Fat Cat Spreads Out (17 page)

“You must have gotten pretty close to see all that,” Chase said.

“Oh no,” both sisters chorused.

“I might have taken two steps,” said Elsa, “but I backed right out. It was full of straw.”

“She couldn't go inside the building,” Eleanor said.

“No way,” Elsa added. “I couldn't get close to him. I wanted to run over and check to see if he might be alive.”

“Why didn't you?” Chase was missing something here. “You saw Dr. Ramos and my cat there, too, right?”

“Yes, I saw everything.”

“But you weren't inside the building?”

“Oh no. I couldn't. I saw everything from the doorway.”

“Why couldn't you go inside?”

“We're both deathly allergic,” Eleanor said. “That straw on the floor might kill her.”

Elsa nodded. “As it was, just getting a whiff and screaming like that set me off. I had to use my inhaler four times that night.”

“When Elsie called me, she was wheezing so hard I thought she might have to admit herself to the emergency room.” She turned to Elsa. “Good thing you had an extra inhaler with you.”

“Yes, I'm glad you told me to bring it. I sure needed it. The first one ran out on me.”

She hadn't even entered the building? Allergic to straw? Maybe she hadn't killed him after all. Chase remembered how awful her face had looked. It had been red and splotchy. Was that from her hay allergy? If so, did that mean she
had
been inside? Or would she react that way from the exposure from the doorway?

Could she have stabbed him and he staggered into the building after that? Probably not. There had been no indications that he didn't die where he was found.

“You know, they've let that man loose,” Elsa said. “The one who was there when I found my dead husband.”

“Who are you talking about?” Chase asked. “Dr. Ramos?” Chase was indignant. “He didn't kill your husband!”

“He was right there. But I think now he didn't do it; he's so good to Grey. Do you know why he was beside his body?”

“He went in there to get my cat!” And Patrice's cat collar. “Your husband was dead when he went in.” Chase heard her voice getting strident. Pain spiked behind her eyes.

Elsa huffed. “That Winn Cardiman. Nasty man. I'm pretty sure he did it. And they've let him go free, too.” She acted like the argument was over and she had won.

“I wonder what's on TV tonight,” Elsa said, sounding bored.

And now we change the subject, thought Chase.

Elsa looked around for the remote and found it on the side table, where Anna always kept it, next to Grey's cage. As she picked it up, Chase noticed a paw reaching up over the edge of the table. Before she could react, Quincy had jumped onto the table and swatted at the lock on the cage door. Grey nosed the door open and flew out.

All three women held their breath. Grey perched on top of her cage and peered down at the cat. Quincy crouched,
his tail twitching slightly. Then he stretched his nose up. Grey put her beak down and they touched.

As Quincy purred and licked Grey's beak, the bird started squawking, “Everything's coming up roses.” She sounded exactly like Ethel Merman.

S
ince Julie hadn't shown up yet when Chase needed to get to bed, she abandoned the plan to move Inger that night and brought her employee back home with her, lugging the suitcase up the stairs to the apartment. She also brought home a crashing headache. Lady Jane Grey had shrieked through three sitcoms and part of a singing competition show. She especially liked to mimic laugh tracks and high sopranos, as Chase remembered. No wonder Anna was getting tired of having the bird around. By the time Chase left, she didn't think the parrot was cute at all, even if Quincy was quite taken with her.

However, she was very pleased with Quincy's costume. Anna and Inger had done a bang-up job. A band around his head secured the lightweight horns and ears of Babe
the Blue Ox. A simple blue felt cape, buckled around his body, completed the transformation. Quincy didn't even seem to mind it too much. Anna had managed to fasten a tufted bit of cloth onto the rear of the cover-up for a bovine tail. The cat's extra girth gave more credibility to the thought that he might possibly be a miniature of the giant ox.

Chase took the costume out of the carryall to admire it. “Inger, you're a genius. This is wonderful. You'll be a whiz at making baby clothes.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say, because Inger's face crumpled and she burst into sobs.

“I'm sorry,” Inger wailed between blubbers.

Chase ran to get a tissue. “Oh no, don't
you
be sorry. I'm sorry I brought up the baby.”

“It's not that.” She wiped her face and blew her nose, the storm past as rapidly as it had sprung up. “I don't know what's wrong with me. All of a sudden, for no reason at all, I'll burst out crying. I've even done it in the shop with customers there.”

“I guess your hormones are wacky, aren't they? Doesn't pregnancy do that?”

“How would I know?” She looked on the verge of crying again.

“Look, we'll get you to a doctor and find a book that will tell you what's normal and what's not. There's no need to worry about something that's normal for mommies-to-be.”

“I guess.” Inger looked doubtful. New sobs shook her small shoulders.

“If this continues, I think you should see someone about depression, too. You're under a lot of stress.”

Chase put her arms around Inger's delicate frame and they sat on the couch together until Inger's occasional quaking sobs had stopped. Even though Inger had said, “It's not that,” about the baby, Chase knew she should be thinking about what she was going to do to take care of it. This, however, wasn't the right time to bring that up.

