Cat Call (Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mysteries Book 4)

by Mollie Hunt

  Now that I had the idea of running in Cary’s shadow, Gerrold’s inevitable back to One didn’t bother me nearly as much. They were only short sprints, designed with a cat in mind. I was enjoying the exercise and, face it, the cool factor of being a cat wrangler for a television show. I had done a little theater in my teens, an extremely amateur production of West Side Story. I was one of the dancers; my mother had made my costume, a peach colored dress with a ruffled slit up the side. The show had a short run at the Oriental Theater, one of Portland’s roaring twenties exotics, now gone the way of too many historical buildings. The smell of the grease paint—‌yes, we really did use that greasy, gummy stage makeup!—‌the roar of the crowd, mostly our parents and their friends, but who cared as long as they loved us...

  Lost in reflection, I stumbled over a ridge in the terrain and pitched face-first onto the muddy ground. Cary Grant’s leash went taught as he was jerked to an abrupt halt.

  “Cut!” Gerrold yelled through his bull horn. “You alright there, Laurie?”

  I lay for a few seconds, letting the full extent of my embarrassment wash over me, then shoved my skewed glasses back on my face and made to rise. I flung up an arm with the okay sign, the right one since I’d used the left to brace my fall and now it felt numb and gangly. “I’m fine,” I called. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what...”

  My words were cut short by the rumble of the scissor lift starting up. It coughed, sputtered, then proceeded to meander ahead at a snail-slow yet determined pace. It was headed straight for me. There was no one at the controls.

  Stunned, I watched the lift shudder along, its scissor structure treacherous in full extension mode. A raucous alarm sounded. The platform perched atop the twenty-foot tower was beginning to sway.

  “Stop that machine!” I heard someone yell.

  “Lynley! Watch out!”

  I looked to see the young cameraman, Juno, leap from his station and begin running toward me. Suddenly there was another noise, the earsplitting shriek of metal on metal from above. The lift was listing, swaying precariously. Its right front wheel had hung up on a rock, and in its attempt to clamber over, it was losing balance, inclining sideways at a frightening tilt.

  The scream crescendoed as the great structure loomed downward, leisurely as a slow-motion shot, deliberate as death. The lights snapped and popped, tearing from their cords and disengaging from their brackets. Sparks showered the ground like Independence Day fireworks around me.

  I seized Cary Grant who by this time was straining frantically at his leash, as frenzied to get out from under the ton of impending metal as I was. Adrenaline shot through me, painful and raw. As I lurched away, still dazed from my fall, I heard all hell break loose behind me.

  There was a deafening crash that seemed to roll on and on; upon its heels came a torrent of outcries and this time it was not an act. Everyone was running, shouting, screaming. Automatically I turned to see. Cary was struggling in my arms and I knew I had to get him out of there, but I was too stunned to move.

  The scissor lift had fallen sideways, crushing lights, sets, everything that lay in its path. The scissor mechanism sprawled, bent and mangled as a broken bone. The platform was sunk knife-like into the rain-soft ground. The big spotlights were still sparking and sizzling, their heavy plate glass shattered into snow.

  The screams had lessened, but the shouting had risen to a cacophony. Then one cry pierced through the rest.

  “Juno!” wailed Mary. “Where’s Juno?”

  She took a few blind steps toward the disaster. “Juno! Oh, God! No!”

  I followed her gaze and my heart lurched into my throat. Sure enough, in his brave attempt to shut down the machine so it wouldn’t run me over, skinny blue-haired Juno had rushed headlong into the path of catastrophe. He had been thrown clear of the wreckage, but the direct hit had done its harm. From my vantage point, he was merely a rumpled shadow, as inanimate as a bag of clothes.

  Strong arms pulled me back from the devastation. I only made it a few steps before sinking to my knees. I felt Cary Grant’s weight lifted from me and looked up to see him now cradled in Ray Anderson’s comforting grasp. He must have been calmed by the big man’s strength because he had quit struggling.

  “Call 911!” someone shouted.

