by Hank Edwards
“A cat?”
“Yes, a cat. Have you ever met anyone with the last name Pickles?”
Tanner looked offended. “No. But I’ve never met anyone with the last name of… of….” He thought a moment. “Ralston, either. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
Jazz had to force himself not to roll his eyes. “All right, fine. Just help me look for him. He’s black and white and wearing a red collar.”
As they made their way along the sidewalk, Jazz glanced across the street now and then. Michael stopped everyone he passed, asking if they’d seen Mr. Pickles. Each person responded with a shake of the head and a shrug. Jazz could practically feel Michael’s hopes fading as they approached the end of Main Street, where it dead-ended into Lake Shore Drive and the lake. The crash of waves on the rocky shoreline was normally a welcoming sound, but now all it conjured was images of a fat cat falling to his death from the winding boardwalk that ran along the coastline to Hardscrabble Beach.
A car whizzed by on the busy coastal road, and Jazz’s stomach dropped.
What if Mr. Pickles got hit by a car?
When they reached the corner, Michael crossed back over to them as Tanner’s radio let out a static-ridden squelch.
“Tanner,” Musgrave’s voice came out of the tiny speaker. “What’s your twenty?”
Tanner tipped his head toward the radio snapped on his shoulder. “Main Street, Sheriff. Corner of Lake Shore. I’m talking with Dilworth and Fleishman.”
“What in the name of tarnation are you talking to them for?”
Jazz looked at Michael and shook his head, but Michael merely stared at a point halfway between them. Jazz gave his hand a squeeze. His fingers felt cold, and Jazz wished there was something he could do to fix all of this. Not long ago they had been so open and intimate with each other, and now Michael might as well be on an island far away.
“Helping them look for their lost cat.” Tanner gave Jazz a confident nod and smirk.
“What?”
The volume of Musgrave’s response startled the three of them, plus two women who happened to be passing by.
“You have got more important things to do than look for a goddamn cat! Get your ass back to the station, pronto!”
Tanner gave them a sheepish look, cheeks reddening to match his hair. “Sorry, guys. I hope you find Mr. Pickles.”
“Thanks for helping, Deputy Tanner,” Jazz said, and watched the man hurry back uphill to his patrol car.
“Musgrave is such a fucking dick,” Michael practically shouted.
His outburst elicited a gasp from a mother pushing a stroller. Jazz grabbed Michael’s hand and tugged him down Steelhead Avenue and away from Main Street.
“Let’s head back to your house, okay? Maybe Mr. Pickles just went exploring and is home by now.”
They wove back and forth through Cardinal Lane and Bluebird Lane, and all the little alleys in between until they circled back to the house.
Mr. Pickles was nowhere in sight.
Though Jazz was a bit out of breath—everything from Lake Shore Drive was on an upward slant—they searched the yards around the funeral parlor and the house again. At one point, Michael went inside and grabbed a bag of Mr. Pickles’s favorite treats to shake as they called for him.
Still no luck.
A man stepped out of the back door of the funeral home as they did another circle of the parlor with the treats, startling the hell out of Jazz. “Ah!”
Then his heart leaped into his throat as he relived the last time they were confronted by a stranger at the funeral parlor.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the man said at once. “I’m Ezra. I work here.”
Jazz let out a shaky breath when Michael didn’t seem fazed by the man. “Oh, yeah, hi. I’m Jazz.” This guy wasn’t even half the size of the man who’d shot at them.
Damn, I don’t know how much more my heart can take.
Dressed in a shirt and tie, his sleeves rolled up to expose thick, dark hair on his forearms, Ezra raised his brows knowingly. “Ah, yes, Jazz Dilworth from Misty’s Makeover Palace.”
How does this guy know me? “Um, yeah.” Had Michael told his employees about Jazz already? That was promising. So one more point for the plus column, though the evening’s tally on the minus column just might take the lead.
Ezra watched Michael weave around a few shrubs. “Lose something, sir?”
“Mr. Pickles,” Michael said, and followed that up with kissing noises and a vigorous shake of the treat bag. “Here, kitty kitty!”
