by Sparkle Abby
I’d have to ask my friend, Walt Cambrian. Walt was the local blogger, photographer, and resident grumpy-old man. And as one of life’s great observers, he somehow managed to know everything about everyone.
Speaking of which, I’d have to see what Walt knew about Kitty and this whole road rage theory the police had. Kitty was a powerhouse, and I could see if she drove the way she did everything else, maybe she had gotten crossways with another driver. Still, what was the world coming to where aggressive driving resulted in shots being fired instead of just middle fingers being lifted?
I took my coffee and slipped out the front door. I’d come the back way through the village streets to get to the Koffee Klatch and had avoided the section of Pacific Coast Highway where Kitty had crashed. But I had to drive past it as I turned north to connect with Laguna Canyon Road.
Her car was gone, thank heaven, but there was still debris scattered around the area and accident scene tape stretched across some barricades. There was a crew working on repairing the light pole, and a few onlookers stood talking nearby.
The road out of town to the ARL was pretty deserted at this time of day. I’d missed the early morning commuters headed to the freeway and parts either north or south. I turned into the lot and parked my car.
Just as I opened the car door, my phone beeped. I glanced at it. It was my mother, Katherine Lamont. “Mama Kat” to me. I couldn’t imagine she’d made the connection between the news stories about Kitty and me so she must just be calling to harangue me about . . . well, about many things. Let’s just say she had her opinion about how I ought to be living my life and I had mine.
I’d call her back later.
I hoped Don Furry, a friend and one of the most dedicated workers at the ARL, was on duty. He knew a lot about cats, and I wanted to talk to him about caring for Tobey and Minou in case I needed to keep them for a bit while things were being sorted out.
As I stepped inside the front door, I spotted Don, who led a Chow-Labrador mix to the exercise area. More Chow than Lab. The dog clearly needed the exercise as she was over-excited. She pulled at the leash, barked and twirled. The dog continued her dance until she’d wrapped the leash around Don’s legs.
I quickly got alongside Don and helped him get untangled from the leash. I knew he was capable and could’ve handled it, but it was easier with two people.
“What’s this girl’s story?” I asked as we continued toward the exercise area.
“The owner dropped her off. Seems he and his wife are getting divorced and neither one will be living in a place where pets are allowed,” Don explained.
“Man, what a shame.” I shook my head in disgust. Too often pets were caught in the middle of life changes. Divorce, job changes, relocations, or cases where the would-be pet owner thought they wanted a pet, and then reality set in. You’d be surprised at the number of cases where the pet owner simply didn’t do their research about what was involved with taking care of a dog or cat. Or a bunny or turtle. Right now the Laguna Beach ARL had several of each.
Sorry for the lecture. The unfairness of it for the animals just gets my dander up.
I got out some of the toys and balls while Don let the dog into the exercise pen.
“There you go, Zilla. Wear yourself out.” He turned her loose.
“Zilla for Godzilla?” I asked. The beautiful dog didn’t really look like a Godzilla, but you never knew what reference pet owners would pick.
“No, Zilla, because apparently the dog was a wedding gift, and the bride was such a ‘Bridezilla.’ Big surprise the couple’s divorcing, huh?”
We took turns throwing tennis balls for Zilla, and I filled Don in on my situation with Kitty’s two cats. He’d heard about the accident but didn’t mention anything about the road rage theory, which to my knowledge still hadn’t been publicized. Malone hadn’t asked me to not talk about it, but I didn’t feel right spreading the story when it might be no more than theory.
“Bengal cats are often nocturnal, so don’t be surprised if they roam around the house at night,” Don told me. “Other than being night creatures and pretty active, the only other thing I know about them is unlike most felines, they love water. You may want to keep an eye on the fountain in your living room.”
“Good to know.” I thanked him and went back inside to help with some dog baths.
By the time my shift was over, I was covered with dog fur, and my jeans were soaked from sudsing down a Great Pyrenees the size of a pony. They are superb herding dogs, very affectionate and gentle, but this one weighed more than me. Daniel, the shelter’s vet, had him on a strict diet, but even when he got down to a healthy weight he was going to be one big fella. He’d been found wandering and wasn’t micro-chipped, so the shelter volunteers were trying to get the word out about him in hopes of locating his owner. In the interim, they were calling him Lord Rawnsley. A reference, I imagined, to the Rawnsley estate in Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines. Most of the Laguna Beach volunteers not only knew pets, they also knew movies.
Rawnsley very much needed to get some exercise, and the exercise pen was not going to cut it for him. I promised to stop by later in the week and take him on a field trip to the dog park if he hadn’t been adopted.
I’d worn jeans and a lace T-shirt. The jeans were a good idea, the lace T-shirt not so much. I would have just gone on to my lunch with Diana if I hadn’t been so bedraggled. Since I’d been Rawnsleyed, I decided I needed to stop by home.
As I pulled into the driveway, I noted not much had changed next door. Still the cruiser. I didn’t know if it was a different one or the same. The news vans across the street didn’t look like they’d moved.
I left the Mercedes in the driveway, quickly unlocked my front door and slipped in, not wanting to invite any interest on the part of the reporters and paparazzi.