  “Get Louis! Where’s Louis?” cried someone else.

  The crash site was surrounded now, gaping faces, unintelligible words. Mary had crumpled in sobs next to the immobile form of her partner. With a whine, the electricity shut off and the lights went out, plunging the set into a half-lit gloom.

  A giant in a navy blue security uniform loomed into my vision. “Olaf Tourney, ma’am. Are you alright?”

  My eyes focused on his broad chest and military bearing as I recognized the production’s security officer. “I’m fine, but...” I turned to the confusion of mangled equipment.

  Tourney was already moving toward the fracas, shouting out directions. Mary was still by Juno’s side. Louis was there too, trying his best at CPR. Maybe there was still hope, but I didn’t think so. It was an awful sight and I turned away in tears.

  Freddie came running up. “Are you hurt, Miz C.? Is Cary Grant okay?”

  I looked at Ray. “I’m...” was all I could manage.

  Ray gave Cary to Freddie, pulled me upright, and propelled me toward the trailer. I didn’t resist. Freddie followed, carefully cradling his precious burden. Grace, who had watched the tragedy from the steps of her trailer, ushered us inside. I collapsed on the little sofa among the costume pile, hardly noticing the painful throbbing of my bruised arm.

  “Juno?” I said weakly. “What about Juno?”

  Ray shuddered. “Let’s just wait and see. You got anything to drink, Grace?”

  “A thermos of tea. I don’t know how hot it might be.” The elderly costume lady went to a much-used banker’s box by her dress rack and scrabbled through it, finally pulling out an ancient industrial weight Stanley thermos. She poured steaming liquid into the cap and brought it over.

  “Here you go, dearie. What the divil happened out there?” she challenged Ray.

  He shook his head, the ghoulish makeup mimicking a second casualty. “I’ve never seen anything like it. OSHA’ll be out here in a heartbeat. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen.”

  “No, Mr. Anderson, they most certainly are not.” The two exchanged knowing looks, full of portent, full of fear.

  I could hear sirens wailing through the night. The ambulance. The police. Maybe even a fire truck or two; you never knew what you would get when you called the emergency number.

  Freddie, who had taken Cary Grant into the cat closet, returned, closing the door softly behind him.

  “I gave him some of those treats Rhonda always has,” he said. “Hope that was okay.”

  “Yes, of course. How is he? I should go...” I made to rise and sank right back onto the couch.

  “You relax, Miz C.,” Freddie said. “He’s fine. He’s curled up with the other one and getting his fur groomed.”

  “Good. That sounds good. Grooming is one way cats handle stress.”

  “If you’re okay, I’d better get back out there,” said Ray.

  “Of course. Thanks for your help.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” said Grace.

  “Me too,” Freddie put in.

  Ray gave a brief smile as he left. “Then you’re in good hands, Cat Lady.”

  I clutched the thermos cup as if my life depended on it and peered outside through the small window. The remainder of cast and crew hung helplessly around the set. The bright flood lights were gone, leaving a smattering of the park’s pole lamps to cast an eerie glow over the ravaged scene. As the emergency team arrived and set up their own lights, the onlookers fell back, giving way to the professionals. Equipment was pulled from their trucks: a silver blanket; a red metal first aid box; a gurney. From my view, I could see nothing of the fallen man.

  Gerrold stood by his chair as if frozen in plac
e. His face was passive but his stance was taught and stressed. Though all eyes were on the victim, people cast fitful glances back at the director, wondering what he would do next. Even if Juno made it, they could hardly continue shooting the scene.

  Finally Gerrold slouched, shook his head in fearsome resignation, and raised his bullhorn.

  “It’s a wrap.”

  * * *

  I couldn’t stop shaking. Whether it was my own near-death experience or Juno’s, I was in a sort of shock. I couldn’t get it out of my mind that if it weren’t for my clumsiness, it might have been me under that falling lift; instead I got away with only a sore arm and a scrape on my knee. A man who was coming to my aid was not so lucky. The young cameraman was still alive, though barely. He’d been rushed to the hospital, the second accident on the set of McCaffrey & Jack in that many days.

