GALLERY CAT CAPER, THE

by Patricia Fry

  "Oh," she said, as if a bit taken aback, "I was born with…some abilities, it seems, and my grandmother encouraged them. She lived with us throughout most of my life. My brother was born when I was seven. He was later diagnosed as autistic. In my childhood innocence, I could relate to him when no one else could. We were kind of on the same plane—a spiritual plane, if you will. When Brian died with my mother in a car accident, I felt such a deep hole in my heart and in my life. One day it came to me that I might be able to fill that hole by working with people like Brian. I'm so glad I followed my intuition."

  "So you fulfill your spiritual side through your work within the spiritual realm. Cool," Savannah said.

  She laughed. "You've pretty much nailed me, Savannah. Good job." She looked at Savannah. "You and Michael are wonderful together."

  "I know," she said. "I can't imagine not sharing this life together."

  Rochelle smiled and reached for Savannah's hand. She took it, closed her eyes and said, "You were destined to be together. You have a long and happy life together. Just keep loving each other and your children."

  "Children?" Michael said when he and Peter returned.

  Rochelle looked at him inquisitively. "I'm seeing more than one child. One has dark hair." She looked at Michael. "Like you. A boy."

  "Yes, my son, Adam." He smiled. "Hey, you're good."

  "Just wide open," she said. "I let it all come in. I've learned to not filter it so much."

  Peter and Michael placed large platters of scallops, shrimp, crab, and lobster in front of the women and then at their own places.

  "Looks wonderful," Savannah said.

  "Sure does," Rochelle agreed. As she picked up her fork, she said, "There are more children, by the way,"

  Michael had taken a bite of crab. He glanced up at Rochelle, looked at Savannah, and said, with his mouth full, "for us?" pointing his fork between himself and Savannah.

  Rochelle nodded. "Yup," she said, smiling.

  "Yes!" Michael said, pumping the air with his fist. Savannah grinned and the two of them leaned toward each other and kissed.

  "You made their day," Peter said.

  Rochelle smiled. "I love when that happens. It's refreshing to meet someone with such a lovely quality about their relationship."

  "And then there's me," Peter said sullenly, smirking.

  "Don't be so hard on yourself, Peter. You just must be careful—play it smart. You'll be okay. But do as I say and protect your work, will you?" She took a bite of shrimp and then a sip of sangria. "Peter, I have more to tell you, but let's wait until after dinner, okay? I want to concentrate on this wonderful meal."

  He nodded, his eyes glistening in the candlelight. "Glad you like it."

  After a while, Rochelle said, "He wants out."

  Savannah looked up from her meal. "Huh? Oh, Rags? Yes, he does. Loves to be out."

  "Do you let him out?" she asked.

  "Sure, but with restrictions. He has been known to escape. He's done it three times since we've been here. That's frightening."

  "Why?" she asked.

  "Well, I'm afraid he'll get lost or injured or someone will pick him up."

  "He's not," she said.

  "What?" Savannah cocked her head.

  "He's not afraid. He's one confident dude. Knows where he's going and why."

  "Really?" Michael said. "Well, you did say he knows stuff."

  "Yes. Can he come out here? I'd like to share his space."

  Michael and Savannah looked at each other. He suggested, "How about after dinner. He may attack our plates with all of this good seafood on it."

  After a few minutes, Michael pushed away from the table. "I'm stuffed. That was something special, Peter. Thank you."

  "The experience isn't over yet," Peter said, mysteriously.

  "What more could there be?" Savannah asked. "I couldn't eat another bite."

  "Even dark chocolate mousse with espresso whipped cream?" he asked, enticingly.

  Savannah swooned. "Oh, Peter, you sure know how to tempt a woman."

  "Doesn't he?" Rochelle agreed. "Sounds luscious." She picked up her spoon. "Bring it on," she said.

  Everyone laughed.

  "Coffee, anyone?" Michael asked.

  "Sure," Savannah said.

  "Yes," Rochelle agreed.

  "Delicious," Savannah said after devouring most of her dessert. When she noticed that everyone else had finished, she said, "Here, I'll carry in the dishes and bring Rags out for a visit."

