“I just wanted to get together with Eddie and Steve again,” he said. “We had a good time, anyway. We walked around the campus, had beer and pizza at Smokey Joe’s, like in the old days, and reminisced. We all said that it seems like more than ten years since we left—a lot has changed.”
“Did they both go to veterinary school with you?” I asked.
“Steve did, but Eddie was in math and is a professor there now.” He poured the wine into two glasses. “Speaking of my work, Becky and Chris came by the clinic today. Guess you all were up at Chester’s place over the weekend?”
“We were, and I think he gave up those three cats pretty graciously.” I lifted a pizza slice for each of us onto my aqua Fiestaware dishes. “How did they look to you?”
Taking his plate, Mark pulled out one of my chrome-and-vinyl kitchen chairs and sat down. “Winky, the youngest, is in the best shape. Sugarman has some dental decay and needs to lose a few teeth; we’re keeping him overnight. Autumn has early kidney disease, but nothing that can’t be managed with a prescription diet.”
Though the news could have been far worse, I knew any ailment could hurt the chances of an animal headed for a shelter. “That could be rough for Autumn.” I sat at the table across from Mark. “Less likely someone will want to adopt a pet that already has a chronic ailment and needs special, expensive food.”
“Still, there are some good Samaritans out there,” he observed. “My job was just to diagnose the cats, patch ’em up and send ’em along with Chris and Becky. Pro bono, of course.”
“I’m sure they’re grateful.”
We toasted to that small success. For the next few minutes, conversation took a back seat as we both savored the gourmet-caliber pizza. The setting was less than romantic, because I still made do with the kitchen that had come with my renovated quarters—an older gas stove, shallow wooden cabinets I’d refreshed with white paint, and checkered linoleum that was missing a square or two. At least the ambience felt homey, though, and along with the good food and wine helped me relax after my busy day.
It also seemed to work for Mark. We shifted to the topic of his guitar lessons, and he said he felt he was making progress.
“Stan seems to think so, too,” he added. “Quintessence is rehearsing some new material at his studio next week, and he invited me to come and sit in on a couple of numbers.”
“Really? That’s terrific.” Surprised at first, I reminded myself that Mark had taken lessons in his college days, so he really was just reviving his skills. A smart and determined guy, he usually succeeded at anything he really put his mind to. And he’d done a decent job on the two songs he’d played for me so far. For each of those, he had the tune and the rhythm down fine, he just needed a little more creativity. Maybe Stan thought Mark would get inspiration from working with the group.
Although . . . not the wrong kind of inspiration, I hoped. “Does Tracy rehearse with them, too?”
He helped himself to a second mozzarella-covered slice. “Stan didn’t say. I guess that depends on what they’re working on.” Then he narrowed his eyes at me. “Why? Don’t tell me you’re worried about her!”
That he’d guessed made it easier for me to admit it. “Well, she has got that whole forties pinup-girl thing going on. And when we saw them at the Firehouse, she was flirting with everybody in the band, except the balding guy with the glasses.”
“Herb? I told you, he’s her uncle.”
“Exactly.” I felt that only underscored my point.
Mark laughed and reached across the table to cover my hand with his. “First of all, I’m very happy with our relationship. And second, even if I weren’t, Tracy wouldn’t be my type at all.”
My cheeks warmed. “I didn’t really think so, but . . .”
“Tell you what. Stan said wives and sometimes friends often sit in on their rehearsals, to make it feel more like a real performance. When he’s firmed up the date, why don’t you come? I could use the moral support, and you could keep an eye on Tracy.” His tone implied that there would be no need to keep an eye on him.
“I’d like to be there for your stage debut, actually. Yeah, please, let me know.”
I had fed my cats before Mark and I ate, and they’d been hanging out in the nearby living room. Now I heard one of the metal pet dishes rattling in its stand, in the kitchen, and glanced behind me. Orange tabby Mango was licking the whole inside of the empty dish as if trying to gobble the stainless steel, too.
“Stop that,” I told him mildly. “You already had a big dinner.”
