“Do you also have some issue with her?” the man asked mildly.
“She carries her poor cat with her everywhere, just to attract media attention. These spoiled celebrities who treat their animals like fashion accessories make me sick.”
A young couple who had picked up some FOCA literature seemed unnerved by this heated exchange. Chris also overheard and decided to intervene. “Glenda, these people want to sign the mailing list, but I can’t find it. Didn’t you have it last?”
When she disengaged to hunt for the list—which I suspected Chris had purposely mislaid—he apologized to the older man. “As you can see, some of our volunteers are extremely devoted to the cause. I hope she didn’t offend you.”
The well-groomed fellow smiled. “I have a thick skin. And the lady did make a few valid points. Now I’d better get back to the hotel—I’m judging the Premier Longhairs this afternoon.”
As the man walked away, Chris winced.
“I suspected as much,” I told him.
“You see what I mean about Glenda,” he whispered to me.
“I do. Hope she doesn’t lose you too many customers.”
Moving on down the concourse, I passed exhibits by several other local humane and rescue organizations. They all offered a few caged animals that were available for adoption—cats only, since that was the theme of the expo—along with literature on rescue, providing for pets in a will, feral management, and other issues. All had set out cans or boxes for donations. I hoped the folks browsing at the tables would be generous. Even if each person only gave a couple of dollars, over three days it ought to add up nicely.
When I made another pass by the veterinary clinic’s booth, Mark had returned. His demo already had drawn a respectable crowd, and I’m sure his dark, clean-cut good looks—even in drab, dusty-blue medical scrubs—didn’t hurt. Neither did his clear baritone voice and his obvious intelligence. Using Ginger as a willing prop, he spoke about how to determine if your cat needs to go to the vet, what exams and shots a cat should have regularly, and the importance of spaying and neutering.
Stroking the orange tabby’s head to keep her calm on the table, Mark asked his listeners, “Does anybody want to guess how many kittens one female cat can have in a year?”
A middle-aged blond woman in a peasant dress raised her hand. “Eight.”
Mark shook his head with a sad smile. “A female cat can give birth to as many as eight kittens at one time, and can have up to three litters a year. So if Ginger here hadn’t been spayed, over her lifespan she could produce about a hundred kittens. If all of those kittens went out and made more . . . in seven years, she could be responsible for 420,000 new cats. Is it any wonder that we end up with so many unwanted animals in shelters?”
I’d never heard Mark speak before an audience, and his ease and professionalism impressed me. He continued to answer questions about such things as how a vet safely examines a difficult cat, using Ginger to demonstrate some techniques. He switched to a life-sized feline dummy to demonstrate performing CPR in certain emergency situations. Just past noon, when Mark thanked his listeners and reminded them he’d be doing another session at three, they applauded warmly. Several lingered after the demo to ask him more specific questions.
I waited my turn, then congratulated him. “Great presentation! I think these folks probably learned a lot.”
“Thanks. I’ve had some practice. Maggie and I both have given workshops for the techs and even for veterinary students from the college. I just tried to adapt the material to pet owners who may not have any medical background at all.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’m starving—haven’t had anything but coffee since about six-thirty. What’s there to eat out on the concourse?”
“There’s a pizza stand, of course,” I reported. “I also saw gyros, tacos, wraps, and regular ol’ hamburgers. In typical Jersey fashion, it’s a multicultural buffet.”
“Haven’t had tacos in a while. You game?”
I seconded the motion and offered to bring lunch back for him and Dave so they wouldn’t have to leave their booth. While I waited in line at the concession, I texted Becky, who was still with my van; she said Chris was getting some food for her. I guessed that Glenda would be staffing the FOCA table alone for a while, giving her even more to be grumpy about.
I sat with Mark and Dave on the hard-sided equipment cases, and we ate with paper napkins spread on our laps. Over tacos and sodas, we all marveled at the size of the expo and the vast assortment of paraphernalia offered for sale. A human disguised as an extremely tall tuxedo cat strolled past us, stopping now and then to pose for pictures with strangers like Pluto does at Disneyland.
