The Persian Always Meows Twice

by Eileen Watkins

  “Really?” My mother sounded dubious. “I didn’t think . . . I mean, really, what kind of man are you going to meet out there?”

  “He’s about my age, good-looking, intelligent, kind”—I couldn’t resist a slight exaggeration—“and a doctor.”

  It was a good thing Sarah had retreated halfway across the room with Harpo. When she overhead this, she muffled a squeak worthy of one of the cats.

  Mom tried to pump me for more information, but I stonewalled her. “The point is, if you see Andy again, you can tell him that I’m dating someone. You can even say you didn’t know, and you’re sorry if you misled him.”

  “I can do that,” she said thoughtfully. “And then I can kick him in the shin.”

  “Even better!” I laughed, relieved that she finally had the proper attitude.

  The shop door opened then, and when I recognized the visitor, I shifted focus sharply. “I’ve got a customer now, Mom. Gotta go. You take care.”

  Marjorie DeLeuw glanced around at the scratching posts, cat toys, and other merchandise of the sales area with a faint smile that could have been approval or amusement. She looked like she’d be far more comfortable in a Madison Avenue boutique, although at least today she’d traded the hourglassy black suit—her merry widow funeral garb—for a peach silk sweater and brown capris. Her auburn hair still waved back from her face in a movie-star style, an effect that was enhanced by her oversized sunglasses.

  “This place is so cute,” she cooed. “A spa for cats! Do you do mudpacks?”

  “Those don’t go over so well with our clients,” I told her, “but they do get a free mani-pedi with every visit.” When she looked blank, I mimed clipping claws.

  She responded with a tepid laugh, took her off her sunglasses, and tucked them into a pocket of her Gucci shoulder bag. Her eyes looked like they’d “had some work done,” as the saying goes, but at least they didn’t have that perpetually astonished slant. “I just stopped in to see how our boy Harpo is doing.”

  Huh? Suddenly someone actually cared about the cat? And of all people, Marjorie? My spidey sense went on full alert.

  “He’s fine. Been eating well and had a long play session with Sarah today.” I glanced toward my assistant, who had just returned the Persian to his condo.

  “Jerry Ross, my ex-husband’s assistant, told me that you were asking around at the funeral home to see if anyone there wanted to take the cat. You never asked me.”

  Oh boy, this could get awkward. “To be honest, I didn’t think you would want him. Mr. DeLeuw gave me the impression that you weren’t fond of cats.”

  She turned frosty. “He discussed me with you?”

  “Just that detail. He usually stayed in the studio while I was grooming, and we had some feline-related conversations.”

  Sarah had wisely retreated to the back of the shop by now. She probably suspected that, at any minute, it was the humans who might start hissing and spitting.

  “Well, it so happens I am very interested in giving Harpo a good home. I have plenty of room in my New York apartment, and I’ll be heading back there today. So I’d appreciate it if you’d pack the cat up and bring him out.”

  It was the kind of confrontation I’d anticipated, though not this soon, and I was somewhat prepared. “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable doing that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Under the arrangement I made with Mr. DeLeuw’s lawyer, I’m to keep the cat until the terms of his will are made public. He may have left Harpo to a family member or a friend, so it’s best to wait and see. We’d want to respect his wishes.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I might as well keep him in the meantime as you. At least I won’t charge for the privilege.”

  She had some kind of hidden agenda going here, and I suspected the cost for my services was just an excuse. “I was willing to do it for free. Mr. DeLeuw’s lawyer insisted on paying me—at a reduced rate—because of some legality. My only concern is that Harpo should have a safe home until the will is read.”

  “And I can’t give him a safe home?”

  Maybe it was my overactive imagination, but I suddenly felt like I was fending off Cruella de Vil. Might as well use my strongest ammo. “Mr. DeLeuw told me that his other cat, Groucho, went to you in the divorce. And you had him put to sleep.”

  Her jaw sagged, countering the effects of all that careful makeup. “Of all the insane . . . That cat was sick! It started throwing up all over my apartment two or three times a week!”

