by Annie Knox
Pris raised a single shoulder. “Well. What are you gonna do?”
The phrase was as much a challenge as an expression of commiseration.
I held my breath, waiting for the fireworks, but they never came. The whole situation was defused when my aunt Dolly sashayed up, back from her tour around the ballroom. In typical Dolly style, she wore glittering stack-heeled sandals. Her tunic-length T-shirt, featuring a tropical sunset picked out in sequins, was draped over a pair of neon orange capris. No matter the occasion, Dolly dressed with flare.
“Ladies,” she drawled, her head swiveling back and forth between Pris and Pamela as if she were watching a match at Wimbledon.
“Hello, Dolly,” Pris responded.
Pamela extended a hand. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
My aunt took the proffered hand and gave it two vigorous shakes. “My name is Dolly,” she said, overenunciating each word. “Just like Pris said,” she added helpfully.
The tendons in Pamela’s neck stood out. “I’m Pamela Rawlins, co-coordinator of the show.”
Dolly grinned. “Well, it’s a mighty fine cat show. Not that I’ve ever been to a cat show before. But this is terrific. I’ve never seen so much drama packed into a single room.
“That lady over there,” she said, turning to me and jerking her thumb in the direction of a heavyset woman in a cobalt blue tracksuit, “said that sometimes people poison other people’s cats.” She shivered in morbid delight.
I gasped. “Really?” I said, turning to Pamela for verification.
“Once,” she Pamela emphatically. “That was six years ago. And the accused insists to this day that she accidentally dropped those acetaminophen tablets into Betsy Blue’s bowl of kibble. Besides, she’s been permanently banned from participating in our shows.”
I was still reeling from the notion of a cat owner poisoning someone else’s pet, when Dolly jumped in again. “That guy over in the corner,” she said, indicating a balding gentleman wearing an argyle sweater-vest, despite the summer heat, “confided that one of the female judges slipped her room key under Toffee Boy when she returned him to his cage.” The man glanced up, almost as though he knew we were talking about him, but then went back to methodically running a brush over the sleek coat of a caramel-colored Burmese.
Pamela appeared stricken. “That doesn’t happen anymore.”
“Ha! He said it happened last year.”
Pamela quirked her head to the side, frowning in confusion. Her eyes scanned the room, pausing on each judging ring. Her lips moved slightly as she counted them off.
“Well,” she finally said, “I assure you that I run a tight ship. There will be no such shenanigans under my watch.”
Dolly shook her head. “I hate to tell you, Miss Pamela Rawlins, but I have a hunch that this week will be a hotbed of shenanigans. And my hunches are never wrong.”