Quincy jumped up beside them and butted Inger's side, purring through her remaining sniffles.

“Oh, Quincy,” Inger said, gathering him onto her lap. She gave Chase a shy look. “Can I give him something?”

Chase hesitated. He didn't need more treats. “I'm not sure. What do you want to give him?”

Inger set Quincy in Chase's lap and jumped up. “I'll show you. I've been working on it in the kitchen this week when the shop was closed, before and after hours.”

She ran out the door and down the stairs. Quincy raced after her and Chase decided she'd better go, too.

Inger was reaching into the refrigerator. She brought out a plastic bag full of small round balls.

“I've been experimenting. I think he'll like these.”

“What are they?” To Chase, they looked like tiny meatballs.

“I don't know what to call them. I mashed together some tuna fish and cream cheese, then added some catnip.”

Chase relented, confronted with Inger's eager, happy face. “Sounds like he'll like them. Give it a go.”

“Here, Quincy.” Inger put one of the balls on the floor and Quincy approached it cautiously. He sniffed it, then batted the sphere a few inches. A couple more bats, then he pounced and devoured it.

Both women were laughing at his antics.

“One more?” Inger asked Chase.

“Sure. I think you have a hit. Go, Quincy, go!”

He rolled on the floor where the treat had been.

“I don't have a name for them.”

As Quincy chased the next one around, Chase said, “I know. Those are Go-Go Balls.”

“Yes! I like that. I'm so glad he likes them.” Inger slid Chase a sideways glance. “Thank you, Ms. Oliver, for turning the heat up in the apartment.”

“You're welcome. You can call me Chase, you know.”

After Inger had gone to bed, Chase and Quincy curled up together on the couch. Quincy was tired from chasing his Go-Go Balls around the kitchen downstairs. He purred with his eyes tightly closed. Chase felt the pain in her head ease up just a tad. The tension melted out of her neck and shoulders. The headache receded further. Cats were such good therapists.

The ox costume was on the arm of the couch, where she had dropped it to comfort Inger. Chase fingered it and spoke to her little guy. “You'll win the contest, won't you, Quincy Wincy? We'll come home victorious. Without an extra houseguest, I hope. Maybe by Sunday night we'll be in our own bed. Wouldn't that be nice?”

The Fancy Cat Contest was going to be held in the
afternoon on Sunday. She and Anna had decided to close the booth for it so Anna could watch. They had heard other merchants saying they would close up, too. It would be the last day of the fair. Chase panicked a bit at that. She wouldn't have a chance to observe all the suspects together in one place again after the fair closed. It would be a relief not to be on the lookout for a killer, though.

Her mind wanted to dwell on possible suspects a bit longer. Reluctantly, she decided to cross Elsa off the list. It was a shame. She had such an obvious motive, with her husband about to leave her high and dry, taking all their cash to open a butter-carving studio in Costa Rica. But she claimed to have that straw allergy. It occurred to her that it would probably be easy enough to check.

Who else was still on her list?

Karl Minsky. That was a given. Should she consider his daughter Mara? True, they alibied each other. But if they were both in on it, or even if one knew the other had done the deed, they would surely provide alibis for each other. Had their excuses been verified? Detective Olson was being closemouthed about all this.

Maybe she would have to return Winn Cardiman to her list. He had left, so everyone said, but he wasn't gone. She rubbed her finger, still sore from being pricked by his carving tool. He wasn't any less angry at Oake now than he had been.

There were other butter sculptors, too. Was it too late to check out all of them? She kicked herself for concentrating only on those two. She should have considered all of them.

Patrice Youngren was Mike's cousin. Did that mean she was a good person? Mike said she was flaky. That didn't mean crazy or sinister, but it could. Since the collar seemed to be involved with the murder, she should be kept on the list, even if she had an alibi. She was definitely wrapped up in this mess somehow.

Then there were the two Aronoff men. The father, Ivan, who was sort of bonkers. He went on and on about that diamond cat collar. Where could it be? Peter, Ivan's very sane son, as far as Chase could tell, was worried that he didn't have an alibi. Maybe the fact that he was worried about that meant he was guilty. Maybe not.

Chase would have to do her best to get to the truth. Somehow. “Use What You Got” from
The Life
popped into her head.

*   *   *

Saturday dawned as
an almost exact twin of Friday, cold and blustery. Almost done, she told herself. Tomorrow would be over before she knew it and life would return to normal. Then she kicked herself for thinking that. Life would never be normal again for anyone associated with the dead man. Or for his killer.

Before she got out of the car at the fair, Chase pulled on her wool gloves and looped her scarf around her neck several times, watching leaves and papers leap into the air and dance, whipped by the same wind that whistled through the door gaskets. She took a deep breath and hauled Quincy's carrier out of the car. A gust immediately sent it sideways and up several inches. Quincy howled.