Mark wiped his lips with a paper napkin, while peering down at the frantic cat. “Does he do that often?”
“Lately he does. I’ve been feeding him the same amount as always, but he Hoovers it up and keeps whining for more. At the same time, I think he’s losing weight.” I added this information cautiously, both hoping for and fearing a veterinarian’s opinion.
“Mind if I have a look?”
I picked up Mango, for the first time in a while, and immediately could tell he was a little lighter than he’d been a month ago. Mark swiveled in his chair so I could put the cat on his lap, and talked to Mango soothingly. Meanwhile, he ran a hand over my pet’s marmalade-colored coat, felt his throat, palpated his upper hip area, and got the tabby to open his mouth so he could check his teeth. Although I also handled difficult animals for a living, even I wouldn’t have tried that with Mango. Mark had the magic touch, though—no one could testify to that better than I.
He finished his mini-exam with a thoughtful frown. “I don’t see signs of anything dire, and he doesn’t seem to be in any pain. Still, you might want to bring him in for a workup. He’s your oldest, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “He was a rescue, so they didn’t know his exact age, but by now he must be fifteen or sixteen.”
“Mmm. At this point you have to watch out for kidney or thyroid problems. Diabetes is another possibility, though that’s less likely if he’s never been overweight. Has he been drinking a lot of water?”
“It’s hard for me to tell,” I admitted. “All three of them use the same water bowl.”
“That could mean kidney problems, but he’d probably also be eating less. A voracious appetite combined with weight loss would more likely be diabetes or hyperthyroidism.”
“I know.” Like any other pet owner, I’d been in denial about the signs.
Once released, Mango galloped into the living room and sprang onto the back of the couch, as if to prove he was still spry as a kitten. Mark must have seen my morose expression, because he sent me a reassuring smile. “Like I said, whatever it might be, he doesn’t seem badly off yet. His coat still looks healthy, which is another good sign. For any of those conditions, a change of diet or maybe a pill once a day could get it under control.”
I said nothing, but got up to make coffee. I’d already had quite a few pets of various species in my lifetime and had lost several to diseases of old age. But the experience never got easier, and I didn’t want to think about it happening to Mango. At least, not so soon.
I’d just put coffee on to drip, when my cell phone rang. The sight of Nick Janos’s name on the small screen got my attention. At eight p.m., when he wasn’t even scheduled to do any jobs for me? My curiosity wouldn’t let me ignore it.
“Hi, Cassie,” Nick’s rough-edged voice said. “I’m real sorry to call at this time of night. Maybe I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, but I thought you might want to know. Because of the business with the woman who got sick at the reception.”
“Why, Nick? What’s wrong?”
“I’m calling from my truck. Just left the Fosters’ place, and I’m parked a couple of blocks away.” Before I could ask for an explanation, he added, “I’ve been helping Mr. Foster, Donald, work on the basement? Anyway, they had a big family row tonight. Gillian, him and even the daughter. Finally, I just walked out. I tell ya, if that’s how the other half lives, I want no part of it.” Nick paused, and over the pho
ne I could hear his dark chuckle. “Uh-oh, a cop car just passed me, with flashing lights. Some neighbor musta called them. Guess I got outta there just in time!”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I tried to picture the respectable Fosters having a fight so disruptive that neighbors would call the police. “What was the problem?”
Nick took a deep breath, hinting it might be a long story. “Well, like I said, Don and I’ve been working on that basement. Boy, is it old—it needs everything brought up to code. He hired me mostly to repair the structural beams and the stonework, just to stabilize the walls. But even though Don says he knows electricity, he needs some help with that, too. I stopped him from making some pretty bad goofs.”
Getting impatient, I prodded Nick. “So what started the fight?”
“At one point, Gillian came down and started talking about what she’d like to do with the space, to make a wine cellar and a socializing area. Don said it sounded good, and maybe they could get that designer Linda back to draw up some sketches. Gillian hit the roof, saying she could design it herself. Got very sarcastic, then, and said Donald would use any excuse to bring Linda back. I guess she thinks there’s something going on between the two of ’em.”
