Fat Cat Spreads Out

by Janet Cantrell

  She saw Peter, Ivan’s good-looking son, right away, but there was no sign of his father. Where was he?

  Ingrid stood not far from Peter on the other side of the room. Chase waved, and Ingrid waved back. Chase wondered where she’d been all day. Ingrid turned and climbed into the bleachers.

  “Earth to Chase.” Anna waved her hand up and down in front of Chase’s face. She had gotten Quincy out and held him, still wearing his little blue jacket. “Isn’t he cute? Take his picture.”

  “Wait a sec.” Chase patted her jeans pocket, feeling for her phone. She wanted a picture of Quincy as well as some of the other cats with their costumes. Her cell was gone. “Where’s my phone?”

  “Ah. I believe it’s in the booth,” Anna said. “I laid it down to wait on the travel agent. You were showing me a text, remember?”

  Chase ran to the booth, now full of their boxes. Her cell phone sat on the table, the lone item there. At least no one had taken it. She thumbed it to see if she’d gotten any more cryptic messages from Mike. Two more from Tanner. They were dropping off in frequency. But none from Mike. She ran back and looked around the exhibit space.

  “Mike still isn’t here.” She was getting a bad feeling in her stomach. She twisted a few strands of her hair frantically. She flipped through the pictures she had taken in the butter building.

  “Oh dear.” Anna’s mouth dropped open. “I just realized. That text? He’s in trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was sending you an SOS.”

  Of course! That’s what it meant. Chase’s mouth dropped open, too. “You’re right. Mike is in trouble. But I don’t know where he is.”

  Detective Olson entered the exhibition room and headed toward the bleachers. She wondered if he was there to see the contest. Or to take another look at some suspects? She knew she needed to tell him to talk to the toymaker and to do something about Mike. There seemed to be time right now. Cat owners were still trickling in.

  Something clicked. Those pictures on her phone. She glanced through them.

  “I have to show a picture to Niles,” Chase said. She caught him before he reached a seat.

  “Detective,” she said. “Niles?”

  “What?” It sounded like he meant, Not now.

  “I think Michael Ramos is in trouble.”

  The detective stopped and listened.

  “He texted me ‘SOS’ a couple of times and he’s supposed to be here. I have no idea where he is, but . . .”

  “He’s not hiding out?”

  “Why would he hide out? He didn’t kill Oake, you know that.” What an exasperating man Detective Olson was.

  “I’m beginning to think you’re right.” He seemed to be watching Ivan and Peter as they readied their cat, Shadow. Chase hadn’t seen Ivan arrive, but there he was. “We got a nine-one-one hang-up call from the doctor’s phone, but when we located it, outside the exhibit building, he wasn’t with it. Where do you think he might be?”

  “He dropped his phone? Take a look at this picture.” She showed him the image on her phone.

  “It’s a butter sculpture.”

  “Look at the doorway.”

  He drew the phone close to his face. She reached over and pressed a button to enlarge the photo.

  “There are people going past. I didn’t realize these shots were in my pictures. I think I took one with Mike in it. This might be a stretch,” Chase said, ignoring Olson’s disparaging look, “but Mike’s aunt Betsy, his receptionist, said he left with someone who mentioned a collar. If this concerns the missing diamond collar, maybe this person has it. I thought Mike might be going with him to learn more, but what if he left with the killer?”

  “Or, more likely, the thief.”

  “But what if he’s the same person?”

  “There’s a good chance of that, but who is he? Or she?”

  She tried a different tack. She pointed to the picture. “That looks like Harper the toymaker to me. See the tattoos? The travel agent—Holly Molden, the redheaded one—told me that her partner, Sally Ritten, heard the toymaker say he saw someone run out of the building at about the time of the murder.” She didn’t mention that she had recognized Sally behind the booths. “Maybe Mike is trying to get that information. The other person here is tall. It looks like Mike to me. Maybe he left with the toymaker. Maybe both murders are tied together.”