“Oh, no,” Ezra said, sounding distressed. “I’m so sorry. Need help looking? I just finished cleaning up the preparation room for us to work on Mrs. Atwood.”
Michael nodded without looking around, but Jazz turned.
“Mrs. Rachel Atwood?” Jazz clarified.
Ezra appeared surprised. “You knew her?”
“She was a client.” Jazz sighed. “I liked her a lot. Very nice woman.”
“So I’ve heard,” Ezra said. “Would you be available to do her hair and makeup?”
Though Jazz found the timing of the question a bit inconsiderate, he quickly answered, “Of course. I know just how she liked to wear her hair. Michael knows how to get in touch with me.” He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.
What a terrible day this had turned into!
“After we speak to the family, we’ll let you know when your services will be needed.” Ezra gave him a soft smile. “I know you’ll make her look perfect. You do such good work.”
Jazz gave a small wave of thanks, perplexed. How did Ezra know his work? He hadn’t done a client for Michael yet. Must’ve seen one of his living clients.
Poor Rachel.
Poor Michael. And poor Mr. Pickles.
Concentrating on the task, Jazz turned to continue the search.
An hour later, Jazz and Michael sat on the steps of Michael’s back patio as moths batted against the sliding door screen. Michael had sent Ezra home, though the man seemed like he wanted to stay and help.
They didn’t speak, but every now and then Michael called, “Mr. Pickles!” and rattled the bag of treats.
There was still no response to his calls.
After a while, Jazz finally managed to coax Michael inside.
“We should get in the car, drive around and look for him,” Michael said, turning to grab his keys off the counter.
Jazz stopped him with a touch on the arm. “It’s dark out, sweetie. We wouldn’t see anything.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Then he offered a sad smile that tore at Jazz’s heart. “But it’s cold, and he’s all alone.”
“Cats, even indoor cats, are very resourceful. But let’s leave some food and water out on the deck, just in case,” Jazz suggested.
“Yes. Right. Okay.” Michael sounded robotic.
“We’ll look for him as soon as there’s light.”
Nodding his assent, Michael went about the task of setting out food with a blank expression.
Jazz put away the food they’d left out, his romantic meal plans dashed in the face of Mr. Pickles’s disappearance. And neither of them seemed to have much of an appetite now.
“Hey,” Jazz said from the other side of the island. “Why don’t I spend the night? I’m worried about you and Mr. Pickles.” He gestured toward the living room. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I just don’t want you to be alone tonight. Okay?”
Michael lifted desperate, tear-filled eyes to him and nodded. “I’d like that. But if you don’t mind, could you sleep in my bed? With me?”
When his voice cracked, Jazz came around the island fast and gathered Michael to him in a fierce hug. “Of course. I’ll be wherever you need me to be. I’m here for you. We’ll find Mr. Pickles. I promise.”
Chapter Twenty
“WHAT THE fucking hell is that?”
Rocko stood in the center of the kitchen with his arms crossed and a stern expression as he glowered at her
.
Veronica stroked the squirming black-and-white cat and made shushing sounds. “It’s a cat. Duh.”
Rocko’s glower intensified fiftyfold. “I can see that. Why the fuck are you bringing it into the house?”
“Because I have a plan,” Veronica said. Well, I sorta have a plan. The cat wiggled and meowed, and she lost her grip on it, so she bent lower just as the cat dropped to the ceramic tile floor. She brushed at her shirt.
Stupid animal left hair all over her new Akris top.
“Did I hear Vee come inside?” Cameron stepped into the kitchen, then drew up short when his gaze landed on the cat. “A kitty! Oh my God, Vee, he’s so beautiful. Did you find him? Is he lost?”
“I’ve never seen you so excited about a pussy before,” she drawled. She tossed her wide sun hat on the table, then set the keys and her sunglasses down beside it.
Cameron ignored her, enraptured by the cat. “Look, he’s got a collar. Maybe he’s got a tag and we can call his owner. Come here, kitty kitty kitty.”
