Gone, Kitty, Gone

by Eileen Watkins

  “Thanks,” I told her. “I’ll just run upstairs first, change my clothes, and feed my own cats.”

  In spite of Keith’s visit the previous night, Matisse, Cole, and Tango still managed to convince me they all were starving. I gave them breakfast, then headed back downstairs to assume my fair share of responsibility for the shop’s boarders.

  When I gave Sarah the Persian cat cell phone cover, she squealed—which she doesn’t do often—in appreciation. “It looks just like my Harpo!”

  We didn’t have any pickups, drop-offs, or special grooming sessions scheduled for that day, so we let the first of our three restless boarders out into the playroom. A Russian Blue named Igor squirmed the whole time I was carrying him. Once free, he bounded around the stepped series of floating shelves as if his tail were on fire.

  I also returned a phone call from my mother, who had heard on the news about the arrest of her supposed friend “Steve” for stealing Jaki’s cat. I repeated the official explanation of how he’d been captured, downplaying my involvement. Mom didn’t need to know how close I’d come to being a cadaver on the steel carving table of a half-finished industrial kitchen.

  Bonelli already had given Sarah a condensed summary of the night before. While we worked now, I elaborated a bit more for my assistant, and she had the good sense to gasp at the risks I’d taken.

  “Didn’t I predict,” she said, “that when you finally got that van fixed up and on the road, it would just get you into more trouble? One of these days, girl, your luck is going to run out.”

  I tried to laugh it off. “Nine lives, right? I should still have maybe four or five left.”

  “On the other hand, you’re a hero! So how come they didn’t give you more credit in the news?”

  “Because I asked them not to. Honestly, I don’t need that kind of publicity.”

  “I guess not,” Sarah agreed. “You could end up with stalkers of your own.”

  “Exactly. Believe me, after the stress I saw Jaki going through, I really wouldn’t want to be famous.”

  By the time I finally returned Bonelli’s call, the digging and dumping outside had begun again, so I took my cell phone to the rear of the shop.

  “I know I need to come by and give a statement today,” I told the detective. “Mark and I were stuck at the hotel late last night, so we got a room. Well, Jaki got us one.”

  “Really! Got friends in high places now, have you?”

  “We spent the night in luxury, which I’m sure is more than Stefan Dumas can say.”

  “I guarantee that. Have to admit, I’ve never had a collar quite like him before.”

  “I can imagine. He and I had a very spacey conversation. One minute he had me feeling sorry for him, and then that cold, ruthless side would pop out. From what Jaki and her brother told me, though, the guy’s childhood and teen years must have been horrible.”

  “We did find out that his mother died last year, of a brain aneurism,” Bonelli told me. “I have a feeling that sent him off the rails. Even though he was always obsessed with Ms. Natal, at that point it took over his whole life.”

  “Was he holding down a job, at least?”

  “He worked as an electrical engineer for Martison Technical Services, out on Route 10, for about three years. But he got fired recently from that, too. His boss said Dumas started out polite and conscientious but lately developed a snarky attitude and took too much time off.”

  I remembered what Dion had told us, about methodical hardware types versus the freewheeling software guys. “Then Stefan wasn’t a coder.”

  “Nope, but he was friends with one, another guy at the company. After Dumas got fired, he told his buddy that he wanted to get back at Martison, screw with their office’s lights and the alarm system. It sounded pretty harmless, and his pal didn’t like the management much, either, so he had no problem helping out. It was just like Dion Janos told us—they bought malware, came up with a fake identity, et cetera.”

  “And as an electrical engineer, Stefan probably would’ve had no trouble figuring out the hotel’s grid, once he’d hacked into the system.”

  “True.” After a pause, Bonelli added, “You gotta wonder about some of these perps who really are smart. Why they can’t put it to some better use than causing mayhem.”

  “He had too many problems,” I guessed. “I suspected as much, even before I went into that kitchen and saw the table he’d set for himself and Jaki. He was terribly lonely . . . but terribly angry, too. Will he get any kind of psychological help?”

  “Remains to be seen. I doubt very much that he’ll get off on an insanity plea—he knew killing the guard and the PI was wrong. On the other hand, the way he planned that meeting with Jaki wasn’t very clearheaded. How could he hope not to get caught?”

  I saw her point—coming after all his careful planning, that part was almost self-destructive. “Maybe he figured if only she returned his feelings, it would all be worth it.”

  Just then, a shovelful of pavement hit the Dumpster out front with a crash that reverberated through the whole shop. Poor Igor bolted down from the playroom shelves and dashed for a carpeted tunnel at the back of the space.

