The Persian Always Meows Twice

by Eileen Watkins

  My curiosity piqued, I read up on the job description for “executive assistant” at a large company. Online articles confirmed what I’d suspected—it was a fluid position that came with a lot of responsibility and not much prestige. Duties could range from developing and managing the executive’s schedule and handling his calls and correspondence, to making his travel arrangements and accompanying him to conferences and high-level meetings. Most young people felt it was worthwhile, though, because there was always the chance of moving up, possibly even to fill the shoes of the person you’d been assisting.

  But if Jerry took his present job when he was in his mid-twenties, he’s been at it for twelve or thirteen years and still hasn’t been promoted. That has to sting. He’s probably well paid, but he’s got two kids to put through school. Could he have thought that if George were gone, it would clear the way for him to move higher? Kind of a long shot, though . . .

  Jerry had pooh-poohed the idea that the mystery files had anything to do with DeLeuw’s murder. George must have encrypted them for some reason, though. More significantly, if the FBI was going to so much trouble to decipher the code, they must think the files held important information.

  Matisse stretched a paw onto my lap and gave one of those extravagant yawns that cats execute so well. I got the message—time to turn off the laptop and hit the hay.

  As usual, I did not let the furry threesome in the room while I slept, but felt oddly reassured that they stood guard outside. I also reminded myself that, at least for a few months, Andy should not have access to any wheels.

  Tomorrow Nick would finally fix my railing. I’d ask him then about getting a dead bolt on that back door, too.

  * * *

  My handyman gave a low, drawn-out whistle when I showed him the remains of my banister. “The bracket I screwed on here last week is half torn out, and even the wood is splintered. Who leaned on this thing, Godzilla?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I told him, “but I suspect it was an ex-boyfriend. He isn’t really that big or heavy, but he might have been drunk.”

  Kneeling by the steps, Nick peered up at me from beneath shaggy gray brows. “Guess that’s why he’s an ex, huh? And he’s still coming around, when you’re not here? Never mind, none of my business.”

  “He may be, in spite of all my attempts to discourage him. I’m afraid he’s been stalking me.” Briefly, I filled him in on my history with Andy. “The good news is, he got stopped for a DUI on his way home and lost his license for the next few months.”

  Nick set the banister aside. “Don’t take too much for granted. Plenty of guys driving around with revoked licenses.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. As long as no one actually took away Andy’s car or even his keys, he might ignore his punishment. Still, if he got pulled over for anything else—speeding, or even a burnt-out taillight—the suspended license would show up and he might actually go to jail.

  Nick also sized up the condition of my back door and agreed it needed a dead bolt lock. “And the gap in this windowsill is bad too. What’s on the other side, again?”

  “That downstairs bathroom that doubles as a utility closet. That’s why I never bothered much about it.”

  “Before you were being stalked by the ex-boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, that’s a new problem, since my mother very helpfully told him where I was living. Of course, I hadn’t told her what a nut case he was.”

  Returning from his truck with the new post, Nick wagged a thick finger at me. “That’ll teach you. Shouldn’t keep secrets from your parents.”

  Sounded like the pot calling the kettle black to me. “Speaking of keeping secrets, Mr. Janos . . . you never bothered to tell me that you went over to DeLeuw’s house the day before he was murdered.”

  He dodged my eyes. “Pah. It doesn’t matter; I didn’t even see the man.” He raised the new post, which he’d carved to match the other, undamaged one, into position. “Cassie, hold this in place for a minute, willya?”

  I steadied the post while he reattached the handrail. “You left George a threatening note for the police to find. You told him if he tried to cheat Dion, he’d be sorry, or something to that effect.”

  “All right, I did do that. But I meant we might sue, and even that was a lame threat. I didn’t say I’d physically hurt the guy. And I wouldn’t have, even if he had been home.”

  “I believe you, but a jury of strangers could take the note seriously. All I can say is, those linen handkerchiefs come in sets of three, so you’d better not have any more lying around your house!”

