by Sofie Ryan
“Where’s your station?” Debra asked, glancing over her shoulder at the rows of tables.
“Down at the end.” Mr. P. pointed and we started walking, dodging people with and without cats.
“So are we,” she said. “I think we might be neighbors. What number are you?”
“One oh four,” Mr. P. said.
Debra smiled. “We’re right beside you. I like to be down at the end. Socrates can get a little hyper if he’s in the middle of all the action.” She was very friendly and it occurred to me that she’d be a good source of information about the goings-on at the show. Not that I was going to get any more involved in the case than I already was.
“How long have you been showing Socrates?” I asked.
“This is his third year,” she said. “But before Socrates I had Plato. He was Best Cat three years in a row. Both Plato and Socrates share a family tree so I’m hopeful that Socrates will do as well.” She stepped sideways to dodge a man with a Siamese cat on his shoulder. “And before you ask, yes, all my cats were named after Greek philosophers. Before Plato there was Thales.”
Mr. P. nodded approvingly. “One of the Seven Sages of Greece.”
I hadn’t taken any philosophy courses in college, but I had no doubt he was correct.
Elvis was looking over my shoulder now. Something had caught his attention. Probably food.
“I have to ask,” Debra said. “Why Elvis?”
Mr. P. smiled and hiked up his pants. They were almost up to his armpits already. “Sarah, I’ll let you take this one,” he said.
“It’s kind of a long story,” I said, “but I’ll try to condense it for you.”
I explained how Elvis had just turned up one day along the downtown waterfront. Over the next several weeks it seemed almost everyone saw the friendly black cat with the scar across his nose.
“One night he managed to slip inside the door at The Black Bear and he stayed there for one entire set the house band was playing, all Elvis Presley stuff.”
“I love their turkey chili,” Debra interjected. Then she held up both hands. “I’m sorry. I interrupted you. Keep going.”
Elvis had shifted in my arms as if he somehow knew we were talking about him. I scratched behind his left ear and he gave a small sigh of happiness.
“The next morning he showed up in the alley when Sam—Sam Newman owns The Black Bear—was taking out the recycling. Sam named him Elvis since he seemed to like the man’s music.”
I remember how Sam had shrugged when I’d asked about the name. “He doesn’t seem to like the Stones, so naming him Mick was kinda out of the question,” he’d explained.
“So how did you end up with Elvis?” Debra asked.
“I stopped in to see Sam and the two of them walked me out. Elvis jumped into my truck and wouldn’t get out and all of a sudden I had a cat.”
Right on cue, Elvis meowed loudly as though to say, “Lucky for you.”
Debra laughed. “It looks like things worked out well for both of you.”
I nodded. “They did.”
It was slow going through the crowd of people. Several times we were stopped by someone wanting to exclaim over Elvis. He ate up the attention with his usual good nature. I had to admit Rose had been right: Elvis was a great show cat.
I looked ahead and was happy to see that Rose was waiting for us, standing in the aisle with her tote bag at her feet, talking to a woman with cropped blonde hair and red-frame glasses. It was the same woman I’d seen arguing with the bearded man right before the judging started.
“That’s my friend Christine,” Debra said, indicating the blonde woman. “She comes to all the shows with me and helps with the setup. My kids think I’m a crazy cat lady. Not that I care.” She looked around. “And Tim is here somewhere. He comes to quite a few of the shows, too. We all went to high school together.”
As we came level with Rose and Debra’s friend, Debra stopped. Her dark eyes narrowed as she stared at the older woman.
“Rose Jackson,” she said and her dark eyes lit up.
Recognition spread across Rose’s face followed by a smile. She took two steps toward us and caught both of Debra’s hands in her own. “Debra Martinez. It’s so good to see you.”
“You two know each other,” I said.
“We took a class together,” Debra said. “Instructional methods. It must be what, Rose? Eight years ago now?”
“At least,” Rose said.
Debra turned her attention to me for a moment. “Rose did the most innovative presentation about using contemporary music to teach high school English. She used the music of Aerosmith. It was the best presentation in the class. The rest were so dry and dull.”
Mr. P. and I exchanged a glance. He pressed his lips together; trying to stifle a smile, I was guessing. Rose was a huge Aerosmith fan. She’d taken my friend Michelle and me to one of their concerts when we were teenagers and, to my undying mortification, had danced in the aisle with Stephen Tyler. He gave her one of his scarves. She gave him a kiss that lasted way, way too long, as far as teenage me was concerned.
Elvis yawned. He wasn’t that interested in conversations that weren’t about him or food. Mr. P. raised an eyebrow and I handed the cat over to him.
“Do you have a cat in the show?” Rose asked Debra.
She nodded. “Yes.” She gestured at the tent behind Christine draped with a pale green gauzy scarf. A beautiful gray cat was watching us all with curiosity from inside the tent. “This is Socrates.”