  “Did you ever brush him?” I asked quietly. “Or take him to a groomer?”

  “Of course not. I was working then. I didn’t have time.”

  “When he got sick, did you at least take him to a vet?”

  “Yes, and she said he had some kind of blockage in his abdomen. So of course I had him put down! Should I have let the poor thing suffer?”

  Hairballs, I thought. Left to groom himself, the Persian had probably swallowed too much of his own long fur. Surgery would have fixed the problem, but I doubted that Marjorie even investigated that far.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated, though at that point I wasn’t at all. “The agreement says I’m to keep Harpo until we find out if he was left to someone in George’s will. From what you’ve told me, I think it’s best I stick to that plan.”

  Marjorie must have been very used to getting her way, because now her cheeks turned a deeper shade that had nothing to do with makeup. “Think you’re smart, don’t you? You’ve played this pretty well. But I know what you’re up to, honey, and you won’t get away with it. I’ve got a lawyer of my own, and he’ll put a stop to this!”

  She strode out the door in heels that would have tripped me up after three steps. They made her exit even more dramatic.

  Sarah reemerged from hiding. In a daze, I asked her, “What am I up to?”

  She shook her head. “All I can say is, if she’s that mad about not getting the cat—even though she doesn’t much like cats—it’s got to be about money. Is she dumb enough to think he’s really valuable?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely, after how quickly she got rid of his brother.”

  My assistant considered. “Then maybe she knows something about the will . . . or thinks she does.”

  The more I contemplated this, the more it made sense. “DeLeuw had no surviving children, he apparently had no serious woman in his life when he died, and his relationship with his sister seemed kind of cool. I got the impression he was pretty lonely. He told me once that Harpo was his buddy and his ‘confidante.’ ”

  “Like he was closer to the cat than to any of the people in his life.”

  “Exactly. So what if he left his estate to Harpo? Then maybe whoever has the cat when the will is read . . . gets the whole kit’n’caboodle!”

  “That would explain why the ex-wife thinks you’re up to something.” Hands on her hips, my assistant shook her head at me, bemused. “Good thing your mother works with lawyers, Cassie. You’re liable to need one!”

  * * *

  As it turned out, though, I wasn’t the one in need of a lawyer just then. Nick was.

  Sarah only worked a half day on Saturday, and I had just seen her off when I got another call from a distraught Dion. This time, his father had been taken down to the police station for questioning.

  After finding out that Nick had visited DeLeuw the day before the murder, the cops had searched his panel truck. They’d found a rag with some faded pink stains that turned out to be blood—the same type as George DeLeuw’s. It would take further DNA tests to confirm that it was a match, but the fibers also were the same as those found on the granite sculpture.

  “Pop says he never saw the rag before,” Dion told me, “and I believe him. It was kind of a funny, thin material—more like a big handkerchief with one corner torn off. I don’t think he’s ever owned a handkerchief like that, and I sure never did either. Though I guess if they decide Pop couldn’t have done it, they’ll probably be looking at m
e again.”

  “Is it possible somebody planted it?” I asked. At the funeral home, there certainly seemed to be enough people ready to blame Dion, or George’s household staff, for the crime. They could have been trying to deflect suspicion from themselves.

  “I was wondering about that too. Pop usually keeps the truck locked up at night, or if he leaves it anywhere for long, because people can steal his tools. But if he’s in a good neighborhood and he’s going back and forth to get stuff out, he doesn’t lock it. And the night he wasn’t feeling well and went to the hospital . . . I’m not sure he locked it then. It was parked in our driveway, so he probably wasn’t worried about it.”

  “You spent all that time at the hospital,” I reminded him. “If anybody deliberately wanted to implicate him, or you, they could haven driven by your house, seen the truck there, and tossed the rag inside.”

  “That is so twisted, though!” Dion sounded incredulous. “Why would anybody go to so much trouble just to make us look guilty?”