  Nick gave his balding head a wry shake. “Only handkerchiefs I ever had, my wife, Gloria, bought me one Christmas. Thought I’d use ’em for special occasions. She got ’em at some discount store, and they sure as heck weren’t monogrammed.”

  After about fifteen minutes of his gluing the post into place and screwing the banister on more securely, I finally had a railing that would stand up to . . . well, maybe not the Hulk, but anyone who might actually be coming in my back door.

  Sarah poked her head out to admire the improvement, and when she saw the beads of sweat on Nick’s forehead, offered to get him a cold drink.

  “Yes, come inside and rest for a second,” I urged, not wanting him to work himself into another angina attack.

  With a chilled bottle of iced tea, Nick strolled around the boarding area to see how well his earlier carpentry projects were holding up. Again, I considered how much I owed the success of my business so far to his designs for the wall shelves and my eight closet-sized cat condos.

  He sized up the half dozen boarders, a few hiding behind their draperies but most choosing to lounge on their raised carpeted perches. “Which is the guy who’s causing all the hoopla?”

  “That would be Harpo, here.” I laughed. “And he’s in demand, all right.”

  I opened the condo door a little so Nick could stroke the cat’s head, while I explained about the two women who were suddenly competing for the Persian.

  “Do they know about the chip? Maybe they think Harpo’s got it.” Nick fingered the rectangular license hanging from the cat’s collar. “Dion tried to describe it to me, but I’m not sure.... Would it look anything like this?”

  “I dunno,” I said. “Far as I can tell, that’s a standard license. And from what Dion told me, the chip would be even smaller. . . .”

  My eyes shifted to the little, heart-shaped tag stamped with Harpo’s name and DeLeuw’s phone number. It was thicker than the license. Could the chip possibly be . . . inside?

  I remembered, too, the odd look on Jerry’s face when he’d noticed the collar tags. A rush of adrenaline made me giddy.

  “Nick, you may have cracked the case!” With hasty, shaking hands, I unbuckled the smooth leather collar and slipped it from beneath Harpo’s blond ruff. “And maybe cleared yourself and Dion, too.”

  Chapter 18

  Bonelli held the small baby-blue collar in her square palm and studied it as carefully as if it were a diamond necklace. Then she locked eyes with me. “Don’t talk to anyone about this. Understand?”

  I nodded, but apparently that wasn’t enough to reassure her.

  “Not your friends,” she stressed, “not the Janoses, but especially not anyone connected with DeLeuw.”

  “Nick practically suggested the idea to me, so he already knows I’m giving the collar to you,” I admitted. “And my assistant, Sarah, was nearby when I let out a ‘eureka’-type shriek.”

  The detective frowned. “Well, then, that can’t be helped. But warn Sarah not to tell anyone else, and I’ll do the same with Nick.” She dropped the collar into a clear plastic evidence bag.

  “Aren’t you going to scan it?”

  “We don’t have the scanner for this; the FBI does. If you’re right, I’m sure they’ll be grateful to give up searching all that stuff in the warehouse.”

  I smiled to myself, muffling an inner thrill. What if Nick and I really had found the mi
ssing microchip? Of course, there was still George’s murder to be solved, but the FBI seemed to think the two mysteries were connected. With any luck, they could take the investigation from here, and I could go back to running my business instead of playing detective.

  “Glad to have been of help,” I said.

  “You have been, Cassie. As I suspected, several people who were on their guard around us tipped their hands when they were dealing with you.”

  “This could explain why Danielle and Marjorie were so persistent about trying to get Harpo,” I added. “Easier to pretend they wanted the whole cat than to just ask me for his collar.”

  “It would suggest that they know what’s on that chip,” Bonelli agreed. “And if the FBI can read it, we may also have a better idea of who murdered DeLeuw.”

  * * *

  Leaving the police station, I felt weightless. The blooming cherry trees along Center Street had never smelled so sweet, and the old-fashioned storefronts had never looked so charming. I strode down the weathered, uneven sidewalks with an extra swing to my step.

  I’d solved a case even the FBI couldn’t crack!