  “Both murders?”

  “I couldn’t help but see . . .”

  Olson took another look at the phone picture. “The toymaker.” He scratched his chin. “Harper?”

  “That’s what the sign says on this booth, but a guy visiting him called him Hardin.”

  “Hardin?” He squinted at her. “I think I’m connecting some dots,” Olson said, nodding slowly. “I bet I know why he wouldn’t want to talk to us. I should have taken him in when I first got a funny feeling about him. I should have known who he was. He’s let his hair grow long in the back and he’s gotten bald on the top. He’s a little more wrinkled, but I should have recognized him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Frank Hardin, if I’m right. He’s a wanted felon. He murdered two women in Iowa ten years ago. Threw them in the back of a van and drove them to a wooded park to strangle them and bury the bodies in a shallow grave. He was convicted and sentenced to life, but he escaped from prison three years ago.”

  “He’s an escaped murderer? And he has Mike?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Chase’s knees buckled. Detective Olson caught her around the waist with an iron grip and plunked her onto the hard bleacher seat.

  “How long ago did you take this picture of Hardin and Ramos?” he asked. “If it is them.”

  “I guess about half an hour, forty-five minutes, maybe a little more or less.”

  “He might not have left yet. We’ll get a dog here, block off the parking lot and start searching. I’ll get his license number from Daisy. He had to register it for vendor parking.”

  Detective Olson was speaking into his cell almost before he quit talking to Chase, requesting an APB on Hardin’s vehicle. Quickly he found Daisy, and they hurried away toward her office.

  Chase’s heart hammered. She clenched her fists, almost jumping out of her skin. Hardin was a dangerous man. A murderer! And he had Mike. How long would it take to transport a police dog to the fair? Too long. She couldn’t stand still. She ran out of the building.

  She sped down the midway toward the lot where the vendors parked. Two officers were questioning the man at the hot dog stand. Another one scribbled on a notepad while the chicken wing vendor waved her arms toward the parking lot.

  Chase put on more speed and was at the vendors’ parking lot in less than two minutes.

  She spotted Hardin/Harper right away at a big blue van four rows from where she stood.

  Running as fast as she could, she sprinted for the vehicle. The toymaker opened the driver’s door and hitched himself up into the seat. She was still a row away.

  “Wait!” she screamed. “Wait!” She windmilled her arms.

  He looked in her direction and reached for his handle to close the door.

  “You forgot something!” Not true, but she had to stop him. She put on more speed than she’d known she had. Almost there.

  That got his attention. He let go of the handle and waited for her to reach him, panting and breathless.

  “What did I forget?” he asked.

  “Let me catch my breath.” She bent to put her palms on her knees while her lungs burned and heaved. The cold air didn’t help her recover. She was disappointed that Mike wasn’t there.

  “I need to . . . ask you . . . something,” she panted and coughed twice. She drew in the lingering odor of sweat and also that of the cigarette dangling from his surly lips.

  He squinted at her, suspiciou
s. “I thought you said I forgot something.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to . . . stop you.” Her breathing was almost back to normal. “I desperately need to know something.”

  “Know what?”

  A thumping noise came from the back of his windowless van.

  “What’s that? Do you have an animal back there?”

  “Huh? Yeah, that’s . . . that’s Wolf, my dog.”

  “Please tell me. I want to know. I have to know. I won’t tell anyone you told me. The travel agent said you saw someone run out of the butter building.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Her partner, Holly, told me. It was immediately before Dr. Ramos went in.”

  “Not exactly. Maybe five or ten minutes before.” He started the engine.

  “That person could very well be the killer. Who was it?”

  “I’m not talking to any cops.”

  “Can you tell me? I’m not a cop.”

  “I don’t want to get involved at all, understand?” He still had one hand on the door handle. His fingers twitched impatiently, and his vehicle idled loudly. It needed a new muffler, Chase thought, almost choking on the black cloud of exhaust spewing from the rusty tailpipe. The thumping continued in the back of the vehicle.

