by Elaine Viets
“The tall guy with the long silver-white hair?” Helen asked.
“Yes. Exactly. He’s new here, but he’s good,” Susan said. “Go get him. Don’t be shy. The widow Daisy isn’t. She’s glommed on to him like the last lifeboat on the Titanic.”
“Daisy,” Helen said. “Is she the woman in the ruffled pink dress?”
“You mean the dress two sizes too small?” Susan said. “That’s her.”
“Hot pink seems an odd color for a widow,” Helen said.
“Oh, Daisy’s not a real widow. She never married Zach, but they lived together for some thirty years. He just passed away. She called me today crying about how she’d lost the love of her life. Now she’s dancing like she hasn’t a care.”
“Maybe she’s trying to forget,” Helen said.
“She’s doing a good job,” Susan said. “I guess I sound witchy, but she bent my ear for ages, complaining about Zach. She could never get him to tie the knot. I got tired of listening to the same old song. ‘Daisy,’ I said, ‘if he didn’t say yes when you were young and pretty, why would he marry you now?’”
Ouch, Helen thought. Susan didn’t mince words.
“Daisy lives with her elderly aunt and takes care of her. The old lady has promised Daisy her house when she passes. She even let Zach live there, but she insisted on separate bedrooms. Not many men will put up with that and a crotchety old invalid.
“Daisy finally told Zach, ‘Either marry me or move out.’ He moved out. But she still chased him. He loved her apple pies, and she baked them for him. I told her to get a backbone and tell him to get lost. But Zach came to her house way up in Delray Beach to pick up his pie. She was convinced she could charm him back into her bed.”
That wasn’t quite the story Daisy told us, Helen thought, but she’d hardly reveal her failed love life to two private eyes.
Dionne Warwick was singing “Night and Day.” “That’s a slow fox trot,” Susan said. “You really should go tap on that new man’s shoulder. Go ahead. Break in on him. Daisy’s had him for three dances in a row. You’re not supposed to hog a partner. Especially a scarce man.”
Helen was still too mortified to go out on the dance floor again. Besides, Daisy might be giving Phil useful information. That’s why they were here.
“Oh, too late,” Susan said. “Nora got there first. Look at that! She tapped him on the shoulder, and Daisy won’t let go. She’s going to hang on to that man, no matter what. What nerve!”
Susan shook her head. “Daisy and men. She still acts like she’s sixteen. Too bad she doesn’t look sixteen. Well, soon we won’t have to put up with Daisy for a while.”
“Why?” Helen asked.
“She’s leaving the country Tuesday.”
“For good?” Helen said.
“Just for a month,” Susan said. “She has a sister who lives in Sydney, Australia, who’s turning sixty. Daisy’s going to spend a whole month with her, seeing the sights while they’re both well enough to travel. She says she hired someone to watch her aunt while she’s gone. Daisy’s taking a late-night flight to San Francisco, then heading for Sydney.”
The song was over. “Hear that?” Susan said. “That’s an international tango. I’m going to dance with the new man, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Susan got her man. In fact, Phil looked relieved when she cut in and released him. Daisy retreated to the restroom, sulking.
No wonder Susan thought dancing was better than sex, Helen decided. That tango practically was sex, right on the dance floor. She tried not to feel jealous, especially when glamorous Susan whispered into Phil’s ear when the dance ended.
She led him by the hand straight to Helen and said, “Phil, this is Helen, and she needs to dance with a good partner.”
“My pleasure,” Phil said. Buddy Greco was singing “Fly Me to the Moon.” “Let’s waltz,” he said.
“I really am a bad dancer,” she said.
“Just follow my lead,” he said. “Put your arm here, and your feet like that, and talk to me.”
“I saw Daisy staring when I got dumped,” Helen said. “What did she say?”
“She said it doesn’t make any difference how young and pretty you are—if you aren’t a good dancer, no one wants you. I nearly left her right there.”
“But you didn’t,” Helen said.
“A graduate of Miss Sherry’s is always a gentleman,” Phil said.
“Did Miss Sherry teach you that torrid tango?” Helen said.
“International tangos are easy dances for beginners,” he said.
