I hated to disappoint Sarah by telling her how badly the “star-studded” part of the expo had gone. At any rate, I wasn’t free to do that.
Reporters from both the local paper and a TV station had attended the opening of the expo. What would they report, or not report, by tomorrow? Maybe just that Jaki’s interview had to be cut short because of technical problems? There would be no suppressing that part—the whole audience had seen it. But the guard’s death probably could be kept under wraps for a while if the cops wanted it that way.
I ran a quick check on my boarders. Sarah had promised to let each of them out in the playroom for half an hour during the day and had fed them just before she left. Now that things outside were quiet, they seemed calm enough. The only sign I found that the day’s noise had disturbed them was a hairball coughed up by Mia, the Siamese. I cleaned it out of her cage, then soothed her with a stroke and a little more dry food.
All those tasks done, I climbed the stairs to my apartment and called to my three cats. Black Cole and calico Matisse came trotting to the top of the stairs, while orange Tango galloped up like a Shetland pony, his version of sarcasm. I’m always amused by the way the same cat can slink around soundlessly when he wants to keep a low profile, or thunder across a room when he wants attention. At various pitches, they all voiced complaints along the lines of, It’s about time you got home!
After feeding them, I wandered around the apartment checking for signs of stress and boredom. All I came across were teeth marks on the corner of a magazine I’d left on the trunk/coffee table and a few new snags in my vintage chenille bedspread. The first mischief I probably could blame on Cole, since he liked to gnaw; the spread damage looked like Tango’s work. Not too bad, though, when you considered how I’d neglected them, while pampering other cats, over the past few days.
As a child living in a suburban home, I’d had a variety of pets: turtles, fish, birds, and often both a dog and a cat who always coexisted fairly well. It was Cassie’s Peaceable Kingdom, you could say, and my parents just lived in it. My dad had tolerated all of the creatures about equally, but I knew my mom abhorred anything in the reptile family. I didn’t find out until last year that she also had a mild phobia about felines.
My first cat, Candy, had been a calico like Matisse and an equally good sport. When I’d been too young to know better, I’d dressed her in doll hats and sweaters, and she’d sat still for that indignity long enough for me to snap pictures. My felines lived a long time—Candy had made it to twenty—so although I always had owned at least one, overall I hadn’t had that many. And the three living with me now represented the most I’ve ever shared my space with at once. I’ve seen victims of animal-hoarding situations, and know too well what can happen when you take on more pets than you can decently care for.
Sarah helped with the feeding and litter pan duty in the shop, but upstairs, those chores all fell to me. After doing them tonight, I finally got to relax. The wrap sandwich I’d eaten before I left the expo seemed like a distant memory, so I grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator. Organic vanilla with little bits of the beans in it, very tasty. From Nature’s Way, Dawn’s shop. Since I’m not fond of cooking, being tight with someone who ran a health-food store had greatly improved my eating habits.
Dawn had been my best friend in high school. We’d gone to different colleges but reconnected a few years after graduation. That she and I now owned businesses within blocks of each other was no coincidence. Her success running a shop in Chadwick actually had inspired me to take the entrepreneurial plunge.
I always enjoyed visiting Nature’s Way. The building had started life at the turn of the century as a feed store, and Dawn had preserved as much of that atmosphere as possible. She’d kept the vaulted ceiling with its exposed beams, given the rough plank walls just a light wash of pale green paint, repurposed the built-in shelving, and installed a beautiful oak-and-glass display counter from an old pharmacy. Along with health foods, Nature’s Way sold related goods such as natural cleaning products and toiletries, and New Age trinkets and jewelry.
I hadn’t spoken to Dawn in a couple of days, which was unusual, and I felt the need to connect with her now. She’d always helped me to make sense of stressful, overwhelming situations. But how much should I tell her about the craziness happening at the expo?
I didn’t need to worry about that. When Dawn answered the phone, we instantly got off on a different subject.
“Oh, Cassie,” she said, an edge of pain to her voice, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner. I spent most of this morning at the doctor’s.”