I already had told Mark about the weird notes Jaki had received and the mechanic who’d mysteriously crashed while driving her father’s car. Now, spotting the costumed figure, he huffed in mild suspicion. “With all the extra security they hired for this weekend, I hope they checked that guy out.”
Dave’s mouth twisted in a cynical smile. “Yeah, he could be wired with explosives underneath that thing.”
“Now guys,” I muffled my own similar concerns, “he’s probably just promoting one of the animal shelters.”
We were finishing up our hasty meal when I noticed a din building outside—horns honking, people shouting and even screaming. My first thought was that something had gone wrong. Maybe a traffic accident?
Mark must have seen my worried expression, because he offered another explanation. “Bet our celebrity guest has arrived.”
“Gosh, you’re probably right. Wanna go see?”
We glanced at Dave, who, being a good sport, promised he’d stay behind to keep an eye on the clinic’s booth and Ginger.
Mark and I reached the outdoor plaza just as the black stretch SUV turned under the overhang, making for the garage. A crowd of people, mostly young, flowed after it until they ran into a barrier of sawhorses and uniformed police. No rough stuff, fortunately. The cops simply announced that Ms. Natal would make a brief appearance on the concourse before she checked in, and only those holding tickets to the expo would be admitted. A video cameraman and a woman with a microphone, both wearing the logo of New Jersey News, pushed close enough to capture the action.
Meanwhile, I noticed that the limo cruised around to the most remote corner of the parking garage. No doubt they planned to spirit Jaki into the hotel by a rear entrance.
“Boy, not even a wave to her fans!” Mark grumbled in mock disappointment.
“Guess they can’t take any chances, in case one of those fans is the stalker.” As we strolled back inside, I told him, “Don’t worry. Perry said we volunteers can sneak into her interview later on today without paying the fifty bucks.”
“Oh, Perry said so, did he?” Mark slipped an arm around my waist and gave me a firm squeeze. “He seems to be doing you a lot of special favors.”
I grinned. “Ha, Sarah said you’d be jealous. I’ll have to tell her that she was right. Perry’s a decent guy—I think—but a little too ‘Mad Ave’ for my taste. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’d better not, because two can play that game,” Mark warned me. “I understand Ms. Natal is back on the market these days.”
I glanced out through the building’s deep windows at the jostling throng of fans. “Yeah, right, babe. Get in line.”
He laughed.
Chapter 6
Mark and I went back to our separate posts to prepare for our afternoon presentations.
I crossed the sunny plaza and noticed that the protestors had grown to a half dozen by now. While I watched, a couple of police officers attempted to move them elsewhere so they couldn’t block people from entering the hotel and convention center. The activists didn’t go quietly, and the shouts and scuffling drew looks of alarm from people passing by. I suspect they played up even more when they spotted the New Jersey News team.
Finally the cops managed to corral them into a pocket park across the street from the hotel.
From a few gestures made with nightsticks, I assumed the marchers got a stern warning to stay there and not invade the plaza again.
When I reached my van, Becky already had Ray ready to go. I’d expected that the Persian mix with the luxuriant coat would be a hit with our audiences, and I was right. As people murmured about how pretty he was, I stressed that anyone getting a similar cat must either learn to comb him themselves or take him to a professional groomer as often as every other week. I explained that various longhaired cats could have different types of coats, and a Persian would need a different approach from, say, a Maine Coon. Luckily, my listeners seemed to find this information new and interesting.
Most of them, at least.
Partway through, the four young women in the J-A-K-I T-shirts joined our crowd and giggled among themselves. Of course, the TV reporter had to talk to them, and they preened for the video cameraman. They were so distracting that a few listeners crowded closer to the van just to be able to hear our demo. Finally, during a lull in my talk, the taller of the two blondes called out to me, “What about Scottish Folds? Do they need special grooming?”