  I had to state the obvious. “Because if you look guilty, they don’t. I doubt that anybody has a particular grudge against you or your father. You’re just the easiest people to frame, because you both accused DeLeuw of stealing the computer program.”

  Dion blew out a long breath. “I wish I’d never come up with that encryption system, or at least that I’d never brought it to DeLeuw. Bad enough when the police thought I murdered him, but Pop . . . This could give him a heart attack for real!”

  “The evidence may not hold up,” I tried to reassure him. “It’s all what they call circumstantial. That means it looks bad, but there could be some other explanation for it. I’ve talked to Detective Bonelli a couple of times now, and I think she’s pretty sharp. I’ll go down to the station tomorrow and see what’s up.”

  “Would you? Every time I talk to those cops, I probably just make things worse. I get too upset.”

  I offered to ask my mom to recommend a lawyer, but Dion said his father had a cousin who’d take the case if necessary. I sure hoped the guy had the background and skills to defend someone accused of murder.

  Hanging up, I thought again about how absurd this all was. Why would Nick keep a ripped, bloodstained rag—even if he’d tried to wash it—in the back of his truck for anyone to find? It would have been easy to throw it away or even burn it. He’d certainly had enough time.

  I called Detective Bonelli, who wasn’t available, and left a brief message. She had to realize this was a setup.

  Also, it seemed even less likely now that DeLeuw had been killed by a random assailant. A thief passing through town wouldn’t return just to incriminate some local resident for his crime. Was the murderer worried about being caught? Did he or she feel the cops might be closing in?

  Or maybe there was another reason, I thought. As long as the crime remains unsolved, the terms of George’s will might be kept under wraps. Maybe someone is getting impatient to cash in.

  Chapter 14

  After dinner that night, I called Dawn to bring her up to speed. She sympathized with Nick’s plight and also didn’t believe he could have committed the murder. She agreed too that Marjorie’s interest in Harpo could mean whoever took the cat in would benefit financially.

  Still, Dawn’s main curiosity at the moment seemed to involve my love life—such as it was. “We still haven’t talked about your dinner date with Dr. Dolittle,” she said. “How did it go?”

  “Well, I think. We had a good time, though it turned out to be kind of a weird evening.” I told her how one of Mark’s clients had interrupted him during our date, which had been followed by Nick’s health scare.

  “Boy, Nick’s been through the ringer lately, hasn’t he?” Dawn noted. “But let’s get back to Mark. Did he seem interested? Did you make another date?”

  “Jeez, you sound like my mother. He said he’s fresh out of a long relationship and wants to take it slow.”

  Dawn groaned. “Uh-oh. You know what that means.”

  “Something other than what it sounds like?”

  “That’s code for, ‘I’m not quite over my last girlfriend, but I still want to keep my options open with you.’ ”

  I hoped Mark was being more honest than that, but of course, I hadn’t known him long enough to be sure. I didn’t want to imagine him spending tonight with his ex, just to make sure he was ready to move on.

  “Anyway,” I told Dawn, “the upshot is, it’s Saturday night and I’m home talking to you. And trying to figure out how to make ends meet next month without my usual check from George DeLeuw, may he rest in peace.”

  “Why not come to the expo I told you about? Chadwick Small Business Sunday?”

  With all the craziness that had been going on, I’d totally forgotten. “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it? I’m probably too late to even get a space.”

  “Keith and I have spaces next to each other, and he doesn’t need much because he mostly sits in a chair and draws people on the spot,” Dawn persisted. “I have some products from the shop, but if you just brought a small table, we could fit you in.”

  I still didn’t feel prepared for a full-out marketing effort. “What could I even display? I’ve got brochures, and that’s about it.”

  “I shot a video of your grooming your first cat, remember? What did you call it—a Himalayan? Do you still have that?”

  “Yeah.” I started to see where she was going with this. “I could play the video on my laptop. And I have still shots I took of my shop, right after Nick finished the condos and the playroom. I could do a slideshow of those.”

  “Now you’re thinking!” Dawn laughed. “Too bad you can’t use Harpo for a live demonstration. But with that witch Marjorie trying to get her claws into him, you probably shouldn’t risk it.”