  “Yes, I understand. I said I won’t say anything to them. I only want to talk to him, to know what that person saw when he was inside.” Well, that and whether or not he’d murdered Larry Oake.

  “It was that feller, that crazy one.” He let go of the handle and made a circle beside his head, the universal symbol for cuckoo.

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Nope. There, I told you all I know.”

  “Thanks so much. I appreciate it.”

  “If someone comes around asking, I won’t say I saw anything.” He sneered at her. He transferred his cigarette to his left hand and took hold of the door handle with the same hand.

  The thumping continued, but now she noticed a pattern. Three short knocks, three slow ones, then three more short raps. SOS! The message Mike had been texting her! He was in the van!

  Chase grabbed the handles of the bay door and tugged.

  “What the hell you doin’?” Hardin yelled.

  “Dr. Ramos is back there! I know he is! Let him out!” She shook the handles, but the doors remained locked.

  “Let go of my door. I’m leavin’. This fair has caused me enough problems. That foreigner. And the blonde. And now . . . now you.”

  She paused, confused by what Hardin had said. Chase changed tactics and grabbed the driver’s door, still open.

  The van started to roll. She hung on, jumped onto the running board beside the driver’s seat. “Stop!” she yelled over the sound of the loud engine.

  He accelerated and shoved her with his left arm. The man was strong, but Chase clung to the door and started screaming. The cotton candy vendor, loading a pickup truck with boxes, raised his head.

  “Help! He’s a kidnapper!” she screamed. Maybe that wasn’t the best tactic, since she was obviously not being kidnapped. “Help!” she continued to yell, hanging on tight. Hardin let go of the handle and pounded on her knuckles with his fist. She gulped down a scream, but still didn’t let go.

  The cotton candy vendor ran toward them, followed by two others in the lot.

  The van sped up, heading toward the exit of the parking lot. Chase kept screaming. Hardin kept pushing her, trying to get her off his vehicle. Her knuckles slipped on the handle. If she gripped the edge of the door, she was afraid he would slam it on her hands.

  They reached the gate. The brakes squealed. Chase grinned in relief, trying not to fall off as the van screeched toward the heavy metal gate that barred the way.

  It was a solid metal affair, and if the van hit it, Hardin probably wouldn’t be able to drive away. The vendors were inspected as they left the fair every day and today, the last day, was no exception. The gawky kid in the blue uniform came out of the small white guardhouse waving his arms.

  “Slow down, sir. You were going too fast.”

  Chase jumped off as the van rolled to a stop. “There’s a man in the back.” She was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “He’s a kidnapper.”

  “The man in the back is a kidnapper?” the kid asked.

  She pointed at Hardin. “He’s a kidnapper. You have to get Dr. Ramos out of there.”

  “Hands on your head, don’t move.” Detective Olson was behind her, pointing a gun at Hardin.

  Chase collapsed, hard, onto her knees. Olson didn’t catch her this time.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chase finally staggered into the arena. The Fancy Cat Contest was well under way. Anna flapped her hand, urging Chase to hurry to their stand.

  When Chase got there, she looked her over. “You look . . . well, you’ve looked better.”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  She and Mike had been questioned and checked over by medics in the parking lot. They had bandaged her knees where she had hit the pavement and her hand where Hardin had banged it with his fist.

  Mike had sat on the ground beside her. He was rumpled and his knuckles were raw from pounding on the inside of the van, but he didn’t look too awful from his ordeal when he emerged from the back. He related some details to her. Hardin had gone to the clinic after packing up and told Mike he had something he needed to see and that it was in his van. Mike had thought he was going to show him the collar. But, when Mike stuck his head in the back door, Hardin had shoved Mike all the way in and slammed the door.