  "Never mind," Michael said. "Remember, it's the guys' turn to impress."

  Savannah winked at him. "Well, I'm certainly impressed."

  "Keep this up," Rochelle quipped, "and I won't be able to button my dress."

  "It's a darling dress," Savannah said. "Looks comfortable, but elegant—my kind of wardrobe,"

  Rochelle laughed. "I made it years ago."

  "You sew, too?" Savannah asked.

  "I used to. It was my creative outlet of choice. Now I do photography. Love photography."

  "Really?" Savannah leaned toward her. "What do you shoot?"

  "I enjoy photographing wildlife in their habitat—you know, birds, squirrels—I have this great shot of a fox I took out at the Channel Islands."

  "Cool," Savannah said. "I can see how photography could fulfill your creative urges. It's something I enjoy, too, but haven't had much time to pursue it with any gusto."

  "Well, hello Ragsdale," Rochelle said when he walked up to her upon being released—on his leash—from the house. "You're quite a handsome cat, aren't you?" she said, petting him and scratching him around the neck. He stood up and put his paws on her lap. She ran her hand gently over his paws. "A cat that allows you to touch his paws is a trusting cat. Cats that trust are either intelligent or they haven't learned to be cautious."

  "Interesting," Savannah said. "Hey, I'd like to move around a bit—work some of this meal off. It's so bright out tonight, we could walk on the beach—anyone game?"

  Meow, Rags said, jumping down from Rochelle's lap.

  "How many words does he understand?" Rochelle asked.

  "Oh, uh, well, I don't know, but he does seem to know 'walk' and 'outside.'"

  "Let's go," Peter said. "Wait, I'll get a flashlight."

  After they'd walked for a while in the gentle surf, Rags darting in and out among their feet and even getting his paws wet a time or two, Peter said, "So, Rochelle, you said you have some suggestions for me."

  She took his arm and began walking alongside him as Savannah and Michael strolled hand-in-hand ahead of them with Rags.

  "Peter, Peter, Peter," she said.

  He winced. "Oh, this doesn't sound good."

  "You're a wonderfully talented man. You even have more of a business head than most artists—anyway that's my sense. Am I right?"

  "Probably, I guess," he said, shrugging. He looked down at her and noticed her soft brown hair blowing in the breeze around her pretty face. "Do I sense a great big 'but' coming?"

  She laughed. "You do. You're sensitive, Peter. You know that, don't you?"

  "Uh, well…"

  "Well, you are. You could be so much more successful in your relationships—and I mean business as well as personal—if only you would…"

  "Would what?" he asked, eager to know more.

  "Well, if you'd listen and believe what you hear."

  "Listen to…what? My business associates, my customers?"

  Rochelle laughed. "No. Absolutely not. That's what you should not be doing. No, Peter," she said, facing him, "to you," she said, pushing her finger into his chest. "Listen to your inner voice."

  When Peter glanced up and noticed that Savannah and Michael had walked several yards ahead with the cat, he looked into Rochelle's striking brown eyes, bent down, and kissed her gently. When he pulled away, he said, rather breathlessly, "I'd apologize for that, but a little voice told me to do it."

  Rochelle broke out laughing. "Good for you, Peter," she said. "I do believe
you're starting to get it. Yes!" she said loudly. She glanced ahead and saw that Michael and Savannah were engaged in their own quiet conversation, and she said, "My inner voice was saying the same thing." She eased one hand around the back of his neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him back." She then slid her arm through his and they resumed walking. "This is such a lovely evening. And you have wonderful friends. Thank you for including me, Peter."

  "You're welcome." They walked in silence for a moment and then he said, "I'd like to see you again,"

  "I'd like that, too." She looked up at him for a few moments. "Now, Peter, back to business. Be careful who you trust, will you? And protect those paintings of yours. They are a target." She shook her head. "I don't know why or how or who, but I see them at risk of destruction."

  They had just caught up with Savannah and Michael, who heard Rochelle's prediction. "Gosh, that's dire," Michael said. He addressed Peter. "Would it be possible to remove them from your gallery and put them in hiding someplace?"