  The police had cordoned off the area and a forensic team was looking into how the scissor lift had started up on its own. It wasn’t supposed to do that; had it malfunctioned or been helped along by person or persons unknown? Detectives interviewed everyone and I told them about Rhonda’s sabotaged step. Someone else said, solemn and straight-faced, that it all was the result of a hex. In both cases, the detective dutifully wrote it down and nodded uh-huh. In both cases I had the feeling our comments would end up on a desk at the bottom of a very high pile.

  It was late when we were finally released to go. I didn’t even look at the time—‌I didn’t want to know. Cary Grant seemed oblivious to the tragedy and had quickly fallen asleep as Clark Gable finished his groom session. The two were so sweet curled together on their cushion that I hated to wake them, and if it hadn’t been for my own furry family, I would have lain down beside them and called it good. Instead, with Freddie’s kind help, I got the boys together and headed for the trailer to gather our things.

  After the hustle and bustle of the day and then the chaos of the accident, the parking area seemed eerily quiet. The city’s incessant hum; the drone of a few far away voices; a plane overhead, or maybe it was a news helicopter, looking for one last calamity to pad their late edition. A lone police car hunched at the end of the lot. The single streetlight tried its best to illuminate the mist-shrouded expanse and failed. The whole thing creeped me out, and with a little shiver, I shut the trailer door on the unnerving scene.

  I’d just begun putting cat things in the Laurel Burch bag—‌their tiny tins of sardine stew with lobster sauce and poached salmon avec fromage, their set of grooming implements, yet another handful of toys—‌when I heard a light knock. Startled, I stepped to the window to make sure the visitor wasn’t a supernatural being. Victoria stood in the glow of the porch light, head down, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her utility vest.

  I opened the door and looked down at her across the buckled step. “What’s up? Is there any news of Juno?”

  “No, sorry. Nothing yet. Gerrold sent me to tell you we’ll be moving sets tomorrow. He wants you to make sure the trailer is travel-ready.”

  I blanched. “But I don’t know how to drive this thing.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to. One of the teamsters will do the driving. If you could just see that everything’s secure so it doesn’t jostle on the way.”

  “I suppose I can do that. Where are we going?”

  “Into downtown, Northwest Portland. It’s a big vacant apartment building that we rented. It works for multiple sets. Pretty nifty.”

  “Do you know when he’s going to want us to come in?”

  She shrugged, flipping her long blonde hair nervously.

  “Okay then. Thanks for the notice.”

  “Great,” she returned without conviction, making no move to go.

  I eyed the slight girl. “Are you alright, Victoria?”

  “Sure,” she said with a forced laugh. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Then her face lost its blithe facade and she seemed to cave in on herself. “Oh, Lynley,” she moaned, “I don’t know what to do.” Azure eyes gazed up at me, the innocent stare of a seeker searching for truth.

  Some young people mistake age for wisdom, or maybe she just needed to talk. Either way, I would have preferred to get on home but empathy took over and I found myself saying, “Would you like to come in?”

  She glanced around as if she were doing something nefarious, afraid someone might see. “Maybe just for a minute. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “Careful of the step,” I said unnecessarily.

  I stood back and she hopped gracefully inside, taking the door from me and closing it gently behind her. Without invitation, she slunk to the sofa and slumped down with a huge, heaving sigh. “Sometimes this job...” she gasped. “It really gets to me, you know? I do my best, try to keep everyone happy. But this place is crazy. I really don’t know how much longer I can take it. Things falling apart, accidents out of the blue. Bad people.”

  “Are you talking about the hex?”

  She gave me a suspicious look, then mumbled, “That, and other things.”

  I waited for her to elaborate but instead she said, “I’ve been offered another job—‌it’s kind of my dream job, you know? But I’ve got a contract with McCaffrey, and if I bail, that won’t look good on my résumé. But if I stay through, I’ll miss my chance. I think I could get out of the McCaffrey contract if I tried, but then again, they could just fire me, and that would probably nix the other job. No one wants to hire someone who was let go.” Again she looked at me with those wistful eyes. “What do you think, Lynley? Should I take the gamble and go for it?”

