by Mollie Hunt
“I’m saving up to go to NASA Space Academy at the end of August. I’ve got the grades and have been accepted.”
Again I felt a stab of nostalgia for times gone by when my sweet granddaughter would tell me everything that was going on in her life, every thought, every dream, every whim. “You never mentioned you were applying for space academy.”
“I didn’t want to jinx it until I found out for sure. Now all I need is the tuition.”
“Won’t your parents pay? Lisa and Gene can well afford it.” I knew for a fact that my artist daughter and her architect husband had more money than they knew what to do with. Lisa and I often didn’t see eye to eye, and I wondered why she would begrudge her extremely talented daughter this opportunity of a lifetime.
“They’re paying half and I’m to get the other half for myself. Mum says it’s a matter of taking responsibility. I need to learn how to work for what I want instead of having it always given to me.”
I couldn’t disagree with that; sometimes Lisa was smarter than I gave her credit for.
My thoughts were interrupted by a distinctive little prrumph. I looked around and saw Solo, my deaf reclusive sweetheart, through the open kitchen door. She peered out from underneath the couch, then paused to test the air. I expected her to draw back into her hideaway, but instead, in a surprising move, she emerged as bold as could be. Tail high, she sauntered toward us, straight up to Seleia who gaped, eyes wide, knowing what a rare occasion it was for Solo to show herself in public. Seleia reached a tentative hand down for the shy cat to sniff. Solo brushed the proffered hand with her lush sideburns, then gathered her muscles and catapulted onto Seleia’s lap where she settled into a white silken ball.
“Grandmother...” Seleia whispered in awe. “It’s Solo!”
“It most certainly is,” I replied, as awestruck as she.
“What should I do?”
I smiled—no, more like beamed; I’d never seen Solo in anyone’s lap but my own. “Pet her?”
The young girl obeyed with the gentlest of touches and was rewarded with a rolling purr.
“My granddaughter has the makings of a cat lady,” I exclaimed proudly.
“It’s genetics,” Seleia giggled. “You know I got it from you.”
For a few moments, we were silent, marveling in the splendor of Solo’s presence. Then Solo was done. She stretched, gave Seleia a long cat blink, and returned to her den.
“Wow!” we both said in unison.
“Speaking of cat ladies,” I said, a plan forming impulsively in my mind. “I might have a job for you.”
Seleia looked up excitedly. “What is it?” Then she sobered. “But you know I’m happy to help you out for free. You never have to pay me. What do you need? Clean the house? Wash the windows? Take care of the cats while you go somewhere?”
“This is a little different. It would require you working certain hours, no lateness or excuses. And you would have to do whatever I tell you, no questions asked.”
“Okay...” She gave me a suspicious look. “This all sounds very serious, Grandmother. What’s up? What have you got yourself into this time?”
I smiled and stood. This was going to be perfect. “Come meet Clark Gable and Cary Grant, kitty television stars.”
* * *
For the next half hour and two more cups of tea, I filled Seleia in on my new career as a cat handler. She was over-the-top excited as I knew she would be.
“That’s so cool! It’s just what I was saying, remember at Thanksgiving last year? I’m the one who told you about the McCaffrey & Jack series coming to Portland and that you should ask for a job.”
“I remember.”
“And now you’re doing it! Even if you’re not quite the official cat wrangler.”
“I’m official enough for the next few days, and I could definitely use an assistant. Everyone is really nice on the set but they’re all very busy. I feel like I’m imposing when I need help with the big carriers or the stroller. Cat handling isn’t nearly as simple as I might have thought.”
“You want me to be your assistant? Oh, I’d love that. I can’t do it today because I have a study date, but I can start tomorrow. Will that be okay?”
“Tomorrow will be fine. I’ll let you know what time when they give me the schedule. Be prepared for anything.”
“I will! Oh, Grandmother,” she said, vaulting herself into my arms. “This will be so fun!”