“You did? Why, what’s going on?”
“Nothing too serious, but I broke a bone in my foot. So dumb! I was carrying a case of canned goods in from the storeroom, tripped on the hem of my skirt . . . and dropped the case on my foot! Of course, it would have been a day when I was wearing sandals instead of shoes or boots.”
Tall and willowy, Dawn affected a neo-Bohemian style of ethnic, ankle-length skirts and dresses that went well with the theme of her store. I’d never known her fashion choices to cause her injury before, but I guessed there was always a first time. “You poor thing! You should have called me.”
“I knew you were busy with the expo, and Keith was coming by anyhow. So I just limped to one of the chairs by the wood stove and sat with my foot up until he got here. He took me to an urgent care clinic. The doctor there took an X-ray, put me in one of those big Frankenstein-monster boots, and told me not to walk on it.”
I winced. “That’s got to be a drag. Will you need surgery or anything?”
“Fortunately, no. The doctor said it should heal okay in the boot. But I’ve still got to stay off the foot for at least six weeks.”
“I’ll bet it hurts, too. Did he give you something for pain?”
She sniffed. “You know me, I won’t take anything too strong. Right now I’m on regular Tylenol. I can still feel a throb, but I’d rather at least be able to function.”
“Can you still run the shop like that?”
“Not very well, but Keith’s helping me. He brought me some crutches he had left over from a hiking accident, and once we adjusted the height, they worked pretty well. Still, I’m not much use except to sit behind the sales counter. We opened late today and will probably close early. When things are slow, he can even do some work at the counter on his laptop.”
Dawn’s significant other, Keith Garrett, was a freelance commercial artist. Although he had a studio in his loft apartment across town, I supposed he could create his designs electronically anywhere.
“Well, that’s lucky.” I still felt unreasonably guilty that I hadn’t known about Dawn’s accident sooner. “I wish I could help you, but I’m committed to this expo for the whole weekend.”
“I know you are. I’m just disappointed that I can’t get over there to see one of your grooming demos and to stroll around. I thought I’d go on Sunday, but now I’d never be up to all that walking. I couldn’t even climb the stairs from the shop to my apartment—I had to use the old freight elevator.”
“Oh, gosh. Lucky that’s still operating.” Usually, Dawn reached her second floor via a winding wrought-iron staircase toward the back of her sales area; that would never work with crutches and the padded boot. The elevator, reconditioned by our favorite local handyman, Nick Janos, was a relic from the days when the store had sold large bags and bales of animal feed.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m lounging around in the apartment, bingeing on British murder mysteries on cable, and waiting for Keith to come by with Thai takeout for dinner. How about you? Did the road-work racket finally let up outside your place?”
“At seven, thank God. Tonight they had my driveway partly blocked, so I had to leave the van on the street. Hope it’s still there in the morning.”
She laughed. “I’m sure it will be. Who’d try to make off with something that has a huge cartoon of a cat on the side?” Dawn said this with a touch of pride,
because Keith had designed that preening Persian for me. “And how’s the big expo going?”
I hesitated, wondering if I should burden her with the whole messy story. But we’d worked on so many intrigues before that she’d probably want to know and might even be able to help. So I told her everything, even about the disappearance of Gordie and the death of the security guard. If I ask Dawn not to repeat something, I know it’s locked in the vault until I give her the all-clear.
“And you don’t think the missing cat could have been just a mix-up?” she asked.
“By the time I left, around six-thirty, he still hadn’t been returned. If one of Jaki’s people or someone on the hotel staff had taken him, they certainly would have known how to get him back to her room.”
“Maybe he got loose somehow, and the person who was in charge of him is afraid to admit it.”
“I guess that’s possible, though Jaki’s assistant already had put Gordie into his carrier. From what I overheard in the parking garage, Jaki is half-hysterical over losing him. She’d just been saying during the interview that she takes him everywhere. That when she’s stressed by performing or touring, he’s a big comfort to her.”
“That’s rotten. Why would someone steal her pet? Is he valuable?”