“What did you learn from Daisy?” Helen asked.
“She knows Zach is dead. She says she’s going traveling to forget her loss.”
“She’s visiting her sister in Sydney,” Helen said, and repeated her conversation with Susan.
“We didn’t learn anything useful tonight,” she said.
“I disagree,” Phil said. “This is our third time around the floor. You’ve been dancing. Is it really better than sex?”
“It’s romantic,” Helen said. “But I’d like to go home for a comparison test.”
CHAPTER 17
Saturday
“Look at those beautiful Persians! I like the red one,” the woman in the orange Crocs said.
“My favorite is the blue-eyed white,” her friend said. “That’s one fine pair of queens.”
Helen swore Red and Chessie understood what the women were saying. Red adjusted her head to show off her incredible copper eyes. Chessie tilted her head slightly to display her full white ruff.
Pair of queens, indeed. Those two are the biggest hams this side of Smithfield.
When the Gold Cup Southeast Florida All Breed Cat Show opened at nine a.m., some two hundred cat lovers swarmed into Fisher Hall in Plantation, a rich suburb ten miles west of Dee’s cattery.
Judging started in half an hour, but the spectators were already delivering their own verdicts—like the two women admiring Chessie and Red.
“She’s more orange than red,” said her friend. “Like you.”
Ms. Orange wore a brilliant orange-flowered top and pants. She was a grandmotherly woman, a bit wide in the hips, who had a difficult time navigating the narrow aisles between the cat show benches. But she was determined to see the cats.
“I like the fluffy white one,” said her slender friend, with her own snow-white hair and a pantsuit the color of Chessie’s eyes. “How anyone could like that ugly, spidery thing there is beyond me.” Ms. White pointed to an elegant, pale brown Sphynx.
Becca, the breeder, moved closer to the show cage, as if to protect her cat.
Helen felt sorry she had to listen to the insults.
“Who wants a hairless cat?” Ms. Orange said. “I wouldn’t touch that scrawny thing.” She shuddered with disgust.
That was too much for Becca. “Then you’re missing a treat,” she said softly. “Anubis is a pedigreed Sphynx. He looks hairless, but his muscular body is covered with fine down. You won’t find a sweeter cat. He feels like warm suede and smells like potato chips.”
“I like a cat that looks like a cat,” Ms. Orange said.
To Helen, cats were works of art. There were fashions in felines, and right now, the slender, long-bodied cats with long V-shaped heads, like the Siamese, were in style, as were stylized cats like the Cornish Rex, the Abyssinian and the scorned Sphynx. Helen saw these cats as modern art, difficult for the average person to appreciate.
Fluffy, flat-faced cats like Persians and British shorthairs were popular art. She preferred old-school cats with sturdy bodies and broad faces: Bombays, the American Wirehairs, Tonkinese, even moggies—mutts—like Thumbs.
But she didn’t think one type was superior. Just different.
As more people crowded into the hall, the show crackled with frenzied energy. Exhibitors were frantically combing, patting and primping their cats, fluffing up or wiping down coats, depending on the breed’s standard. Spectators crowded the vend
ors’ section, checking out cat beds, T-shirts, treats and toys. People roamed the aisles between the benches, passing their own judgments on the pedigreed cats.
The show cages ranged from modest wire ones with homemade curtains to elaborate custom designs. Helen thought one looked like a bordello—okay, a cathouse. Draped with red velvet and topped with swags of spangled red feathers, it displayed two white Angoras lounging on plush, red-tasseled pillows.
Some cages had warnings: PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. HUGS AND SQUEEZES SPREAD DISEASES! Others sported clever signs: KITTENS FOR SALE: ABLE TO DO LIGHT MOUSE WORK.
No one could resist the kittens, especially the leopard-spotted Ocicats with golden eyes.
Red and Chessie queened it at the end of a bench, silently accepting admiration.
Other cats were not so quiet. One thin, sculpted, seal-point Siamese let the cat world know his displeasure. “Rorrrrr! Rorrrrr! Yi-rorrrrr!” His long dark brown ears quivered with rage. His owner, a caramel-haired woman who looked like a large tabby, cradled him, but he would not stop howling.