A shadow of doubt edged over my mind, dark as a murder of crows across the sun. What if there really was a hex on the production? Was I putting my dear granddaughter in danger? Would there be more accidents? More subversion? But I was being dramatic. Forcing a smile, I shoved the doubt behind me. I really could use a hand, and certainly together we could manage to stay safe.
Chapter 9
Animal cops, also known as humane investigators or animal control workers, are the dedicated officers who preserve animal welfare and enforce state and city regulations. They help strays, investigate abuse and neglect, administer citations, testify in court, and much more. Jobs for animal control workers are on the rise as more people understand the worth of our animal companions.
I had committed myself to a shift at the shelter, and though I could probably duck out early, I needed to at least put in an appearance. I loved my shelter work and the wonderful cat shelter I was privileged to work with. Friends of Felines was a state-of-the-art no-kill cat-only sanctuary that housed between forty and sixty cats at any given time. Their philosophy was one of kindness and acceptance, that every cat deserved the very best temporary home regardless of age, color, or health. The numerous staff and volunteers made sure that happened. Whether nursing the sick, rehabilitating the abused, or retraining the misbehaved, Friends of Felines went above and beyond. I always came away from my shifts feeling like my life was exceedingly worthwhile.
FOF didn’t open to the public until nine in the morning, but volunteers could go in earlier. There was lots to be done before the new crop of potential adopters arrived to meet their furry soul mates. Kennels needed to be cleaned; cats to be fed. Sometimes a stressed kitty would sleep in her litter box and then some washing and grooming was in order. There were medications to be administered to those with issues such as diabetes, thyroid conditions, or the ever-persistent kitty colds. Mornings were always busy times at FOF.
After stowing purse, coat, and shelter bag of necessary miscellanea, such as my Pet Pals notebook and an extra pair of cat-patterned socks, in a locker in the volunteer room, I went to check in with Allie, the new cattery manager. I was walking across the spacious lobby, still cinching up my green apron, when I heard a whistle from the kitten room. Peering through the glass walls of the cubicle where the baby cats were kept on display for about a minute until they got adopted, I saw Special Agent Denny Paris. The tall good-looking animal cop gave a little wave and I smiled back, detouring to join him with the kits.
Special Agent Paris, with his cat-green eyes, curly hair, and a smile that radiated pure joy, is one of my favorite people on this whole Earth. A humane investigator out of the Northwest Humane Society, he and his partners, Special Agent Connie Lee and Special Agent Frank Dawson, make up the unique team of commissioned officers who investigate charges of animal abuse and neglect—over a thousand in a year!—in the state of Oregon. Paid only through donation dollars, the team works exclusively for those small beings who cannot speak for themselves, and I love them for it.
Denny met me at the big glass door, unlocking it from the inside and holding the kittens at bay as I hoisted myself over the baby gate that did its best to keep the little ones from escaping. A big black kitten launched at me from the nearby shelf and a tabby the size of a baseball scorched up the slats like a rocket, but I slipped by before anyone got a chance to make their getaway.
“Special Agent,” I said, sweeping the ebony boy into my lap as I sat down on a Formica-sided cube. “How are you this fine morning?”
Denny rested hi
s tall frame against the door jamb like a sandy-haired Paul Newman. “Good, good. I missed you at class yesterday, Lynley.”
“Sorry I had to cancel. There was an emergency. I needed to help out a sick friend.” Even as I said it, I knew I sounded like the kid who’d skipped school and was making lame excuses to her teacher.
“I don’t mean to lecture...”
“But you’re going to anyway, and I know I truly deserve it.”
“It’s important to do the self-defense sessions in sequence. And out of all my students, you may be the one who could use it the most. I can name at least three situations from my own personal knowledge where a few defensive moves might have spared you some serious pain.”
“I understand, Denny, and it really was an unexpected situation. It shouldn’t happen again.”
“I can go over what we covered with you sometime before the next class, bring you up to speed.”
“That would be great but not for the next few days. I’ll be, uh, busy,” I evaded.
“Lynley, you are staying out of trouble, I hope?” He laughed, cat green eyes glimmering in the glow of the morning.
I hedged. It had been a joke. Hadn’t it?