The cat trotted up to Cameron, who had squatted down to fuss over him.
“Where’d you get the cat?” Rocko said.
Veronica sighed. “I came up with a plan as I was following the mortician, okay? So, like, dial down the killer attitude. This is going to get us the drugs back.”
“Oh, there’s a name on the tag,” Cameron said, and looked up with such an adorable expression of glee, Veronica almost cracked a smile. “His name is Mr. Pickles. Could you just die from the cuteness of that?”
Veronica noticed Rocko’s expression soften at the joy in Cameron’s face.
So something was going on between them, and, to be honest, gross.
But maybe it could be used to her benefit, because when Rocko looked back at her, his voice didn’t sound half as surly when he said, “You snatched the mortician’s cat to hold as ransom for the drugs.”
When Rocko said it flat-out like that, it sounded ludicrous of course.
She’d been sitting in the far corner of the funeral parlor parking lot, all hunched down in the car and watching the mortician’s house to get a feel for his life. When he’d chained the cat up in the yard and hurried back into the house, Veronica had seen her chance. The cat had been friendly and let her pick him up, unclasp the chain, and carry him back to the car with only a few curious meows.
And now they needed to keep it alive long enough to exchange it for the drugs. Then she’d take the drugs back to Detroit, save her father, and all of this would be over with.
Cameron picked up Mr. Pickles to snuggle and pet him. “He’s so soft. Somebody really loves this guy and will be missing him.”
“That’s the plan,” Veronica said, and cocked an eyebrow at Rocko, who did not look impressed.
“Did you get any food?” Rocko asked. “Or a litter box?”
“Uh, what?” Veronica blinked and held her arms out. “Does it look like I have those things on me?”
Rocko sighed. He snatched the keys off the counter and stomped toward the door. Before he left, he turned and said, “Don’t even think about trying to run off on foot. I will find you, and I will bring you back here, and you will not be comfortable. Is that understood?”
“Why would I want to run off when I’m so close to saving my father?”
“Think about how you want to tell the mortician you’ve got his cat. Hand-offs like this can be tricky.”
Rocko left and Veronica stuck her tongue out at the closed door. When she turned to Cameron, she found him looking at her wide-eyed.
“You stole the mortician’s cat?”
Mr. Pickles meowed and pawed at a stray lock of Cameron’s raspberry-colored hair.
“Yes. We’re keeping him as leverage.”
“To get the drugs back Dylan had on him?”
“Right.” Veronica paced the kitchen.
“What if the drugs are already checked in as police evidence?”
“Then Mr. Mortician is going to have to get creative if he wants to see Mr. Pickles again.”
Cameron half turned away from Veronica and clutched the cat closer. “You’re not planning on hurting Mr. Pickles, are you?”
Veronica made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, mostly because Cameron had whispered the words as if the cat might actually understand what he was saying. “No, but the mortician doesn’t know that.”
Mr. Pickles meowed and squirmed in Cameron’s grip. Cameron squatted down and released him, and they watched him walk around the kitchen, sniffing and meowing.
“How are you planning on telling the mortician we have his cat?” Cameron suddenly clapped his hands excitedly, which made Mr. Pickles jump and his tail puff out. “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Pickles. I’m sorry. I just got excited. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The cat resumed exploring, and Veronica waved her hand for Cameron to continue. “You were saying?”
“Oh, right. I thought of a way we could let the mortician know. You know how I love those old television shows they play on that station you hate because they show too many commercials?”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “All of those commercials are either for hack lawyers or drugs for old people with toenail fungus and limp dicks.”
Cameron waved her words away. “Anyway, whenever someone is kidnapped on one of those old shows, the kidnappers always send a ransom note using letters cut out of magazines.”
“Why?”
“So the cops don’t recognize their handwriting.”
Veronica thought for a moment. “It’s not the worst idea, Cam.”