  Maybe.

  Only one fly in the ointment—I couldn’t tell anyone. I could talk to Sarah and Nick, probably, but not Dawn, Mark, or my mother.

  Oh well, plenty of time for that after I was awarded a medal for outstanding citizenship by the FBI. Or at least an honorary detective’s badge from the Chadwick PD.

  Sarah greeted me breathlessly when I got back to the shop. “Well?”

  I closed the door behind me and wished I had a shade to pull down too, like in those old suspense movies. “No way to know yet. Bonelli’s going to give the collar to the feds to scan.”

  “This is so exciting!” Sarah grinned.

  “We can’t tell anybody. Nick knows, of course—Bonelli probably wishes he didn’t—but beyond that, we’re sworn to secrecy.”

  My assistant pretended to zip her lip. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

  “Don’t even joke about that. I have no idea how much is at stake here! Think about it—does the FBI always make this big a deal about the murder of a prominent businessman? One who’s semi-retired, for Pete’s sake? And Bonelli’s taking it all very seriously. I’m sure she knows even more than she’s telling me.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “So . . . we’ve gone past exciting to scary.”

  I tried to wave away her fears. “At least if the chip’s in the collar, it’s literally out of our hands now. Anyone who wants can try to get it back from the FBI, and good luck with that. Meanwhile, speaking of scary . . . did you check on Stormy today? Has he adjusted to the lion cut yet?”

  She answered with a lopsided smile. “It hasn’t improved his temperament any. When I stopped by his condo to say hello, he lunged at the door and spat at me.”

  “Ordinarily I’d let him out to burn off some of that energy, but I think we’ll give him another day to settle down. Besides, I don’t know if we could ever get him back in his condo.” I sighed. “Remind me to draw up some stricter rules of behavior for the cats we’ll accept as boarders. And then remind me to stick to them, okay?”

  The afternoon went by quickly from there on. Near closing, Dawn called to tell me that Tigger had come through his neutering procedure with flying colors and would be recouping overnight at the clinic.

  “Want to celebrate with me?” she asked. “You and I never did get to that Thai restaurant.”

  “Sounds great.” I didn’t add that I had something of my own to celebrate. It would take all my self-control to spend the evening with Dawn and not reveal the Secret of the Cat’s Collar. But for the sake of that honorary detective’s badge, I could be strong.

  * * *

  Kin Khao combined a Zen-like ambience with a dash of spice. Leaf-shaped iron sconces threw low lighting over the grass-textured walls. Deep red cloths covered the tables, and upon each one a narrow vase held a single spidery orchid. Fortunately, the prices weren’t as steep as the elegant décor would suggest.

  Avoiding the items flagged with a red-pepper icon, I opted for the pad Thai, a stir-fried dish with egg, rice noodles, and bean sprouts in a peanut sauce. Dawn, more adventurous, went for a red curry made with coconut milk, bamboo shoots, and bell peppers. To properly toast Tigger, we also ordered wine, the waitress recommending a Riesling to go with our dishes.

  After we’d ordered, I took a minute to recall having seen Jerry Ross coming out of this restaurant just a week ago with Marjorie DeLeuw. They made an odd couple; though attractive, she had to be at least ten years older than Jerry. It seemed unlikely that he’d jeopardize his marriage to a cute young wife, with whom he had two children, for a fling with Marjorie. What other reason, if not romantic, might they have had to get together? True, they’d both attended George’s viewing. But Jerry impressed me as loyal to both George and to Redmond & Fowler, while Marjorie didn’t seem to think much of either one.

  I didn’t have any trouble avoiding the subject of the murder investigation with Dawn, because she was bubbling over with her own news. Over the last few days, she appeared to have fallen madly in love with her new kitten, partly because she’d had some success in training him.

  “A couple of times I did keep him away from the shop door by distracting him with the fishing-pole toy,” she reported. “And I think he might be getting the idea of the clicker-training. At least when I say, ‘Rug,’ now, he goes right to it. He’s really smart!”