  "I can't close the gallery," he said.

  "Yeah, if you close it, you won't ever get a bead on who's doing this to you," Savannah reasoned.

  "Can you remove your best work; your newer pieces…?" Michael asked.

  "And the one I want to buy," Savannah added.

  "Yes, and replace them with…maybe your prints and some of your earlier works that aren't as good," Michael suggested.

  "Aren't as good?" Peter said, as if insulted. "They're all good, Michael, or they wouldn't be in the gallery."

  "Oh, of course. Sorry, buddy."

  "Michael's right," Rochelle said. "That's exactly what I'd do." Everyone was quiet for a moment, caught up in their own thoughts and the ocean sounds, when Rochelle said, "Be careful of the women who surround you."

  "What?" Peter asked.

  "Peter, I thought about this and analyzed it before saying it. I'm obviously attracted to you, so I wanted to make sure my heart wasn't driving this thought. I had to be clear…know that it was valid. It is. I sense negative vibes with regard to at least one of the women around you. She could bring you down, Peter."

  Everyone was silent while Peter digested that last comment. And then Rochelle said, "I'd like to see your gallery sometime."

  He nodded and cleared his throat. "How about now? It's a block away from here."

  "Okay." She looked at the cat. "Are sandy feet and cats allowed?"

  "After hours, anything goes," he quipped.

  "Nice location," Rochelle said, as they approached the gallery. She looked at the building. "Quaint and cute. Has a sense of professionalism, that's for sure."

  "Are you getting all of that from your inner voice?" Peter asked, as he inserted his key into the door lock.

  "No, I used to be in advertising, until I realized how phony it is," she replied.

  Everyone laughed.

  When the door opened, Peter walked over to shut off the alarm. "That's not right," he said.

  "What?" Michael asked.

  Peter sighed deeply and scowled. "The alarm wasn't set." He turned on the lights. "Anyone here?" he called.

  Just then they heard what sounded like a door slamming. "What was that?" Peter asked. He motioned for the women to wait near the front door. "Is anyone here?" he called out again. He and Michael looked at each other and then the two of them walked toward the back of the gallery and disappeared.

  In a couple of minutes they returned. "Damn," Peter said. "I think someone was here and they slipped out through the back door. I'd better look around and see if they took anything." He scanned the room with his eyes. "Things seem to be in order. I see where a couple of paintings have been replaced, but those probably sold and one of the gals hung these in their place."

  "Do you keep money here, Peter?" Michael asked.

  "A little, sometimes. Depends on if we've had a chance to go to the bank." He headed for the office and opened a desk drawer. Michael followed close behind. "The petty cash is here," Peter observed, "and it looks like a bank deposit ready to go. Wait," he said, "this is Dawna's deposit. That's odd. Why would she bring her deposit to work?" He shrugged. "Oh well, her personal business, I guess." He started to put it back and then added, "That's a lot of checks. I wonder where she got them."

  In the meantime, while Rochelle walked through the gallery admiring Peter's work, Savannah stood in place, holding Rags's leash and looking around the main gallery. Suddenly, she felt a tug on the leash. "No, no, Rags. Where do you think you're going?" she said, hurrying to follow him.

  "What's he doing?" Michael asked, when he and Peter returned to the main gallery.

  "He walked behind that painting and knocked it over," she said.

  "Well, why isn't it hanging?" Peter asked. "It shouldn't be just leaning up against the panel like that." He started to reach for it, but Savannah said, "Wait a minute—this isn't your work, is it, Peter?" She stepped back, peering at it suspiciously. "There's something different about it."

  Peter scrutinized the painting. "Oh, my God. No, that's not mine."

  Michael peered at it from behind Savannah. "Where do you think it came from?" "Something wrong?" Rochelle asked, joining the others.

  Peter shook his head. "Naw, probably not." He turned to Savannah and Michael. "Artists often bring their paintings in for my evaluation. Someone probably left it with Dawna or Kara. I'll check with them tomorrow." He looked at the painting again and said, as if to himself, "It sure is a pretty good copy of my work." He then noticed Rochelle standing near him and he asked, "So did you tour the place?"