I told him, briefly, about Linda’s visit to me, and that she’d sworn the affair was all in Gillian’s mind.
In the meantime, I saw Mark wander into the living room and settle on the couch, where my other two cats, Cole and Matisse, cozied up to him. All three must have decided I wouldn’t be getting off the phone anytime soon.
Nick continued, “Don told her she was crazy—just in an offhanded way—but that only made her crazier. She said she knew Linda must have added the wheat flour to that pudding to make her sick and ruin her reception, maybe with his help. He tried to reason with her, but it didn’t do any good. They were getting loud then, and the daughter came downstairs to see what was up. What’s her name, Brittany?”
“Whitney,” I told him.
“Well, she tried to stick up for her father, saying she knew he didn’t do anything wrong. Finally, she said she put the flour in the pudding while she was helping out in the kitchen.”
I reflected that I’d thought of Whitney as a possible suspect all along. “How did Gillian react to that?”
“She didn’t believe her, and thought she was just covering up for Don and Linda. By that time, I’d packed up my tools and was halfway out the back door. You can’t pay me enough to get mixed up in a family fight like that. Next time, Gillian might start throwing stuff and I might get in the way. That woman’s got a screw loose.”
I had to smile at the phrase, and told him, “The kind you can’t fix, that’s for sure! I’m really sorry my recommendation put you in the middle of things.”
“Ah, wasn’t your fault. You tried to do me a favor. But they got more problems than shoring up their basement—they’ve got to shore up their marriage. And I feel sorry for their kid being caught in the middle. I wonder if she really did mess with the pudding, or made that up just to get them to stop yelling at each other.”
“Either way, it’s not your problem. If I were you, I’d bill them for whatever work you did so far and tell them you’re too busy to come back . . . ever again.”
“You read my mind, Cassie!” Nick laughed. “Maybe before I head home I’ll cruise back past the house, and see if the cops really did stop there. Anyway, you have a good rest of the night.”
I wished him the same and finally got off the phone. Shaking my head, I joined Mark on the sofa and told him about the messy soap opera at the Foster house. To my surprise, he seemed annoyed with Nick.
“He shouldn’t have called you so late and bothered you about that,” Mark said. “I heard you tell him it’s not his problem, but it’s not yours, either.”
Mark knew me too well by now. He probably guessed that I was already fighting the urge to call Bonelli—to ask if the Chadwick PD had gotten everything under control, and if she knew that Whitney had confessed to doctoring the food. Grudgingly, I admitted, “I guess you’re right.”
He slid closer and put an arm around me. “I speak from experience, hon. Day in and day out, I get animal patients that have been neglected or abused. Sometimes I suspect a woman or a kid in the family has been abused, too. Once in a while I have mentioned my suspicions to the Humane Society, or to the cops, if the situation looked really serious. But other times I just have to do what I can as a veterinarian—repair the damage, give them some advice and let it go. If I agonized over every single case, it would drive me crazy, and then I couldn’t do my job at all.”
“I can see that, and I’m sure you’re right,” I told him. “I guess it wasn’t fair of Linda to come by the shop and unload her problems on me, either.”
“No, it wasn’t. Whether or not she’s messing around with Donald Foster, at this point her best move would be to follow Nick’s lead. Send Gillian a bill and never set foot in that house again.”
I agreed with Mark’s assessment and slumped back comfortably against his shoulder. That definitely would be the right solution for both Nick and Linda. But what about poor Whitney? She had to go on living in that stressful home. With her mother hurling wild accusations at her father, whom the girl clearly got along with much better.
I remembered my last glimpse of her, when Adele was being rolled out the front door on a stretcher. Whitney standing at the end of the hall, near the kitchen doorway, her eyes enormous and her hands over her mouth in shock.
Because a woman she hardly knew might die, from a prank Whitney had meant to play only on Gillian? To ruin the reception, embarrass her in front of the historical society board and take her down a peg?