In a matter of minutes, Veronica and Cameron were seated at the dining room table, old magazines stacked before them, the gorgeous view of the lake outside their window a pleasant backdrop as they cut out letters for the ransom note. Mr. Pickles played with scraps of paper that had drifted to the floor. They had “Give the drugs back or the cat gets it” cut out by the time Rocko returned. He had a litter box, litter, and several cans of food. He set it all on the counter, then studied their DIY with a scowl.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Magazine in hand, scissors in the other, Veronica gave him an eye roll. “Making a ransom note, duh.”
“Fucking amateurs.” Rocko headed to the door, throwing over his shoulder, “Set up the litter box, Cameron. If that cat pisses anywhere, you’ll both regret it.”
Cameron jumped to attention so quickly, Veronica rolled her eyes. “He says jump and you do it.”
Cameron looked affronted. “It’s for Mr. Pickles, not Rocko.”
“Sure it is, Cam.”
Rocko returned and dropped three unopened packages onto the paper cutouts. Letters and scraps of paper scattered and Mr. Pickles meowed happily, batting at a few in the air.
“Hey!” Veronica snapped. “You ruined our note!”
Leaning into her personal space, Rocko jabbed a sausage-like finger into one of the packages. “Burner phones. We’ll leave a ransom call like any good kidnapper would.”
Bristling at his nearness and because his idea was better, she frowned. “And you just happen to have three burner phones in your car?”
He straightened and gave her a confused look. “Of course I do.”
“Kitty, look what Uncle Rocko got you,” Cameron all but sang as he adjusted the litter box on the bathroom floor.
When Rocko smiled warmly at Cameron, Veronica was sure she would puke. Then he faced her again, his scowl back.
“Oh, so your sweet googly eyes are only for Cam, I see.” She gave him a smirk.
Rocko’s eyes widened, then narrowed, a hint of blush staining his cheeks. “Don’t get smart with me, Princess. What’s the funeral parlor number, and where do you want to do the drop-off? We’re in the fourth quarter and the Canadians have the ball. Clock’s ticking.”
Ugh! She hated sports analogies. “I don’t fucking know the phone number.”
This time he gave her the “duh” face. “Look it up on your phone.”
Rocko took out the first phone and while he set it up, he kept casting glances at Cameron sitting on the floor and playing with Mr. Pickles. When Cameron looked up and gave Rocko a sly, almost seductive smile, she’d had enough.
“Would you two quit eye-fucking each other and get your head in the game? This is my daddy we’re talking about. The Canadians are going to kill him like they killed Dylan!”
“Sorry, Vee,” Cameron said, chagrined.
Rocko scowled in thought. “You think the Canucks killed your mule?”
“He wasn’t simply my mule. He was our friend.” She fought a lip tremble. Vag it up! “And I don’t know who killed Dylan. It could’ve been the Milwaukee crew I was trying to sell to, or it could be you, for all we know.” Veronica shot a meaningful glare at Cameron. “You could be getting a woody over a murderer, ya know?”
“Nah,” Rocko said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t have wasted time cutting his hands off. Woulda grabbed the drugs and popped a bullet in his head. Then dropped the gun in the river back home. Done. Nice and neat.”
Veronica and Cameron gaped at him.
“What?” Rocko cried when they kept staring.
She shook her head. “You don’t think the Canadians killed Dylan?”
Rocko shrugged one shoulder. “Why would they have left the drugs behind?”
“Maybe they didn’t know Dylan had the drugs on him?” Cameron suggested. His expression brightened and he got up on his knees. “Oh! Maybe he surprised them and they accidentally killed him. I saw that in one of those shows I like.”
“Let’s get back on topic, shall we?” Veronica said.
“Where do you want to do the exchange?” Rocko picked up the burner.
“I don’t fucking know!” Then she gave it some thought. “You call, Rocko. Tell them HPP at midnight tomorrow. No cops. Just bring the drugs, or we kill the cat in front of them.”
“Shhh,” Cameron warned, placing his hands over Mr. Pickles’s ears. “He’ll hear you.”
She barely suppressed an eye roll, feeling better now that they had a plan.
Rocko scrunched his face. “What’s HPP?”