“I doubt that he’s able to breed, and Harry Bock said there’s not much point in stealing any cat to show because you need their paperwork.”
“Still . . .” Dawn reflected a minute. “People have stolen famous artworks that they could never resell to a museum, just to be able to hang them in their homes and look at them.”
“But anybody could get a nice-looking Scottish Fold cat without going to the trouble of stealing one that’s so high-profile.” And certainly, I thought, without killing someone in the process. “I think he was taken specifically because he was Jaki’s cat.”
“Mmm. She’s had pictures of him all over the Internet, hasn’t she?”
“She has. I guess a crazy fan could have taken him just to be able to say they now owned the famous Gordie—to have a link to Jaki. But also, she and her family have been getting weird, stalker-type messages lately. I’m guessing this person wants leverage. Maybe they’re holding Gordie for ransom, or maybe they want something else from Jaki.”
In my mind, I couldn’t help picturing the tall, gawky guy who’d watched my demo while wearing the T-shirt with Jaki’s photo and the message, Marry me! Then I felt bad about suspecting the singer’s fans, including the Jak-ettes, just because they acted a bit too enthusiastic.
Over the phone, I heard the freight elevator clunk to a stop just outside Dawn’s apartment. Keith shouted a hello.
“C’mon in. I’m on the phone with Cassie,” Dawn shouted back.
“Hi, Cassie,” said Keith into the phone. “I hear you’ve got the road-work blues.”
“I shouldn’t complain, compared to what Dawn’s going through. So glad you’re at least able to help her out! Listen, I’ll let you two enjoy your dinner. I have some research to get back to.”
“Ah,” said Dawn, who caught my meaning. “Good luck!”
Setting aside my phone for the rest of the evening, I brought my laptop into the bedroom to pursue a new angle in my investigation.
This delighted the cats, who followed me. I never allowed them in the bedroom while I was sleeping, because among the three of them, someone was sure to cause mischief that would wake me up. While awake, though, I enjoyed their company, and my mishmash of bedclothes in assorted floral and striped patterns were all easily washable. I’d done the room in my personal take on cheap country chic—this was Chadwick, after all. The space was just large enough to accommodate a queen-sized iron bed, an old trunk at the foot for extra linens, and a few pieces of secondhand furniture. The dresser, nightstand, and chest of drawers all had seen better days, but looked pretty cool after I’d painted them all pale green. The rag rug camouflaged any cat accidents and could go in the washer.
By the light of my bedside lamp, wired by Nick from an old lantern, I began my high-tech search on the Internet.
The stalker was someone obsessed with Jaki, though probably he didn’t know her very well. It might help to study just what kind of image she was putting out there. I had heard a couple of her hits on the radio, had seen her perform on an awards show, and had once come across a video for “I Need My Space” online. When I searched the web, though, I found many other videos that included clips from her first TV series, cameo appearances acting on other shows (most notably, Galaxy Wars), concert footage, and interviews. And of course there were promotional videos for at least half a dozen of her best-known songs, which supposedly Jaki penned herself.
I checked out the last group first. These were artsy compositions, keyed to the song lyrics, that spun fantasies ranging from romantic to rebellious. For Jaki’s wistful ballad of loneliness and frustration “Free Me,” the lovely brunette ran and danced in slow motion across a field beneath an overcast sky, sometimes glancing behind as if something were chasing her. To the tune of her sultry rocker “Vicious Circle,” she swaggered around in a black crop top, leather mini, and stiletto boots, and at one point grabbed her anonymous partner forcefully by his tie. In the hip-hop number “Bits and Pieces,” she performed in front of a wall of colorful graffiti, abetted by four equally limber male dancers. I recognized this song as the one the Jak-ettes had been singing and dancing to back on the plaza at the hotel.
While this research was entertaining, it didn’t help me pin down what kind of stranger might be drawn to Jaki, or why. Her image shifted like a chameleon’s, from sweet and vulnerable to boldly sexual to hip and sassy. It was smart marketing, of course, designed to appeal to a wide spectrum. The really young girls and their parents could view her as an acceptable role model, while the older teens, especially boys, might prefer the tougher, hotter Jaki. Well, she had trained as an actress. No doubt she saw these different faces simply as roles she needed to play.