“He’s very handsome,” Rose said.
Socrates had a stocky build with a thick coat of fur. His most striking feature was his beautiful copper eyes.
Rose and Debra continued to talk. They seemed to have a lot of catching up to do. Mr. P. was feeding a sardine to Elvis and talking to him in a low voice. A post-show debrief perhaps.
I smiled at Debra’s friend. “I’m Sarah Grayson.”
“Christine Eldridge.” She smiled back at me. “How would you feel about a cup of coffee?” She had deep blue eyes, and three piercings in one ear and two in the other. She inclined her head toward Rose and Debra. “Trust me, this is going to take a while.”
“I would feel very happy about a cup of coffee.”
She pointed to the far corner of the space. “Come with me,” she said.
I touched Mr. P.’s arm. “I’m just going to get coffee. Do you want anything?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Let’s go this way,” Christine said, pointing in the opposite direction from which I’d just come. “It won’t be quite so crowded.”
I followed her and we made our way around the waiting area to the outer edge of the room, where the commercial booths were located. She was right: There were fewer people.
“I’m guessing this is your first show,” she said.
“Did the fact that I didn’t know where the coffee was give me away?” I asked.
She laughed. “That wasn’t what I was thinking of, but yes, it does.”
“So what gave away my first-timer status?”
“Debra,” she said. “You just met, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Deb knows every cat and every owner in the show. Since you just met, I knew it had to be your first show. And by the way, how did your cat do? Elvis, right?”
“Yes. He was second in his group.”
“Excellent,” Christine said. “That should shake things up a little.”
“Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“Depends on who you talk to.”
The cheeky grin on her face suggested this was someone who might be an even better source of information than Debra Martinez—whom Rose was no doubt grilling in her own gentle way—right now.
“How long have you been coming to the sho
w?” I asked.
“Debra roped me in after her second one. Turned out it was fun. I’ve met a lot of really nice people. They always have decent coffee and I like the cats—especially Socrates. He’s a very good judge of people.”
The coffee booth was just ahead. I could smell the wonderful aroma of the coffee and I recognized the logo of one of Mr. P.’s favorite roasters. There were several small tables in front of the booth and not all of them were occupied. I couldn’t let this chance pass, I told myself.
“So what do I need to know?” I said to Christine. “And I’m buying.”
* * *
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I’d enjoyed an excellent cup of coffee and I’d learned a lot more about the behind-the-scenes machinations at the various New England cat shows. Debra was well-liked by the other competitors and it seemed everyone would prefer her to win the national title over a man named Jeffery Walker, who was new to the show circuit and was seen as an upstart.
“Jeffery is nice enough, but he can be a little aloof,” Christine said, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup. “His cat, Nikita, is a purebred white Persian with copper eyes and he’s inching closer to the top of the overall points standings with each show. He has a real shot at being both Maine and Atlantic Coast champion and could be national champion as well.”
The bearded man I’d seen her arguing with earlier was probably Jeffery Walker, I realized.
She took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I know this probably sounds petty, but I think he’s cheating.”
“Cheating how?” I asked.
“I think he’s using a catnip spray to calm his cat before judging. It has a faint minty smell, at least to me, and I’m certain I’ve smelled it on him and Nikita more than once. But I can’t prove it and I don’t want to make things difficult for Deb.”
“But I thought catnip was a stimulant.”
Christine put her glasses back on. “Most of the time, when it’s inhaled, it is. But some cats just get all mellow and relaxed. I’m pretty sure that’s how Nikita reacts. Jeffery’s not playing fair.” She shrugged. “Deb says I have an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong.”
As we were walking back we passed a young man on a ladder hanging a sign to signify the judging area. Christine looked up at the banner and made a sound of exasperation. It was backward, I realized. The arrow at the bottom was pointing away from the judging rings
“I need to make sure this gets fixed,” she said. “Can you find your way back?”
“I can.” I was pretty sure I could see the top of Mr. P.’s head from where we were standing.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Thanks for the conversation,” I said.
Christine was already moving toward the young man, who was making his way down the ladder. “Anytime,” she said over her shoulder.
When I got back to our section in the staging area, Elvis was sitting on the table with one of Rose’s dishtowels held around his neck with a clothespin while Mr. P. brushed his teeth. The cat didn’t look that happy about the process, but he didn’t look miserable, either. I decided this was one of those things I wasn’t going to question.
Debra and Socrates were gone and Rose was poking around their area while trying to pretend she wasn’t.
I walked up behind her as she was casually nudging a cardboard box under the table with her left foot. “Looking for something?” I said.
She started and swung around, putting one hand on her chest when she realized she’d been busted by me. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “Why are you sneaking up on people? You could have given me a heart attack!”
“Your resting heart rate and blood pressure are lower than mine,” I said.