Of course, she would ask about Gordie’s breed, but at least this shifted the attention back to my demo. Even the New Jersey News guy swung his camera toward me and Becky for a few minutes.
“Actually, I’ve only had one Scottish Fold as a customer,” I admitted. “I do know they have very dense coats and come in both shorthaired and longhaired types. For the shorthairs, probably just an occasional brushing at home would be fine. Longhairs would need grooming a couple of times a week, but I understand they’re not as hard to keep up with as, say, a Persian.”
I’d never yet seen Gordie in person, but I could tell from Jaki’s online videos that he was a shorthair.
After our demo wound up and the TV news duo moved on, the four girls still lingered on the fringes of the crowd. I pointed to their T-shirts. “Diehard fans, I see.”
One of the blondes linked arms with a slightly chunkier brunette, and the two others also fell in line to spell out their idol’s name. “We’re the Jak-ettes!” they announced. They obviously expected someone to take a picture, so Becky and I grabbed our phones and obliged. The taller blonde introduced herself as Dria, and the others sounded off as Ashley, Tiff, and Lexi.
I said to Dria, “I guess you have a Scottish Fold cat.”
She looked surprised. “No. . . . ?”
“Because you wanted to know about grooming one.”
She creased her narrow nose. “My family’s got a cat, but just a dumb old one from a shelter.”
Though her tone made me feel sorry for her family’s pet, I stayed upbeat. “Well, good for you, adopting a shelter cat. There are so many in places like FOCA that need good homes.” I glanced toward Ashley, her brunette companion. “What about you?”
“I’ve got a couple cats, but they’re just regular, too. You said you wanted a Scottish Fold, though, didn’t you, Lexi?”
The redhead colored a little. “Yeah, but my dad says we can’t afford one.”
“Oh, please,” Ashley muttered. “How much could it cost?”
“Aaashley!” Dria reprimanded her.
“Well, we already have one cat and a couple of dogs,” Lexi admitted.
“Not to mention your beast of a brother,” Ashley teased her.
“I’ll get one, though,” the redhead vowed with quiet determination. “I’ve got a plan. . . .”
Meanwhile Tiff, the shorter blonde, glanced at her phone. “Hey, you guys, let’s move. It’s almost time.”
Spinning in unison—a minor miracle, on those precarious heels—the quartet sprinted for the hotel’s main entrance. Over her shoulder, Ashley called back to me and Becky, “’Bye, guys! Good luck with your . . . uh . . . grooming.”
Once the Jak-ettes had gone, I checked my own phone for the time and realized they must be headed to the singer’s four o’clock interview. It was only three thirty—our question-and-answer session had run a bit longer this time—but they probably intended to claim the best possible seats.
Becky and I both wanted to see the interview, too, she out of hero worship and I out of sheer curiosity. By then the temperature had warmed to a mild seventy degrees, so we left Ray in the van with food and water, locked up securely. I figured that, coming right off the plane from California, Jaki might talk for an hour at most. Possibly, she’d take questions from the audience and reporters and pose for pictures with a few fans afterward.
The conference room was on the second floor of the hotel opposite a wing of guest rooms, so Becky and I entered the lobby and took the main escalator upward. That gave us a panoramic view of the many people with pet carriers and related equipment shuttling back and forth from the show that occupied the first-floor ballrooms. I wondered if everyone lined up at the registration counter also was involved with the expo; anyone who wasn’t must have been startled to find themselves surrounded on all sides by felines and their handlers. I hoped the hotel staff had warned off any potential guests with severe cat allergies.
The hubbub from the lobby receded as Becky and I stepped off the moving stairway into the carpeted, civilized atmosphere of the second floor. This wing held several conference rooms, and the double doors to Room A stood open, with a hotel staffer checking tickets.
We met up with Chris and Mark in the hallway, where they marveled at the number of people who had come through the convention center that day, even during work hours. Up ahead, a stern-faced security guard was screening everyone for tickets. When the four of us reached the door, I swallowed my apprehension and pointed to my volunteer badge. “Mr. Newton said that we—”
“Volunteers, okay.” He quickly hustled us through the door, as if not to raise any questions among the folks who had paid. “You can stand in the back.”
