said. “I agree, but the faster we solve this case, the faster you’re away from those reeking cat boxes. Arthur has an impressive Web site, and he bragged he was a guest lecturer at the Mapesbury Comparative International Law Seminar in Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“Shakespeare’s hometown,” Helen said.
“And a major tourist center. The Stratford seminar was the same weekend as the Coventry cat show, and Coventry is a little over twenty miles away.”
“You think Arthur went there?”
“I called Trish and she said yes,” Phil said. “His lecture was early in the morning, then he went to the show to get pointers for Trish. They have big plans for Justine. Trish thinks she can be an international star. A British show win would be an important step in Justine’s career.
“I think there’s something off about this kidnapping, Helen.”
“Off how?”
“I think that Trish faked it and stole her own cat.”
“How could she do that?” Helen asked.
“Easy. Arthur did the catnapping. Why would a kidnapper wait eight days for the money?” Phil asked. “The longer the wait, the easier it is to catch the kidnapper.”
“If Trish kidnapped her cat, do you think she killed her husband?” Helen asked.
“Well, it would be convenient for her,” Phil said.
“Can’t see it,” Helen said. “Murder would mess up her designer dress. She’s too girly.”
“Don’t underestimate her. Did you see the muscles in Trish’s arms?” Phil said. “She’s strong, but I don’t think she walloped Mort with the cat tower and walked off with Justine. She stayed safely at home and called the cops to set up an alibi.”
“That didn’t work,” Helen said.
“Right. The cops think like I do,” Phil said. “Trish set up her alibi and then her boyfriend did the dirty work. Arthur doesn’t look like a desk jockey. I saw his picture on his Web site. He’d have no trouble killing Mort.”
“Why would he bother? Trish is getting a divorce,” Helen said.
“And it’s taking forever,” Phil said. “The money’s being eaten up in legal fees, and the publicity is brutal. Arthur knows the longer a high-profile divorce drags on, the more likely one party will say, ‘Take everything. I don’t care anymore. Just cut the knot.’”
“And Trish, who’s engaged to a rich guy, is more likely to cave first,” Helen said. “But Arthur is already rich.”
“And greedy,” Phil said. “He’s a foreclosure lawyer, remember?”
“I’m not convinced Trish is a black widow. She seemed genuinely upset.”
“I used to work insurance cases,” Phil said. “You’d be surprised the frauds so-called solid citizens try. You’d also be amazed at how good they are at acting. Trish may be one of those undiscovered acting talents. And she does have real reasons to be upset. The cops suspect her. Her alibi didn’t fool them and she could be arrested anytime. If her scheme unravels, she goes to jail for murder one.”
“So Arthur kills Mort,” Helen said, “and steals the kitten. What did he do with her?”
“He takes Justine to his home. Trish said Arthur has two cats of his own and ‘he’s a good father.’”
“What’s that mean?” Helen asked.
“She told me, in great detail. If you want to lose an hour or two, talk to Trish about cats. Arthur comes home every night at seven to feed both cats and play with them. One’s a Russian blue kitten and the other’s a big Maine Coon.”
“I love Maine Coons,” Helen said. “They’re big, furry teddy bears.”
“Trish said Arthur often works twelve-hour days, but he insists on being at home at seven, no matter what. If it’s not raining, he feeds his cats by the pool and then plays with them. He makes sure they have a half hour for dinner and quality time.”
“Does Arthur live in Peerless Point?”
“No, near downtown Fort Lauderdale. A waterfront house in Rio Vista.”
Helen raised an eyebrow. “He’s definitely got some bucks.”
“It’s after six,” Phil said. “Wanna go catnapping with me? You can drive the getaway car. I’ll swipe the cat and we’ll drive it to Nancie’s office.”
“How are you going to see Arthur’s backyard?”
“A former client lives on the same street. She’s a snowbird, and I still have her security code. Arthur’s the only year-round resident on that block. I’ll get in through her back gate and make my way down the seawall. You’ll wait in the car with Thumbs’s pet carrier.”