The door shut behind me with a click, and I paused for a moment and then started to call out a hello to my animals.
The sight that greeted me left me speechless.
Oh. My. God. My house had been ransacked.
Books were pulled off the shelves. Vases and knick-knacks were smashed on the floor. The drapes to the patio door hung at an angle. Lamps were tipped over. The family pictures that had adorned my mantle were askew, some on the hearth.
Shock paralyzed me for a moment. My first thought was my animals. I didn’t care what the thieves had taken, but if they’d hurt my pets, I would be coming after them.
“Dogbert? Thelma? Louise?” I called to my animals and stepped around a Waterford crystal candleholder that lay at my feet. The effort seemed more like vandalism than theft.
“Well, for cryin’ in a bucket, what were you looking for?”
I said the words aloud and suddenly hearing my own voice in the silence, realized the thieves could still be in the house.
I reached in my handbag for my cell phone and dialed 911.
“Dogbert?” I called.
No answer from Dog. Now I was really shaken. What if they’d taken him?
“What’s your emergency?” The Laguna Beach PD dispatch answered, and I suddenly remembered I had other fur-kid guests. What if someone had been after Kitty’s artist Bengals?
“Someone has broken into my house,” I told the voice.
“Have you entered your home?” he asked.
“I’m inside.” I could hear him give some sort of a code and assumed he was communicating with LBPD officers on duty.
“Ma’am, get out of the house. Please go outside and wait in your car for the officers to arrive. We’re sending someone right now.”
“Okay,” I said and hung up. No way was I going back outside until I was sure my pets were all right. If the bad guys were still in the house, well, they would have to deal with me.
I picked up the crystal candlestick from the
floor and felt the weight of it in my hand. Not a bad weapon. I could do some serious damage if I needed to. I crept down the hallway.
“Dogbert?” I called. “Thelma, Louise? Tobey, Minou?” I heard a faint whimper from behind the couch.
Lifting the big quilt I usually kept draped on the back of the couch, I could see my poor dog had managed to get lodged between the wall and a pile of books that had been pulled from my bookshelves. I moved the books and got him out.
“Are you okay, boy?”
He barked in answer then growled, then barked again. Suddenly Tobey and Minou shot through the room follow by Thelma and then Louise.
Well, okay. All fur-kids accounted for.
Minou stopped in her tracks when she saw me. Thelma ran back and hissed at her. Tobey circled and growled deep in his throat. Not to be outdone, Louise arched her spine and hissed too.
By this time Dogbert had decided to hide behind my legs. I could feel his little body leaning against my calves.
“Come on, you guys. It’s okay.” I moved toward the cats who were obviously spooked by the whole ordeal.
The doorbell chimed, and then there was a knock. “Police.”
At the sound, Thelma jumped on the bookshelves, knocking the rest of the crystal in a heap. Louise climbed up the front window drapes using her claws and perched on top of the half-wall separating my living room from my dining room. And Tobey, in one beautiful leopard-like movement, pounced and landed in the middle of my couch which sent the one remaining cushion shooting up. As if in slow motion, it was airborne and then tumbled end over end and landed on the only remaining upright lamp, which in turn fell with a crash.
“Ma’am?” I turned to look at the uniformed officer who stood in my entryway.
Then I turned back to survey the mass destruction that used to be my living room, and suddenly knew the damage was not the result of an intruder.
My home had been vandalized by four felines.
Once I’d explained to the very nice officer about the confusion and assured him my home had not really had a break-in, I started cleaning up the mess and called Diana to let her know I was going to need to reschedule our lunch. Then I placed a call to Detective Judd Malone.
If this was the result of only one day of cohabitation, keeping Kitty’s two cats at my house was not going to work out. Tobey and Minou needed to be in their own home.
Detective Malone called me back right away and gave the go ahead to move them to Kitty’s. He even said he’d call the officer stationed in her driveway and let him know I would be bringing the cats over.
I looked around the room. I’d managed to pick up most of the broken items and had made a pile of those I thought could be salvaged.
Dogbert was sound asleep in his bed, Thelma and Louise sunned themselves in the sunlight streaming through the patio door, and Tobey and Minou were curled up sound asleep on a soft blanket in a corner of the room.
Demolition work is tiring.
Chapter Five
Tobey and Minou were happy to be home. After first exploring the house and probably, truth be told, looking for their human mom, they had settled in.
It had been two days, and still no word about who might have shot Kitty. But the cats and I had developed a regular routine. The police cruiser was gone from the driveway. I always came in through the back so I didn’t attract any of the reporters who were still stationed across the street.
I located Tobey and Minou’s cat food in the pantry and filled their bowls. It still seemed odd being in Kitty’s house without her there. I’d been in the living room many times and on the enclosed veranda, which was set up for Tobey and Minou, but in all the years we’d been neighbors, I’d never been in the rest of the house.
The kitchen was high-class gourmet with top of the line steel appliances and gleaming marble countertops. That wasn’t any surprise, as Kitty seemed to be the type of person to whom it mattered, whether you were a gourmet cook or not.