We’d have had to, anyway. The conference room probably accommodated only about two hundred people, and by the time we got there, every seat was filled. Still, the stage was well lit. There, two armless, white upholstered chairs flanked a small table with two glasses of water and a microphone on a stand.
Perry himself stepped onto the stage to welcome all of us. Since meeting him, I’d checked his bio online. Although it seemed his main focus always had been marketing, he’d done a bit of acting on the side, appearing in commercials and one soap opera. Not surprising, with his dimpled, boyish good looks. The businessman in him must have decided that promotion was a much more lucrative field, but Perry still seemed at home playing the emcee.
He drew some chuckles by saying that the enthusiastic crowd packed into the conference room just demonstrated the passion and loyalty of cat lovers. “But seriously,” he went on, “I know that all of you are really here to meet, in person, a bright new media star whose looks and charm have captured everyone’s hearts. So without further ado, I’m honored to present. . . Gordie!”
Laughter turned to wild applause as Jaki strolled onto the stage, her silver tabby comfortably cradled in her arms. She looked stunning in skinny black pants, high-heeled sandals, and a loose-fitting, white lace blouse that contrasted with her long, dark, wavy hair. Her face still showed a girlish softness in spite of smoky eye makeup and vivid red lipstick. From her broad grin, I guessed that having Perry introduce the cat instead of her might have been Jaki’s idea ... or, at the very least, she’d been happy to go along with it.
She and Perry sat in the white chairs, which were angled toward each other and the audience. Gordie settled calmly in his mistress’s lap. Even from where I stood, I could easily make out the silver cat’s black tabby stripes and folded ears. He also seemed to have some type of collar with a bow around his neck, partly hidden by his short, thick fur.
I realized now that Perry intended to do the interview himself. He started out in the same wry tone, implying that Jaki would graciously serve as a spokesperson for her “famous” pet. He asked if she always had liked cats.
“Yes and no,” the singer admitted. “My family h
ad a small farm a little west of here. We had indoor-outdoor cats that mainly hunted the mice, so growing up I bonded more with our dogs. But after I moved to LA to do the TV series—”
“That was Too Cool for School, right?” Perry asked.
A few in the audience clapped, and with a sweet smile, Jaki thanked them for remembering her show.
“Anyhow, out on the coast I lived in an apartment and kept crazy hours, so I figured a cat would be easier to take care of. I got a shelter rescue, and she made me appreciate how cool cats are. I loved her a lot and was really upset when she got very sick and finally had to be put to sleep.”
“I can imagine,” said Perry, respectfully. “How did Gordie come into your life?”
“He was a gift from a friend who knew that I’d just lost Samantha.”
Behind me, Becky whispered, “We know who that was.” From the murmurs in the audience, I imagined others were making similar comments.
If Jaki heard, it didn’t bother her. She just stroked her pet’s plush coat and smiled down at him. “I never thought another cat could replace Samantha, but Gordie has his own personality. He’s so much fun . . . a real clown. He loves posing for pictures!”
“And you take a lot of pictures of him,” Perry pointed out. “I like the ones where he’s on a sofa with you, sitting up like a person.”
“Isn’t that crazy?” Jaki laughed. “It’s just a weird thing that Scottish Fold cats tend to do.”
“Did you particularly want a Scottish Fold?”
“No, that was the choice of . . . the person who gave him to me,” Jaki responded, and skillfully steered the conversation back to the cat. “But Gordie’s such a love, and nothing rattles him. I can take him anywhere. It’s great because if I’m on the road and get stressed-out, he calms me down. He even sleeps in bed with me at night. . . .”
Chris chuckled. “She’ll never get away with that!”
I also figured, from the impish look on Perry’s face, that he wouldn’t pass up the straight line. “We’re still talking about Gordie, right? Not your ‘friend’ who gave him to you?”
Gone, Kitty, Gone Page 6