  As they watched, Hardin was stuffed into the back of a squad car in handcuffs, yelling that he hadn’t done anything and didn’t know anything. Detective Olson climbed into the front seat to question him. Chase thought Hardin wouldn’t tell Olson anything about who he had seen run out of the butter sculpture building.

  One thing puzzled Chase. The patrolman who had read Hardin his rights had said he was under arrest for murder. He had killed Larry Oake? That didn’t make a bit of sense. Then it dawned on her. He must have strangled poor Sally Ritten. But why?

  When Chase ducked her head inside the squad car window and said she was showing Quincy any minute now in the Fancy Cat Contest, Detective Olson, showing his softer side, told Chase to go ahead and he’d get her official statement later. She had waved to Mike and limped off.

  “Most of the cats are finished,” Anna said, keeping her voice low. “It’s almost our turn. Where have you been?” She sniffed. “I can’t decide if you hair smells more like a locker room or a bar.”

  “I’ll fill you in, I promise,” Chase said. “I feel much better than I look . . . and smell. Although I’m still completely confused. At least I found Mike and he’s all right. He should be here any minute.” Quincy crouched on the stand where Anna had been steadying him with one hand while he watched everything that was going on, his whiskers twitching and his ears swiveling.

  Since he was in full costume, Chase snapped his picture, then scooped him up. She laughed when he got a good whiff of her and drew his head back, his eyes narrowed and his ears flattened against his furry skull. He worked his nostrils in and out. It felt good to laugh.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mike walk into the arena. He took a seat in the front row of the bleachers and gave Chase a wink. Her heart fluttered a bit.

  The owner of the Maine Coon, outfitted improbably as a ballerina, complete with sequined lavender tutu and four satin ballet slippers, was returning the cat to his oversize cage.

  Inger caught Chase’s eye and waved from the bleachers. Chase held a hand out to her and pointed to their stand, asking if she wanted to join them. After all, she had designed the costume. But Inger shook her head. She pointed to Peter Aronoff and surprised Chase by making her way out of the bleachers to stand next to him and his father.

 
Patrice had shed her gauzy Madame Divine garments and wore blue jeans and a pink fluffy sweater. It very much matched the tutu Princess Puffball wore. The chubby cat also bore a cardboard tiara, covered with silver glitter, on her pretty head. From the nonchalant look in the cat’s blue eyes, it was obvious she already considered herself the winner, if not the queen.

  Daisy spoke into the microphone at her stand. “And now, Quincy, owned by Charity Oliver.”

  Quincy was fully dressed, thanks to Anna, little blue jacket snug on his round body, ox horns tied firmly, if lopsidedly, on his head.

  “Do you want to take him?” Chase asked Anna, since she looked so ragged.

  “No, he’s your cat. You do it.” Anna nudged the small of her back. “You don’t look that bad.”

  Chase carried Quincy to the center of the semicircle formed by the contestants and put him on the judge’s carpeted stand.

  There were three judges. Chase figured there had to be an odd number to avoid tied votes. A stern woman and two men, one old with a crew cut, and one younger bald and jolly man, stared at Quincy, assessing. The stern woman tilted her head to the left, then to the right. The older skinny man bent over and squinted at the horns. The jovial one leaned back and smiled, clasping his hands over his substantial belly. He was the only one to give Chase’s injuries a look.

  Chase held her breath and kept her expression neutral, trying not to read anything into their faces or actions. The jolly man certainly looked pleased, but she couldn’t tell about the other two. The jolly man would be the one she would want to play poker against.

  After a few moments, the stern woman, still frowning, nodded at Chase. She took that to mean she should return to their station, so she picked Quincy up and cuddled him, scratching behind his ears, as she walked back to their stand. His horns fell off and she stooped to scoop them up and stick them back on his head.

  Peter and Ivan’s handsome black cat wore a slick black cape and a black hood with extra large pointy ears. He made an adorable Batkitty. Or maybe, since he was owned by a man, he really should be called Batcat.