Could she hate her mother that much?
Chapter 13
The next day, it was back to work early for both me and Mark. But while his clinic never lacked for patients, business remained pretty slow at Cassie’s Comfy Cats. Sarah and I took turns staffing the sales counter and keeping our charges amused during their turns in the playroom. I again told myself that, since the cats’ owners were technically paying for this, it wasn’t so bad to make part of my living playing with other peoples’ pets.
Just before noon, Dawn called me on my cell phone to complain about her own lack of customers. “I’m bored, and I need some business advice. Any chance you can get away for a quick lunch?”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m trying to get this Siamese to move his butt, only so far nothing I’ve tossed through the air or pulled on a string has tempted him. I’d hate to be a quitter.”
“Maybe he’s more into zen meditation. Allow him to be himself.”
I laughed. “I like the way you think.”
By the time I told Sarah that I would be ducking out for an hour or so, I’d thought of another good use for that time. “I also plan to do some more sleuthing on Chester’s behalf, okay?”
“You’re the boss,” she reminded me with a smile. “But sure, anything more you could do for him will be appreciated.”
Downtown Chadwick is very walkable, so Dawn and I met at Chad’s, our retro diner. She made an entrance in her “new” vintage skirt, the black one with the art nouveau daylilies, which flowed almost to her ankles. She’d combined it with a simple T-shirt the same coral shade as the flowers, and with her long, wavy auburn hair it all looked spectacular. By Chadwick standards—and most people’s—Dawn would have been overdressed for a weekday lunch at the diner. But since she had opened her store three years ago, she’d become familiar to the town’s population, at least by sight. I’m sure they knew by now that Dawn marched to a different drummer, and some may even have envied the way she carried off such outfits. I certainly did, and felt dull that day by comparison, in my pastel-striped camp shirt and khaki shorts.
At Chad’s, they made no hard distinctions between breakfast and lunch, so even though it was past noon we both ordered omelets. My experiences that week had provided me with lots of gossip to share, but I tried to be jud
icious.
First, I told Dawn about Nick’s call to me the night before and the Fosters’ boisterous argument. I omitted Whitney’s confession that she had tainted the pease porridge with wheat flour. That tidbit might have legal repercussions, so I hesitated to spread it around.
Dawn did empathize with Whitney as the innocent victim of the turmoil. “Boy, I remember when my folks were breaking up, I hated so much to hear them argue. I’d lock myself in my room, put on headphones and listen to music to drown them out. By the time they divorced, I actually was relieved. Living with just my mom was so much calmer—you know how well she and I get along.”
I tried to relate this to Whitney’s situation and came up with a grimmer scenario. “Unfortunately, if the Fosters split and Donald is accused of infidelity, custody will probably go her mother, and that’s the last thing Whitney would want. She’s still under eighteen, so she might not have much say in the matter.”
“Oh, I don’t know. All kinds of things can influence that, I think. Your mom could probably tell you.”
That was true; as a paralegal with a respected Morristown firm, Barbara McGlone had lots of information of that kind at her fingertips. “I could ask her, except then she’d warn me not to get involved, just like Mark did.”
Dawn flashed a wide keyboard of pearly teeth. “Gee, do they even know you by now?”
“Doesn’t seem that way, does it?”
Once our omelets had arrived—mine Greek with spinach and feta cheese, hers Spanish with assorted peppers—we moved on to Chester Tillman’s dilemma. I told Dawn that for the present he seemed to be doing okay at home, with a caregiver visiting, but in the long run his absentee children planned to move him into an assisted living facility.
“Y’know, there’s a pretty decent one not far from Dalton, called Mountainview,” Dawn told me. “I gave a talk there once on natural foods and supplements to help treat various old-age problems. The staff was very nice to deal with, and the complex is really cheerful and homey. They have a whole memory care wing for dementia patients, marked in ways that make it easier for them to get around on their own. Of course, I don’t know how much it costs to live there.”
Claw & Disorder Page 12