“Okay, spill,” he said with a little sigh. “What risky business have you got yourself into this time?”
“Whaa?” I chirped in all innocence.
“I know that look. I’ve seen it before, remember?”
I remembered. Of trouble, Denny and I had faced more than our fair share in the last couple of years. He had come to my rescue more than once, and even saved my life. He never understood how a quiet, temperate lady like myself could end up in such peril, but then, neither did I.
Stuff happened.
How was I going to tell him stuff was happening again?
I looked away. “It’s nothing. In fact it’s a good thing, an adventure.”
“I’m not sure I like your type of adventures. What is it this time? Nothing illegal I hope.”
“Of course not,” I bristled, but only for a moment. I knew the handsome officer had only my own welfare in mind. “I’m cat handling for a television show.”
Denny smiled with relief. “Well, that sounds like fun. I didn’t know you and your cats did that. Which one? Not Big Red—he’s too shy, though handsome as can be. Is it Tinkerbelle, the little therapy cat?”
“They aren’t my cats, actually. They belong to the lady I’m standing in for after she broke her leg. It was...” I was about to mention malicious vandalism and suspected sabotage, or possibly a hex, but then we’d be right back in the trouble zone again. “...an accident.”
Denny frowned. He crossed the small space, careful not to disturb a tiny calico who had conked out in the middle of the floor while playing with a sparkly ball, and sat down beside me. He took my hand and looked me in the eyes.
“Now when you say accident, do you mean accident like Oops, I slipped on a banana peel, or like, Oops, some nefarious fiend put a banana peel right where they knew I would slip on it?”
My eyes fell to the kit in my lap, also fast sleep as only kittens can be. “The latter?” I replied cautiously.
He dropped my hand. “I knew it! Lynley, retired ladies of a certain age are supposed to lead a quiet life. You should be getting your kicks from knitting and crafting, and of course your volunteer work.”
“Denny,” I harrumphed, “I may be older than, well, than a lot of people, but I’m not dead yet. I’m not even feeble or dotty. I enjoy a good adventure as much as anyone else.”
“That’s fine, and I would never think of you as over any hill—not even nearing the summit—but I don’t know anyone else who gets in as many fixes as you. Just for a few months, can’t you lead a normal life?”
“No, Special Agent Paris, I can’t. I’ve never been normal—not in the way you mean—and I doubt I ever will be.” Black kit opened an eye at this outburst as if to say keep it down up there. I sighed. “Besides, all I’m doing is helping out with the cats, Clark Gable and Cary Grant. They are so well-trained they almost do the work themselves. It’s really fun, and I’m sure it’s not the least bit hazardous.”
“It does sound pretty cool,” Denny conceded. “I’ve always kind of wanted to be an actor myself.”
“Really? I never knew that.”
“Yeah, since I was a kid. I did a few plays and took drama in high school.”
“You’ve got the good looks. What stopped you?”
His gaze slipped floorward, a slight blush rising in his cheeks, giving what I thought of as his Aw, shucks look. “Thanks, Lynley, but it wasn’t for me. Too shy I guess. I learned a lot though. It comes in handy in my line of work. When I have to deal with a difficult subject, I just pretend I’m Bruce Willis or Kurt Russell taking down the bad guys. Things usually go my way.”
Through the glass of the cubicle, I spied the young cattery manager coming into the lobby and heading for her office.
“I’ve got to run, Denny.” I stood, placing Black Kitty in a convenient marshmallow bed. “I’m meeting with Allie and I just saw her go by.”
Denny rose too. As I started for the door, he caught my arm. “Do me a favor, Lynley? Be careful?”
“I told you, it’s just a gig. Nothing remotely hazardous.”
He gave a little grunt of exasperation. “Sorry, but it shows in your eyes. You may not want to tell me—and you don’t have to—but something isn’t right. You know I’m here if you need to talk.”
I had every intention of brushing him off one more time, but instead, I found myself saying, “Thanks, Denny. I might take you up on that.”