  “What’s that—?” Bonelli started to ask. “Oh, right, the new water line.”

  “Yes, and my neighbor dropped in on me personally yesterday to ask why I couldn’t use my ‘pull’ with the police department to make it magically go away. I’m resigned to the drop-off in my business, but you have to admit, seven to seven is a big chunk of the day to have to listen to this.”

  “The longer they work each day, the faster they’ll get done,” the detective pointed out, with her trademark rationality. “But since I’m sure your nerves don’t need any more stress at this point, I’ll see what I can do. Maybe at least to shorten the hours.”

  “I’d be grateful,” I told her, “and so would Mrs. Kryznansky.”

  The rest of my first day back was blessedly uneventful, with few drop-ins because of the construction mess. At least by two o’clock the water in my taps and toilet began to run clear again. I took a break then to stroll to the police station and dictate and sign my official statement.

  That evening, I finally had time to pop over and visit Dawn. She met me downstairs and let me in by her shop door. She still wore the soft boot but was hopping around pretty nimbly on her crutches. As we stepped together into the rough-hewn freight elevator to go upstairs, I commented, “I guess this thing has been working okay for you? Nick did a good job on it.”

  “Sure did,” she agreed. “It’s never let me down yet—except when I wanted it to.”

  While we rose, slowly but surely, I told her how Nick’s son Dion had helped in the police investigation at the expo. The elevator jolted to a stop at Dawn’s second-floor living space, and the old iron door slid open. Kind of cool, in an artsy-urban-loft way.

  Soon we both relaxed in her living room, me with a glass of white wine and my friend with an herbal tea that wouldn’t fight with her painkillers. She settled back on her sofa, her soft-booted foot resting on one batik throw pillow and several others propping her up in back. I gave her the small gift bag from the expo, and Dawn enthused over the brass cat hair clip. Working blindly but expertly, she pulled back a handful of her long, thick auburn hair and fastened it with the ornament.

  Tigger sprang up on the sofa back to have a look.

  Dawn laughed. “He’s a fool for anything shiny. I’ll have to watch out or he’ll grab it for himself.”

  “Check the bag again,” I said.

  She found the striped catnip mouse and tossed it across the room to divert the kitten’s attention.

  “So tell me,” she said. “How did you really nail this Dumas guy? I got the feeling the news reports left an awful lot out.”

  “Okay, but you’re only the third person—besides Bonelli and Sarah—that I’m telling about this.” I described my confrontation with Jaki’s stalker in detail. “So far, neither Mark nor my mother knows th
e whole story, and I may want to keep it that way.”

  Dawn, who already had shared a couple of narrow escapes with me, could empathize. “Yes, you may. Unless you want a lot of scolding, hand-wringing, and warnings about not taking crazy chances. Sounds like you did a great job, though, of talking him down.”

  I recalled Stefan’s anguished face. “I just hope however the trial goes, and wherever they send him, he gets the help he needs. Hard time in a regular prison would destroy him. He’s been bullied all his life.”

  Dawn looked at me with a tilted head and an odd little smile. “Honestly, Cassie. Always worried about the underdog, even one that was ready to kill you!”

  * * *

  The next day, a follow-up news story about Stefan’s arrest outed me as the expo volunteer who’d noticed suspicious activity in a restricted area and tipped off the cops. Jaki was quoted as thanking “the Chadwick PD, Bradburne management, Cassie McGlone, my friends and family, and all the fans and cat lovers who offered their support for me and Gordie during this stressful time.”

  I got a mention and Alec didn’t. Maybe he was still on probation?

  The news article triggered a surprise phone call from Dria Mason, the rangy spokeswoman of the Jak-ettes. She actually apologized for giving me such a hard time, now that she and her friends knew I was only trying to help their idol find her stolen cat. Dria promised that, rather than blackening my reputation, they would spread the word that I was a dedicated friend of felines.

  Whether or not that helped my business any, at least my demonstrations at the expo brought a spate of new requests for the mobile grooming service. Sometimes, if the client wanted me to come out early in the morning or late in the afternoon, Sarah rode along to assist me. But I soon realized that if I was going keep the shop open at the same time, I would need a third pair of hands.

  My first choice, of course, was Becky. It would still be only a part-time position for her, but at least a paying one. Combined with her pet-sitting, it might help her to make ends meet and stay in the area.

  A week after the expo, I checked in with her by phone. She was delighted to report that the animal shelter had seen a sharp uptick in visitors and pet adoptions. Rocket, the mini pinscher, had found a home with a family who had picked up a brochure at the FOCA table. A local retirement community had expressed interest in adopting Ray, the older cat I’d used for my demo, as a mascot.