She waggled a finger at me. “That’s because you use too much salt. If you used more herbs and spices when you cook you could cut back on the salt. Next time you make carrots, try roasting them and adding a little fresh dill. And it wouldn’t hurt you to drink a little more tea and a little less coffee.”
I could see the conversation was going to get way off topic the way it had a tendency to do when Rose was involved.
“Why are you spying on Debra?” I asked. The direct approach seemed to be the best way to get things back on track.
“I’m not spying,” Rose retorted with just the right amount of indignation in her voice. However, her gaze slipped away from mine and her cheeks were slightly flushed.
“You’re a terrible liar,” I said.
“Most people would consider that to be a good quality.”
“It is a good quality.” I stepped closer to her and lowered my voice. “What are you doing?”
She glared at me. “I’m doing the job we were hired to do, Miss Nosy Pants. I’m trying to find out who’s been sabotaging these shows and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You think Debra is a suspect? Seriously?”
Her gray eyes narrowed. “Everyone is a suspect, Sarah,” she said.
“But you know her.”
“I know a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they get a free pass.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr. P. rinsing Elvis’s teeth with a squirt bottle. “What would Debra have to gain?”
“She has genuine competition for the first time in several years. There’s a Persian that’s beaten Socrates several times.”
“Nikita,” I said. “Christine told me about the cat and its owner. She seems to think he might be cheating.”
“You mean the catnip spray.”
“Debra told you.”
Rose nodded.
“I still don’t see how disrupting the shows would help Debra—or anyone else, for that matter.”
A woman carrying a gray tabby in her arms moved past us. Rose smiled at both of them. “If the sabotage keeps up, it’s possible the last shows could be cancelled. If those happen to be shows that Nikita might have won, that would benefit Socrates in the points standings.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. I’d only just met Debra, but I found it hard to believe she’d do anything that might lead to a cat getting hurt. I thought about how she’d talked to Elvis and scratched behind his ear and how she’d smiled at every cat we’d passed. “Well, then what about Christine? She seems to be Debra’s best friend. Maybe she’s the one behind the vandalism out of loyalty to her friend.”
“She’s a suspect, too,” Rose said. “And Debra’s friend Tim.” She looked around, then inclined her head in the direction of a tall man with sandy hair about half a dozen staging spaces away from where we were standing. He was wearing a chocolate brown sweater and I could see the strap of a camera around his neck. “That’s him, over there. He’s a mechanical engineer. I’m keeping a close eye on him.”
“An engineer would be more than capable of messing with a sound system or damaging some cages.”
“And Socrates doesn’t like him,” Rose said as though that was what really mattered. “Debra admitted that.”
“I thought everyone in this building was a cat person,” I said.
“Not Tim Grant.”
“Rose, is there any possibility the vandalism was just a cluster of accidents and bad timing?” I asked. I realized I should have asked the question before I’d agreed to let Elvis take part in the show.
She shook her head. “No. Alfred looked at one of the cages. The damage to the door was deliberate. And he talked to the technician who worked on the sound system. The man said it didn’t stop working by accident. Someone tampered with it.” She looked around the space. “I think one of these cat people is in fact a snake in the grass.”
Chapter 4
There wasn’t much else to say. I said good-bye to Elvis, whispering a reminder for him to behave himself, and headed back to Second Chance with a promise that I’d be back to pick them all up.
&nb
sp; When I got back to the shop I found a six-foot-high mannequin sitting on the workbench. It reminded me of a giant Ken doll down to its lack of anatomical correctness. I looked around. There was no sign of a matching Barbie.
I stepped into the shop. Mac and Charlotte were putting a bed frame together. Or to be more accurate, they were standing next to the pieces of a bed frame, staring at them.
Charlotte caught sight of me and smiled. “How’s Elvis doing?” she asked.
“Believe it or not, second in his first round of judging.”
“I’m not surprised at all,” she said. She studied me for a moment. “You didn’t have any lunch, did you?”
“I had a cup of coffee,” I said. “And one of those butterscotch drops Rose always has in her bag.”
“A cup of coffee and a butterscotch candy is not lunch.”
I held up a finger. “Actually now that I think about it, it was two butterscotch drops.”
Charlotte laughed. “You’re incorrigible,” she said. She brushed off the front of her apron and came and kissed the top of my head. “There’s half a spinach quiche in the staff room. I’ll warm up a slice for you.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She looked at Mac. “As soon as I do that we’ll take another shot at that bed.”
He nodded. Charlotte headed for the stairs. Mac came over to me.
“So everything went well,” he said.
“It did,” I agreed. “Isn’t this where you say I told you so?”
He shook his head. “No, that’s kind of obvious.”
“Really?” I said.
“Really.”
I put one hand over the other on his shoulder and leaned my cheek against his arm. I could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
“You know what else is obvious?” I asked.
He caught my left arm and pulled me in front of him so we were just inches apart. “What?”
I leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth. “You have the wrong set of side rails for the bed,” I whispered.