“I know, little guy. This isn't pleasant, is it? Wouldn't a person have to be crazy to want to stroll around a fair on a day like this?” However, it was Saturday, the penultimate day, and she knew hordes of people would flock to the venue. “One good thing,” she told Quincy, “we've done good business this week. Julie was right in telling us we needed to be here.” Quincy didn't seem to care about the income. “We would never have made this money in the shop this week. And Inger says business isn't bad back there either.” Neither she nor Anna had reconciled the books since the fair had started. The books would be there when it was over.

The walk through the parking lot was short, and soon she was inside the large building. It was so well heated today, she had to set the crate down and unwind her scarf. “They don't have to overcompensate for the cold outside by making it like a sauna in here,” she mumbled, picking Quincy up and trudging down the hallway. The place bustled with exhibitors and fairgoers alike who had arrived extra early to get in a full day.

She turned the knob on the door to the vet clinic. Nothing happened. Mike wasn't here yet? That wasn't like him. No sooner had she stuck her fist on her hip, wondering what to do next, than Mike's aunt Betsy Youngren hurried up behind her. She looked so worried, Chase had to ask her if everything was all right.

“No, it's not.” Her words quavered and the hand holding the key shook.

“What's the matter?”

“They've arrested Michael.” Betsy bit her bottom lip.

“For what?”

“The murder of Larry Oake.”

If a chair had been behind Chase, she would have plopped into it. The wall was there, though, so she fell back against it. “But they questioned him and let him go.”

“I called to see what I could find out, and all they would tell me is that there's new evidence.”

“Who did you speak to?”

“That detective. Olson.”

“But he wouldn't tell you what the evidence is?”

Betsy shook her head. “Michael asked me to call a colleague of his in Edina to get a replacement in here for today.”

“You spoke with Mike?”

“No. I tried to, but they wouldn't let me.”
They
, Chase assumed, being Niles Olson. “A lawyer named Gerrold something called me. Michael had asked him to.”

“Gerrold Gustafson?” Chase asked.

“That's it.”

Gustafson was the man Julie had mentioned, a “little powerhouse,” she'd called him. Chase didn't care how big or little the guy was, just that he be able to defend Mike. Mike hadn't killed Oake!

Betsy unlocked the door and flipped the light switch on. “You might as well take your cat back to the cages. Dr. Drood should be here soon.” She busied herself taking off her outer garments and hanging them over the back of her chair.

Chase hesitated a moment, wanting to know more about Mike. Before she could ask, the outer door was flung open and a gaunt, stooped man shuffled into the room. He peered at the two women through thick, round glasses that magnified his eyes and gave Chase the impression of a staring owl. His expression wasn't friendly. He seemed indifferent to Betsy and Chase.

“What have we here?” he said in a high, quavering voice, starting toward Quincy's crate, which stood on the floor at Chase's feet.

“Who are you?” Chase stepped in front of her cat, shielding him from this man.

“Are you Dr. Drood?” Betsy smiled at him as best she could, beneath her worried brow.

“I am,” he said, straightening slightly but remaining stooped.

Betsy came from behind the desk and opened the inner door. “Here's the clinic. Please go in and make yourself at home.”

Dr. Drood stared at Quincy.

“I'll send Ms. Oliver back in a moment.” Betsy was firm, clipping her words. Chase got the feeling Betsy disliked the man as much as she did, on first sight.

The man stared at them a moment longer, then opened the clinic door. “I'm ready anytime,” he said. He slammed the door behind him. Chase heard
skritch
ing noises from Quincy's crate. The man had scared her cat slamming the door like that. What kind of an animal doctor was he?

“Where did you say he came from?” Chase whispered to Betsy.

“Mike said this colleague of his could get him someone at the last minute.”

“He didn't say he could get anyone good, I guess.” Chase picked up the crate. “We might as well go in. I do have to drop Quincy off and get to the booth.”

She reopened the door, closing it quietly. She set the crate on the counter and started to unlatch it.

The doctor bumped her aside. “Wait just a minute.” The doctor's breath smelled like fish and sweat socks. “I have to know something about this animal.”

Chase wondered what he needed to know. “His name is Quincy. He's very clever. He's on a diet, so I have his food and a treat here.” She drew the plastic bags from her tote and handed them to him.

He set them on the small desk. “What kind of animal is it?”

It?
It?
“This is a cat, and he's a boy, not an it.”

“Breed?”

“I don't really know. Plain old shorthair, I guess. I got him from the pound. His litter was rescued from the beach in Chicago.”

He stuck his face close to the case, peering into the slits.

“He stays in that cage during the day.” Chase pointed to the large enclosure. “I'm dropping him off, and I'll pick him up tonight, though I'll probably come see him during the day.”

“You can go.” He gave her an imperious look.

“I'll put him in the cage first.” Chase bumped the doctor aside, just as he had done to her, quickly unlatched the carrier, and put Quincy into the cage. He didn't curl
up as he usually did. Instead, he crouched and kept his eyes on the doctor. Chase spoke to her cat. “You'll be okay, babykins. I'll be back soon.”