Cats sniffed, yawned or stretched. A large striped male hissed at his neighbor. Most of the cats slept.
Each show cat was assigned a number, which was called to summon them for judging at one of the four rings. Helen could barely make out the announcements over the hall’s noise.
The loudspeaker crackled, “Ring Two, Longhaired Championship: numbers eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three.”
After a blast of feedback, “Ring Three, Longhaired Premiership: numbers one ninety-three, one ninety-four, one ninety-five, one ninety-six . . .”
“Helen!” Jan called.
Helen hurried over to the bench. She felt a slight stab of guilt. She should have been helping the frantic Jan, not looking at kittens. Dee was chatting with a breeder who wanted Midnight for stud service.
“I’m taking Red over to the Premiership judging ring, then I’ll come back for Chessie.” Jan checked Chessie’s cage and her face changed from harried to horrified. “Oh no, Chessie, baby, don’t!” she said.
An unmistakable odor rose from Chessie’s litter box. “Quick!” Jan said. “Get the box out of the cage so she doesn’t step in anything.” Helen stashed the box under the bench. “Now powder her backside with cornstarch and use the butt comb.” Helen looked at the bewildering array of combs. “That cheap one,” Jan said. “It’s reserved for the area.”
The loudspeaker blared, “Ring Three, Longhaired Premiership. Last call. Number one ninety-five. Number one ninety-five.”
“That’s Red!” Jan said. “Hurry, Helen, before Chessie’s white fur stains. Get her paws, too. I’ll be right back.” She ran off with Red draped over her arm.
This is the low point of my private-eye career, Helen thought. Phil always asks: What would Bogie do? Well, what would V. I. Warshawski do?
Clean the cat, she decided.
She gently lifted Chessie out of the cage, carefully powdered her behind and combed it. “Listen, cat,” she said. “You and your pals better deliver, after all I’ve gone through.”
Chessie rubbed her head affectionately against Helen’s hand. She didn’t dare hug the cat and flatten her fur.
By the time Helen had cleaned the litter box, Jan was back. She gave the white Persian a last check. Dee inspected her favorite one more time, fussing over her with Q-tips and cotton balls. Then Chessie draped herself along the length of Dee’s forearm. Jan and Helen followed as the star’s entourage.
Most exhibitors at least smiled at their friends as they carried their cats to and from the ring. Helen thought people in the cat fancy avoided the sharp-tongued Dee.
Ring Two had sixteen wire cages arranged in a U around the judging stand.
The stand had two poles holding up a fluorescent light; one pole was sisal-wrapped and the other twined with silk flowers. The stand was on a long pink-skirted folding table.
“Nice setup,” Jan said. “Some shows don’t have the sisal pole or the light.”
Next to the judging stand was a pot of pink silk flowers and two bowls of candy. Spectators sat on three rows of folding chairs.
Each wire cage had the cat’s number on a card—pink for females, blue for males. The other contenders were two copper-eyed whites, a blue-eyed white male, three blacks, two grays—no, blues, Helen reminded herself, pedigreed cats are blue—plus two big Maine Coons and two Himalayans. One Himi had red-tipped ears and tail; the other looked like hers were dipped in chocolate. In Helen’s inexpert opinion, both cats could have been better bathed. They weren’t nearly as fluffy as the Chatwood’s Champions.
“That tabby Persian needs a good combing,” Helen said.
“I think I see a mat in his ruff,” Jan said. “We only have to worry about the solid-color Persians. We’re looking at tough competition. We’re up against a male blue-eyed white, two copper-eyed whites, the three blacks and the two blues.”
“No contest,” Helen said. “Chessie is the best.”
“That’s for the judge to decide,” Jan said.
A clerk wearing a tiger-striped T-shirt sat next to the judging stand, recording the decisions.
Judge Lexie Deener was as well groomed as Dee’s Persians. She wore a dramatic red scarf and a sleek black designer suit with a diamond cat pin. Did Smart Mort’s financial advice help buy that pin? Helen wondered.
Dee took a seat up front. “We’ll stand in the back row so we can keep an eye on Red in the next ring,” Jan said. “The judge is starting with the blue-eyed male.”