  "Yes. I could spend a whole day in here. Your art is wonderful, and it certainly validates my sense of you. I especially love seeing the playful aspect. Really delightful," she said. "I can see your dark side, but it's overcome by light." She turned to him. "Yes, I like Peter the artist as much as Peter the individual."

  "Well, thank you," he said, bowing deeply. He looked at his watch. "Hey, six a.m. comes early. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd better get some sleep. I'll lock up and set the alarm and let's hoof it back home, shall we?"

  Just then Rags darted in front of Savannah. "Oops, careful Ragsie. You're gonna trip me."

  "Here, I'll take him," Michael offered.

  Savannah handed him the leash. "Do you think you should call the police about the break-in?" she asked Peter as she walked toward the front door alongside Rochelle.

  Peter stopped and looked down at the key in his hand and then back into the gallery. "I don't know. Nothing was taken and I suspect one of the gals left the door open. Let's just go," he said, taking a few steps toward the alarm panel.

  "Come on, big guy. Time to go," Michael said. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  Everyone turned to see Rags staring at a painting hung low on one of the panels. Michael started to pick him up when Savannah said, "Wait. Give me your phone, Michael. I want to get a picture. That's cute. He's just sitting there staring at that painting like some sort of art critic."

  Michael handed Savannah the phone and she stepped back to take the picture. She laughed. "How cute is that?" She turned to Peter. "This shot could be the heart of your next big advertising campaign."

  Once Savannah had taken a couple of photos and checked them over, Michael tugged on the leash again. But Rags continued to sit and stare. "Come on, big boy," he said.

  He leaned over to pick up the cat when Rochelle said, "Wait. There may be something special about that painting."

  Peter shook his head. "It's just a print. I have a lot of them. They're numbered. See, this one's number 312."

  "What is significant about this piece? What inspired it?" she asked.

  Peter thought about it for a moment and then answered, "I did that one when I first met Dawna. I actually had her in my mind while I was working on it. She kind of influenced that painting. For some reason it became popular, and I sell a lot of prints."

  "Interesting," Rochelle said. "Now, does Rags sense her energy in this? Is he trying to tell us somethin
g?"

  Peter rubbed his hand over his hair. "I doubt it," he said. "Her…energy is all over the place in here. She works here almost every day." He glanced down at the cat again and said, "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

  Just as the two couples and the cat arrived home—this time taking the sidewalks instead of the beach—Peter's phone rang.

  "What the…?" he mumbled. "Who's calling me this late? Hello," he said into the phone. "What? Damn. Okay, I'll be right there."

  When Peter ended the call, he let out a deep sigh. "Michael, would you mind calling a cab for Rochelle?" he asked, handing him a twenty-dollar bill. "That was the police. They said my alarm at the shop is going off. Man, I don't know what's wrong. Must be a short in the system."

  "Or someone saw us leave and broke in," Savannah suggested.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning Savannah rolled out of bed just as Michael was coming from the bathroom wearing his board shorts.

  "You're up early for someone who partied all night," she said, wrapping her arms around him.

  He kissed her. "You, too. It was fun wasn't it?"

  "Yes, it was quite an intense and interesting evening," she said. "Imagine us old fuddy-duddy parents having such a lovely adult evening out."

  He buried his face in her neck and murmured, "Fuddy-duddy parents? I don't think so." He then stepped away from her, and slipped on a t-shirt. "I'm going to help Peter remove his paintings from the gallery this morning before it opens."

  "Okay," she said, yawning. "See you later, then. Maybe Mom and I'll take Lily out to breakfast, if Mom hasn't already prepared a big meal for us."

  "It's been great having her here, hasn't it? We've been waited on, and we're free to go out anytime we feel like it."

  "Yes, like being back home with my parents. Mom's enjoying herself, too. She loves playing Grammy."

  He walked over and kissed her again. "See you in a while. Let me know if you go out to eat; maybe I'll meet you there."

  ****

  A couple of hours later, Michael joined Savannah and Gladys at Haps Cafe on the beach.

  "So did you get all the paintings moved?" Savannah asked.