YouTube also offered some concert footage that showed the petite brunette commanding a stage in front of a vast audience, bantering with the band or her backup singers, and again performing both a sweet, vulnerable love song and a streetwise, sexy dance number. For an interview at her California apartment, Jaki shot the breeze with a writer from an e-zine (unseen behind the camera) and tossed off glib answers to all of his questions, as if nothing could throw her. I could see why girls her own age and younger would look up to her as the epitome of cool, totally in charge of her own life.
But was that really true?
And which side of her persona appealed the most to her troublesome stalker? The brazen vamp? The fun-loving hip-hop chick? Or the lonely, frightened girl running blindly from a threat that could come from anywhere, at any time?
* * *
Around eight-thirty, when I just wanted to watch some silly TV and forget the whole issue, I got a call from Perry. Maybe the rest of our demos had been canceled, after all?
“Hi,” I said. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”
“You are, Cassie . . . as long as you still feel safe coming to the expo.”
“I think so. It’s not as if you’ve got a sniper on the loose who’s picking off people at random . . . do you?”
A tight chuckle. “The cops don’t seem concerned about that, and if they were, you can be sure we’d shut the whole event down. As long as you’re willing to come back, though, I do have a special favor to ask. I’ve rescheduled your first grooming session tomorrow for ten instead of nine.”
“Sounds as if you’re the one doing me a favor. What’s up?”
He hesitated. “At nine, can you come up to Jaki Natal’s suite? She wants to meet you.”
It was my turn to laugh nervously. “Of course she does, seeing as we’re both such big celebrities! Seriously, though, why—”
“You gave your card to her father, and Jaki noticed that we talked with you in the parking garage. I mentioned that you deal with cats professionally and have even helped solve some
cat-related crimes around town. . . .” He sighed, as if in apology for getting me involved. “She figures you might have some special insight.”
A year ago, I might have pooh-poohed this idea. But a few times since then, I’d worked closely with the police, or other official organizations, to check out angles they didn’t have the time or manpower to investigate. And after all, when I’d given Hector my card, I had offered to help in any way I could.
“All right,” I told Perry. “Nine it is. Just tell me where to go.”
He gave me directions, saying the security staff would be told to expect me. “Come alone,” he added.
Had I suddenly graduated from police informant to undercover agent?
Chapter 9
True to Dawn’s prediction, I found my van still out front and unharmed the next morning and drove to the convention center. I had called Becky and told her that our morning demonstration had been postponed by an hour, so she didn’t need to join me on the plaza until just before ten. She sounded a bit sulky, probably because I would be meeting Jaki, who after all was Becky’s idol, not mine.
After parking in my assigned spot on the plaza, I entered the Bradburne and took the elevator up to the fourth-floor Presidential Suite. A swarthy bodyguard, well over six feet tall, checked my volunteer tag and driver’s license before ushering me toward the door. At my knock, Mira opened it only as far as the swing bar would allow. When she recognized me, she smiled faintly, unfastened the bar, and introduced herself. She still wore black, as if in mourning, but I suspected it was more of an artsy affectation, like her trendy, angled-bob haircut.
“Thanks so much for agreeing to meet with Jaki,” she said in a soft voice. “I think it will mean a lot to her.”
That sounded ironic to me, as if I were the celebrity and Jaki were some young fan, maybe wasting away from a horrible disease. “Glad to help.”
I stepped into the suite’s living/dining room, almost as large as the whole first floor of my shop. It featured sleek, contemporary furniture—light earth tones, gender-neutral—but in upscale materials like leather and tufted velvet. One alcove near the door held the components of a full kitchenette, including sink and microwave. A round, glossy dining table stood near the window beneath a modern, drum-shaped chandelier of hanging crystals. A short hallway probably led to the master suite. I guessed these must be the standard accommodations for hotel guests in Jaki’s income bracket.
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