“Okay,” Helen said. “But I still think Trish isn’t guilty.”
“So noted,” Phil said. “Now think about never seeing those steaming cat boxes if I’m right.”
“Let’s go,” Helen said.
Even in rush hour, Rio Vista was only twenty minutes away. The pricey neighborhood along the Intracoastal Waterway was built during the roaring twenties. Helen could see Scott and Zelda playing in a tiered fountain, and Gatsby gazing wistfully out an upstairs window.
Phil had changed into his disguise—board shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers. “I’ll wade into the water first, so if I’m caught, I can say I fell in and lost my paddleboard.”
“Yuck,” Helen said. “That water’s nasty.”
“But it gives me an excuse to carry a towel so I can wrap up the cat,” Phil said. “That way Justine won’t claw my arm.”
At twenty after seven, Helen dropped off Phil half a block from Arthur’s home, a three-story mansion with a fountain. They could see a long, shiny black Mercedes in the curved drive.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so,” Phil said. He reached in back for Thumbs’s carrier and left it on the front passenger seat with its door open. “Keep driving around until you see Arthur’s car leave, then park back here.”
He left, the towel slung over his shoulder.
Helen toured Rio Vista’s tree-lined streets, waiting for Phil. Many of the stucco mansions had yachts docked in the back and exotic gardens, but she couldn’t enjoy the sights. Helen was sure the Neighborhood Watch program would report her.
At least I’m a white woman, she thought. That means I look harmless to these homeowners.
Helen was relieved when Arthur’s Mercedes backed out of the drive. She drove around one more time, then parked at the drop-off, drummed her nails against the steering wheel and checked her watch. “Come on, Phil,” she muttered.
Finally, Phil jogged out of his former client’s backyard, singing loudly to cover the howls coming from the towel-wrapped bundle in his arms. Helen opened his door, he tossed the bundle into the carrier and climbed in. He was soaked, and his wet tennies squelched.
“Go!” he said.
Helen wasted no time. On the short drive to Nanc
ie’s law office, Phil called the lawyer. As they expected, she was working at her desk.
“I think our client is scamming us,” he said. “Helen and I are bringing you the proof. Once you see it, you may not want to take the case.”
“I’ll make that decision after I talk to you,” Nancie said.
At the stoplight, Helen noticed a long, bloody scratch down Phil’s arm. “You’re hurt,” she said.
“Justine has a set of steak knives on her paws,” Phil said. “Arthur has a screened-in cat run in the backyard, with a cat door so his pets can come and go as they please. The people door on the run wasn’t locked, so I walked in. The big, fluffy brown cat was asleep in the corner. Little Justine put up a fight, but I threw the towel over her and legged it out of there. Nobody saw me.”
“Thank goodness,” Helen said.
“Ouch!” Phil said. She heard a loud, snaky hiss.
“What’s wrong?”
“I opened the cage to take the towel off Justine and she clawed me again.” He wrapped his pocket handkerchief around his wounded hand.
Phil insisted on carrying the pet carrier into Nancie’s office, even though he’d bled through his handkerchief.
“I want her to see I was wounded in the line of duty,” he said.
“Your blood, your story,” Helen said.
Phil made a dramatic sight with his bloody, bandaged hand and the blood-spattered carrier. Nancie listened patiently to his story, then said, “If Trish is in on the catnapping, I won’t represent her if there’s a criminal case. Let’s see Justine.”
She cleared her papers off the desk, then opened the carrier door. An indignant gray kitten tested the desk with one paw, then eased out its round gray head, and finally its whole body.
The cat hissed, then whizzed all over Nancie’s black leather desk pad.
Helen and Phil couldn’t understand why Nancie was laughing. “That’s no Justine,” she said. “This angry gentleman is an unneutered Russian blue. I believe Phil’s kidnapped Arthur Goldich’s kitten, Misha. I’d get him back before the lawyer has you both arrested.”
“I—I thought Russian blues would be blue,” Phil said.
“They’re slate gray,” Helen said, using her newfound knowledge.