  “As for Glenda, we asked her what the heck she’d been up to, hanging out with the protestors,” Becky said. “I told her that it looked so suspicious, Chris and I began to wonder if she had something to do with the cat being kidnapped.”

  “After all,” I said, “she was pretty vocal in criticizing Jaki for ‘exploiting’ Gordie by toting him around to photo ops.”

  “Exactly. Glenda was shocked and angry at the accusation, but later she came to see how we might think that. She’s been a little mellower and easier to get along with ever since.”

  “Good.” It seemed the perfect time for me to pitch Becky the idea of helping me groom cats for customers on the road. “With the street work in front of my shop, I’ve started going out on more house calls, so I could use the help.”

  “Wow, Cassie, I’d love to. How big an area do you think you’ll be covering?”

  “I’ve already had several calls from outside Chadwick, but I’ll keep it within about a ten-mile radius, for starters. I’ve also been asked to do a groom-a-thon for charity this summer.”

  Becky chuckled. “I’m guessing that one won’t be as glamorous as the expo.”

  “No, but with any luck it won’t be as dangerous, either.”

  Our conversation reminded me that Perry originally hoped to make the North Jersey Cat Expo an annual event. But even though it was a financial success, it also had turned into a public relations nightmare. If I’d been Perry, I would never have wanted to put myself through such an ordeal again.

  Of course, I wasn’t Perry.

  One afternoon, as Sarah and I worked at the shop in relative peace and quiet, he called, sounding just as enthusiastic as the first time he’d dropped by in person.

  “How’s the Chadwick PD’s best secret weapon?” he teased me.

  “I don’t know if they’d agree with you on that,” I volleyed back. “They probably consider me their biggest pain in the butt.”

  “Nonsense. Anyhow, I’m not calling on you for any more sleuthing. I just want to know if I can count on you to do your mobile-grooming thing again at the Second Annual North Jersey Cat Expo.”

  The man really was a glutton for punishment. “The Bradburne’s actually holding it again? After all of this year’s drama?”

  My assistant perched on the stool next to mine and raised her eyebrows. I told him, “Sarah wants to hear. I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Perry said. “Hey, the event made money and got a lot of media attention. The animal shelters are happy, and the sponsors are happy. In the end, even Jaki was happy. Only one person I know who isn’t happy, and he’s behind bars.”

  And, of course, two guys had been killed. But I supposed neither Perry nor the Bradburne could be held responsible for those tragedies.

  “Maybe I’m speaking too soon,” he went on. “I’m guessing you got a bump in business after your appearance, Cassie, but maybe even that wasn’t enough to make up for everything you went through.”

  I admitted, “I just have a penchant for sticking my neck out a little too far.”

  “Well, your grooming demos were such a success that I really hope we can count on you for next year. I swear there will be no stalkers, no cats in jeopardy, no gunplay of any kind.”

  I still hesitated to make even a verbal commitment. “And no guest stars?”

  “Now, Cassie, we have to have a guest star to bring in more than just the hard-core cat lovers. No guarantee yet, but we do have somebody in the pipeline. Again, he’s big and he’s local.”

  “Who?” I noticed Sarah leaning closer, out of curiosity.

  “Like I said, not a sure thing yet, but . . . we’re talking to Marty Blatt.”

  Sarah groaned. “That jerk from the radio?”

  I asked, “C’mon, Perry. For real?”

  “I know, I know.” He tried to placate us. “Blatt’s got this reputation as a shock jock. He’s controversial, and he offends some people—once in a while, even me. But he is funny, and he’ll bring out an audience. He was born and bred in Jersey, and believe it or not, he’s also a total cat guy! He and his wife have a dozen rescues. Think of the headlines: ‘Marty Blatt—Just a Big Pussycat.’”

  By now I could hear that Perry was almost lampooning himself. Sarah wore a crooked smile but also shook her curly, graying head.

  “Sarah looks doubtful,” I told him, “and I always respect her judgment.”

  “Well, it is almost a whole year away. Just know that I’ll be checking back with you. Meanwhile, we’ll keep your parking space open on the plaza, okay?”

  “Great, Perry. Thanks for thinking of me.”

  When I’d hung up, Sarah said primly, “In a year, maybe he’ll have found a more appropriate guest star.”

  “Let’s hope,” I agreed. “A local guy whose radio show ticks off just about everybody! Gee, what could possibly go wrong?”