The white Persian looked at the teaser—and the audience—with disdain and refused to play.
Ms. Orange and Ms. White sat in the front row, hogging the candy bowl. “That cat’s too fat,” Ms. Orange said when the judge returned him to his cage.
“Humpf!” muttered the woman standing beside Helen. “Fat! Has she looked in the mirror?”
Helen bit back a laugh. Chessie waited in patient silence. The male Maine Coon paced restlessly. Helen tuned in to the spectators’ chatter.
“Pretty color,” said a thin brunette.
“I like a white cat,” the woman said.
“No, I meant your turquoise top.”
Judge Lexie lifted Chessie out of her cage next. “Note the beautiful tail, big blue eyes and fluffy coat,” she said.
Helen thought Chessie put on quite a show. She played with the teaser and batted the brown feather. Finally, she stood on her short legs and stretched up the sisal pole, clawing it as high as she could reach.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Her claws raked the sisal wrapping.
“Way to go, Chessie,” Jan whispered.
The sisal trick was a crowd pleaser. “A pole dancer!” a woman shouted.
“Now, that’s cute,” a gray-haired woman said. “Persians are supposed to have short bodies, so stretching up a pole can emphasize a fault, but this cat shows off a well-shaped body.”
Jan whispered, “While the other solid Persians have their turns in the ring, let’s check on Red.”
The judge in Ring Three, a slender brown-haired woman in forest green, was hanging ribbons on the cages.
“Red has a ribbon!” Helen said.
“Don’t get too excited,” Jan said. “It’s for best color, and she’s the only red-haired cat in this class. It’s kind of like an attendance prize.”
“She’s got an orange ribbon now,” Helen said.
“Rats!” Jan said. “That’s second place in Best of Breed.”
“Our Red deserves a first,” Helen said.
“It’s just one judge’s opinion,” Jan said. “A cat who gets second place in this ring could get a first in another. She’s still handing out the other ribbons in this division. Let’s go back to Chessie.”
Ring Two was quietly tense as Judge Lexie paced from cage to cage. She ran the feather along the cage wire for Chessie and teased both black Persians.
“What’s she doing?” Helen asked.
“Deciding who gets the big one
, Best of Division,” Jan said. “The toy focuses their attention so the judge can see the natural set of their ears. It also makes them open their eyes so she can judge the shape and color.”
Judge Lexie started hanging ribbons on the solid-color Persian cages. Chessie got a blue, a black, and a brown ribbon. Helen felt disappointed. “She should have three blue ribbons,” she said.
“No, she swept the ring,” Jan said. “Chessie got best blue-eyed white female, Best of Color, and Best of Breed. First place all the way for Chessie.”
Judge Lexie confirmed Jan’s opinion. “The female blue-eyed white has a robust body and an endearing personality,” she announced. “She’s my Best.”
“Yes!” Helen said. She and Jan high-fived while Dee pushed forward to claim her champ.
“Dee’s taking Chessie back to her cage,” Jan said. “She wants to show her off. I’ll return Red.”
“Can I stay here and watch the rest of the longhair judging?” Helen said.
“Sure,” Jan said. “It’s your first show.”
The male Maine Coon was next. “You’re looking at the only longhaired breed native to the United States,” Judge Lexie said. The cat stolidly ignored the feather Lexie lightly brushed across his nose. He turned his back when she waved the teaser at him.
Lexie carried the last cat to the stand. “The Maine Coon is our largest breed,” the judge said. “Notice her smooth, shaggy tabby coat, well-tufted ears and toes.”
The female Maine Coon was more playful. She batted the teaser with her paw, then chomped the silk flowers. The audience laughed and applauded. She nuzzled the judge. “Suck-up!” someone called, and the audience chuckled.
“She has personality,” Ms. Orange said approvingly.
The female Maine Coon won Best of Breed, and the male was second best. Helen agreed with that decision.
Back at the bench, Dee accepted congratulations from spectators for Chessie’s performance, while Helen and Jan hand-fed both cats so they wouldn’t mess up their coats. “I feel like my girl’s at a birthday party, wearing a white dress, and they’re serving chocolate ice cream,” Helen said.