  “True . . . but maybe I can come up with a ringer.” I glanced at my wall clock—it was past eight. Our brainstorming session had started my gears turning, as Mark would say. “Dawn, thanks for the motivation. I’ll see you at the high school tomorrow. Right now I need to get out to the highway before the stores close.”

  * * *

  School gyms don’t hold the best associations for me. I never excelled at team sports, and attracted more than my share of scorn from gym teachers and coaches of all kinds.

  Fortunately, by the time I arrived at the Chadwick Senior High School on Sunday, the institutional gymnasium walls had been camouflaged with spruce-green draperies that formed backdrops for the assorted vendor spots. A long banner stretched below the high windows announcing SMALL BUSINESS SUNDAY. Beneath it, people were busily and noisily setting up tables and erecting posters to promote their goods and services.

  If nothing else, I thought, this should be a cool opportunity to get to know some of the other professionals in town. And it certainly could give me exposure to a few new customers.

  I found Dawn and Keith, who already had mounted displays for their totally unconnected businesses. She offered plates of goodies such as sunflower-seed-butter cookies (trust me, they’re delicious) and sample bowls of a special granola mix, as well as brochures for the “healthy” brands of frozen meals and other packaged goods that she carried. Keith had propped open a photo album of his corporate illustrations on a book stand, next to a modest display board of his caricatures. Tall and lean, with curly auburn hair, a beard, and glasses, Keith held a sketch pad at the ready. He even wore a hokey but eye-catching black beret to brand himself as an “artist.”

  I didn’t see Keith that often, but I always enjoyed his slightly warped sense of humor. He and I chatted for a few minutes about the DeLeuw murder and all the surrounding drama so far. He also helped me maneuver the prop I had brought instead of a table—a four-foot-tall cat tower. As Dawn had promised, there was plenty of room to fit that, and my folding chair, between their two booths. On top of the carpeted tower, I opened my wireless laptop and cued up the grooming video. Lastly, from a big shopping bag, I pulled out a life-sized stuffed Persian cat and set him on the
middle perch of the tree.

  “He’s too cute!” Dawn cooed. “Be careful he doesn’t walk off, though.”

  “Thought of that!” I tied a cord around one of the cat’s plush back legs and secured it to the center post of the perch.

  I also donned my Kelly-green grooming apron with the name of my shop printed in white, the words stacked so the three big initial Cs overlapped. That was all I had for signage, though. Some vendors sported preprinted name tags on lanyards, but I had to make do with a stick-on badge. I felt woefully unprepared next to most of the other exhibitors, and vowed to put in more effort next year.

  As soon as the doors opened at ten o’clock, a fair number of browsers began to circulate. I had my speech prepared about the special boarding and grooming needs of cats and the amenities my shop could offer. I’d been worried about possible negative publicity from the newspaper story, which placed me at the scene of the DeLeuw murder. But of the first half dozen people I talked to, only one asked me about the crime. I simply said it was a terrible shock and I was sorry to lose him as a customer, and claimed to know no more about it than that. Maybe the story actually drew more people to my booth, from curiosity. At any rate, I passed out brochures and business cards to all of them and several said they’d be in touch.

  When the foot traffic slowed down a little, I asked Dawn to keep an eye on my minimal display and took a stroll around to the other booths. A couple of agents were on hand from the insurance company in the building next to mine, and we had the first real conversation since I’d moved in. I weakened and picked up a red velvet cupcake from the Cottone’s Bakery booth, and admired handmade ceramic jewelry from a boutique called Jaded.

  I was delighted to come across a booth by a cat rescue group, the Fine Feral Friends. I could have spent hours talking with the two volunteers, Josie and Mike, about their work. They offered to display some of my brochures, and I took some of theirs to return the favor.

  Browsing in this casual way, I spotted a familiar figure at one of the booths up ahead—DeLeuw’s landscaper, Louis, had an impressive display board of garden photos for his company, Eden Landscaping.