  I sat down beside her, Cary Grant immediately jumping into my lap and settling into a purring circle of fur. “I can’t tell you what to do, Victoria.”

  “But you must have some advice?” she said hopefully.

  “Why? Because I’m old?” I laughed.

  “You’re not old,” she began. “Well, not that old. No, it’s because you’re happy, or at least you seem happy. That’s all I want, to be happy. And I want this job.”

  I shrugged. “It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

  She thought about it for a moment, then said, “Yeah, I guess I have.”

  Bouncing up from the couch, her old exuberant self again, she added, “Well, see you tomorrow. Thanks for the talk, Lynley. It was great!”

  She pulled open the door and sprinted out into the night.

  “You’re welcome,” I said after her, watching the mist close around her slim figure until she was nothing but a ghostly trace.

  I quickly got back to my packing, wondering offhandedly what this dream job was and if Gerrold had a clue he might be about to lose one of his top employees. I’d got everything I could think two cats might need into the vinyl bag and was about to begin securing the trailer for tomorrow’s move when, with a boom from somewhere outside, the room went dark.

  I looked out the window. Whatever had happened to the electricity must have been area-wide because aside from the golden glow over downtown, the scene was pitch black. I swore inwardly, then remembered Rhonda’s stash of little flashlights. I was about to touch and shuffle my way over to the drawer when I caught a flicker in my peripheral vision. I turned back to the window; at first there was nothing out of the ordinary, then, across the clearing at the head of the marsh trail, I began to make out a lighter patch of dusk.

  A thrill of terror iced through me, I wasn’t sure why. It was just the fog playing tricks with my imagination. Wasn’t it?

  As I watched, the patch began to coalesce and take form. Human form. Someone out walking, I told myself sternly. Someone wearing a filmy black dress. Someone in costume. Someone... But my logic failed me. This was like nothing I’d ever seen before: no discernible features, only a pulpy white mass where the face should be. It was hideous, revolting, terrifying, but I couldn’t turn away.

  I kept telling myself I was mistaken, that the window, dirty with road grime, was creating the morbid illusion. There had to be an explanation; all
I needed to do was glimpse it more clearly and then certainly everything would make sense.

  Before I could think, I was across the trailer. In a brave or stupid—‌depending on the outcome—‌maneuver, I took a deep breath and flung the door wide. For a moment, I had the distinct impression of a woman in black, then it winked out like the shutting off of a television set, and the darkness was once again complete. That, too, only lasted a few more seconds, then the lights came back on—‌street lights, trailer lights—‌as if nothing had ever happened.

  I stared around the parking lot. A little way away stood a figure, not the gross and mysterious lady but Jason Prince. The stocky man stood rooted in place, gaping at the trail head and looking like he had seen a ghost. Maybe he had.

  Slowly his gaze circled to me. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses, his eyes were big and bloodshot. His mouth opened and closed but no sound was coming out.

  “Mr. Prince?” I stuttered, noticing my voice was less than its usual confident self.

  “Did you see that?” he managed in a rough whisper.

  “See what?” I replied defensively though I wasn’t sure why.

  He looked as if he were going to say something more but then changed his mind. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, he turned away and muttered, “Never mind.”

  I watched him trudge across the lot, get into a Lexus, and peel away, spraying gravel with his fancy custom tires. So the middle-aged techie associate producer had seen it too. Whatever it was. I couldn’t begin to speculate. It had seemed real enough, as real as a manifestation of a hex could seem, but I hadn’t forgotten that I was on the site of a TV show; all sorts of magic could be humanly manifested using those amazing resources.

  I felt a tickle against my calf and looked down to see Clark Gable staring back at me expectantly. His cat lips moved in the silent mimic of a meow.

  “Yes, I know, sweetheart. It’s time to go.” Past time, I added to myself as I went back to securing the trailer for its trip to the new set.

  Chapter 13