I filled the cats’ bowls with fresh water. Litter boxes probably needed checking too. They were located in a large storage area off the veranda. One labeled “Tobey” and the other “Minou.” Though they were really smart cats, I was pretty sure they couldn’t read. I cleaned the pans.
The two felines eyed me from their plush beds. They truly were beautiful animals. It was so much easier with them at Kitty’s. They were surrounded by their own things and were much less anxious.
I’d gone through the cat care checklist in my head—fill their bowls, check their water, clean the litter pans—when the doorbell rang. It almost had to be a salesperson or someone to check the electric meter as all the neighbors knew about Kitty.
“It’s okay, kids,” I called to the cats as if they understood. “I’ll get it.” As opposed to them answering the door, I guess.
I opened the door to a woman who probably stood no more than five-foot two in her platform shoes. Over her head, I could see there was a gray-tone pickup parked in the driveway. I had this flash of big blonde hair, tiny tanned arms, neon-pink halter top and flowered capris before the pixie threw her arms around me in a bear hug.
“Kitty, thank God I’ve found you!” Her high-pitched voice was buried in the clench, but I was sure that was what she said.
“Uh . . . uh, I’m not. Wait.” I tried to pull myself loose, but she was deceptively strong for such a little thing.
I’m tall, and I work out, but Tinkerbell had a vise grip.
I finally extricated myself and stepped back into the entry.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m not Kitty.”
“You’re not?” She tipped her bleached blonde head to one side. Kind of like Dogbert did when he wondered what I was attempting to communicate.
“No.”
“Well, I did think you were pretty tall.” She looked up at me. “But if you’re not her, then who the hell are you? This is Kitty Bardot’s house, isn’t it?”
“It is. And may I ask who you are?”
“Well, a-course you can. I’m her sister.”
Holy kitty litter, Batman.
Not the answer I expected. I didn’t know Kitty had a sister, and I was willing to bet my trust fund Malone had no idea either. Although before I started gambling away my safety net, I needed to remember that Detective Malone always operated on a need-to-know basis, and maybe he hadn’t thought I needed to know this little tidbit.
The first thought I had was, oh-my-gosh Kitty has a sister.
My second thought was, oh-my-gosh she doesn’t know her sister is dead.
“Come in. I’m afraid I have very bad news for you.”
“Whatdyamean?”
“I’m Caro Lamont, and I’m a friend of Kitty’s. I’m here taking care of her two cats, Tobey and Minou.”
She watched me intently.
“Hon, I’m going to call the police, and they’ll explain. You just come on in and sit down.”
“My sister’s in jail?” She followed me into the living room.
“Oh, honey, no. Nothing like that.” I didn’t want to be the one to break the news, but I didn’t think she was going to wait until Malone arrived. I couldn’t say I blamed her.
“I don’t think I want to wait for the police,” she said, her jaw set like a stubborn Doberman. “If you’re her friend, you better tell me right now. Where is my sister?”
I took a deep breath. Better to just say it. I took her hands in mine.
“A couple of days ago, on her way home from an event, Kitty was killed.”
“Oh, no. Do not tell me that.” She pulled away from me, and her voice got louder and higher. “I have been searching for my sister for fifteen years. Do not tell me that I found her only to come here and find out that she’s dead. Do. Not. Tell. Me.”
The little flowered pixie twirled in c
ircles.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, NO!” Her voice crescendoed into the loudest scream I have ever in my entire life heard. Ever.
And then—boom! She collapsed on the floor.
Chapter Six
The woman claiming to be Kitty’s long lost sister finally came to. I’d propped her up against one of Kitty’s fancy black velvet chairs.
She opened cornflower blues eyes that promptly filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe my sister is dead.” She scooted up into the chair and flipped long frizzy blonde hair out of her eyes. “What did you say your name was?”
“Caro. Caro Lamont. I live next door,” I answered. “And I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s April Mae Wooben. But you can call me June. Most everyone does.”
I blinked. “What?” Never mind. Obviously I hadn’t heard her right. We’d sort out the name thing later. “I didn’t know Kitty had a sister.”
“We didn’t know we were sisters until recently. We were adopted when we were just tiny. Kitty was three, and I was just a baby. Our mama gave us up for adoption, and I’ve been trying to find her, our mama that is, and my sister, ever since I was old enough to know you could do that sort of thing. But no luck.”
She stopped rambling for a moment and took a breath. Thank God. I was afraid she would pass out again from lack of oxygen.
“Then out of the blue I was contacted by this private detective. He was looking for me. He hooked me up with my sister, and we were talking about maybe meeting. I couldn’t wait, so I just decided to drive on out here. She wasn’t hard to find you know.”
“Where are you from?” I’d glanced at the pickup truck and noticed the plates weren’t California plates but hadn’t looked closely enough to know where.
“Why, I’m from Eminence, Missouri. Southern Missouri. The Show Me state.”
“A long trip then.”
“It wasn’t too bad. I figured out where Kitty lived, then I called her. She gave me her address, and here I am. But . . . but . . . I can’t. Oh, Lord.”