  “He might be a little less eager to dash out the door now that you’ve had him fixed, too,” I suggested.

  She pouted in sympathy for the little brown tabby. “He was such a good boy at the vet today, not scared at all. I worried about him, but Dr. Coccia said by the time they closed tonight, he was already starting to come out of the anesthesia. They just want to keep him overnight to be on the safe side, because they did his procedure so late in the day.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s a pretty simple operation, and cats don’t even seem to have much discomfort afterward. Tigger will be bouncing around again in no time.”

  Our dinners came and I promptly tucked into mine, not having had anything since lunch. My one previous experience with Thai food had made me a bit wary, but this dish had a delicious blend of seasonings and was mild enough even for my sensitive stomach. Meanwhile, Dawn happily dove into her dinner too, though from time to time I thought I detected wisps of steam coming out of her ears.

  “Speaking of the dashing Dr. Dolittle,” she said, “you two had another date on Sunday? This sounds promising!”

  “I’d like to think so. Our evenings out so far have been kind of jinxed, though.”

  I told her how Danielle had interrupted our second date, after which I’d come home to find that someone had demolished my stair railing. By the time I’d finished, Dawn’s long-lashed brown eyes were bugging out for reasons that had nothing to do with her spicy meal.

  “That Andy seems like a real wack job,” she said, with a shake of her head. “You be careful, girl.”

  “I will. It’s good to know the Morristown cops have clipped his wings for a while, but I’m also going to ask Nick to beef up my home security.”

  I refilled my wineglass, realizing this was the first time since DeLeuw’s murder that I’d felt free to completely relax. If the microchip really was in Harpo’s collar, and on its way to the FBI, maybe the whole case would soon be wrapped up, and the bad guy—or gal—would be in custody. At any rate, I wouldn’t be stuck in the middle anymore.

  Dawn paused a forkful on the way to her mouth. “Why the Mona Lisa smile? Because Andy got pulled over by the cops? Or because things are going well with Mark?”

  “Um . . . neither, really.” As I’d feared, she knew me so well by now that it was hard to keep anything from her. “I can’t talk about it yet. Let’s just say that this whole mess may be cleared up soon, and I was able to help.”

  “What mess? The murder?”

  I flinche
d and glanced around at our fellow diners. “Not so loud! I shouldn’t have said anything—I’ve had too much wine. Anyway, if I’m right, I’ll know soon enough.”

  * * *

  That Riesling went down a little too easily, so it was a good thing both Dawn and I lived within walking distance. After my scare stories about Andy, she went the extra two blocks and made sure I got into my building safely before heading home herself.

  It had been a long time since I’d allowed myself to drink even a little too much, and my cats scolded me loudly—as if I hadn’t fed them before going out. I gave them enough food to keep them quiet for the night, changed into a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and stumbled into bed. Sarah would arrive at nine or earlier, more cheerful and energetic than anyone her age had a right to be. It wouldn’t be fair for me, as the supposed boss, to greet her bleary-eyed and hung over.

  A couple of hours later, though, I was shocked out of my deep, sludgy sleep by a horrible electronic shrieking. I jerked upright with a pounding heart, but my mind took a bit longer to process the source.

  Smoke alarm!

  But not the one in my apartment. The sound was too muffled.

  The shop.

  I threw on a short robe over my pajamas, blindly scuffed my feet into slippers, and dashed into the hall. All three cats met me there. Their wide eyes begged for relief, while their ears cocked backward as if to block out the din.

  “Easy, guys. It’s okay, it’s okay!”

  But is it?

  I wavered at the top of the stairs. What to do first? Check in case it was some kind of false alarm before I called 9-1-1? Scoop my own cats into carriers in case I had to get them out? Check the boarders first, in case the fire was closer to them?

  I felt torn in half between saving my own pets and those of my customers.

  I made the 9-1-1 call, then ran downstairs, shutting my guys in the apartment behind me. With any luck, they’d be safe up there until I figured out what was going on.

  Maybe it’s just a short in the wiring setting off the alarm. Some old damage? Once upon a time, this place did have mice....