* * *
The next few hours at the shelter were serenely normal and not the least bit adventurous. The wildest moment was when Clabber, the fearless tuxedo male, leapt out the door of his kennel and gave us a chase down the hall and into the lobby before plopping onto his hind end to lick a back paw, thus allowing a peaceable recapture. The whole thing was over in less than three minutes.
Allie okayed my request to leave early, and the shift was well-covered by a few drop-in volunteers so my absence would not be felt. I did my grocery shopping, swung by the library to pick up and return books and DVDs, and dropped into the Pet Pantry for Red’s prescription food and Violet’s special diet crunchies. While I was there, I decided to grab a couple of fresh toys for Cary Grant and Clark Gable, just to make them feel at home since I didn’t know how long they might be staying. Then I had to buy same for my cats so they wouldn’t be left out. By the time I was done, Harlene, the owner of the cute little independent shop, gave me a wholesale deal on a case of twelve locally hand-made kitty kickers in a rainbow of cat-print colors and a coupon for twenty percent off my next purchase, knowing that I would be back soon enough with another order. I always was.
I decided to include the hospital in my errands circuit, then go home for an all-too-short hour before setting out again for Oaks Bottom. I only planned to stay a few minutes, as Rhonda had asked, so it should all fit in. I hadn’t counted on fourteen trips around Providence Hospital’s maze-like parking structure in search of a parking place or the lengthy wait while Rhonda was ensconced with her bath assistant. I was beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t scrap the visit and call her later on when finally the heavy puce door swung wide.
“You can see her now,” said the husky middle-aged MA carrying an assortment of bathing items. She gave a sweet, toothy smile as she held the door.
Rhonda was lying in the hospital bed, white sheet drawn up to her chin. Her face was bandaged and bruised. She looked tired. And pained. And mad.
“Rhonda?”
She set her amber eyes at me with such vehemence I nearly turned and ran, but then the eyes softened.
“Lynley! Oh, thank God! It’s been awful. I can’t seem to get a straight answer from anyone. My head aches. I can’t think right. I’m so drowsy. I don’t know what to do.”
I recognized this triad as the part-pain, part-frustration of bein
g the victim of a freak accident. I’d been there myself, more than once. Taking her hand and giving it a not so gentle squeeze, I said, “It’ll be fine, Rhonda. You’ll feel better soon, and then it will all make more sense.”
She looked at me doubtfully. “You really think so?”
I nodded, then not letting go of her hand which was now gripping mine, I pulled up the guest chair and sat down.
“How are the boys?” and “Cats are fine,” came out nearly synchronically. That made us both laugh and the tension broke.
I didn’t have a lot of time so I filled her in on the short version of what had transpired since her accident. I didn’t mention what Ray Anderson and I had ascertained—that it might not have been an accident at all but something far more insidious. I couldn’t worry her while she was immobilized in a hospital bed with no way to do anything about it. It just didn’t seem fair.
“How long are they going to keep you? Do you know?”
“They haven’t said. Not long, I don’t think, but they’re arranging for me to go to an extended-care facility for a few days since the break is tenuous. I think it’s the one out on Farmington Road.”
“Why so far out of town?” Farmington was on the other side of the Willamette River, and anyone who knows Portland, knows the eastsiders and the westsiders rarely mix.
“It’s the only one that has an open private room right now. And from what I’ve heard, it’s a really nice place as places like that go. I have to stay one hundred percent off the leg, and since I’ve never learned to ambulate any other way, they’re going to teach me. But Lynley...” She turned toward me, her mouth tightening. “I know it’s asking a lot, but what about the show? Can you take over for me for a few days until I get back on my feet?”
Anyone could see it was going to take more than a few days for Rhonda to be back on her feet, figuratively or literally, but I didn’t correct her.
“You couldn’t find anyone else?”
“No, but I’ll keep trying. I’m sorry to be so presumptuous. I definitely will owe you forever.”
“Of course I’ll do it. Clark Gable and Cary Grant can stay at my house and I can chauffeur them back and forth to their job. If it all goes as smoothly as yesterday, then it’ll be a breeze. You’ve taught them well.”