Fat Cat Spreads Out (7 page)

When Chase heard Viktor start to berate his granddaughter for hiding “it” in a butter sculpture, she moved on.

Why did Mike need an excuse to be with the dead
man? Chase was more puzzled than ever, and beginning to have doubts about Mike.

When she returned home, tired to the bone from standing and selling all day, Inger was still in the shop, packing up last week's leftovers to take to the homeless shelter. They usually dropped them off on Sunday night. Inger had also done a good bit of baking.

“Can I go with you when you take these?” she asked Chase.

“Sure. Just let me put Quincy upstairs.”

Chase wondered why Inger wanted to go, then remembered she'd been eager to go there last week, too.

“I'll take them in if you want to wait in the car,” she said as Chase pulled out of the parking lot at the Bar None.

“That's okay. I'll help.” They had less than usual this week, since they'd been taking so much product to the fair and selling nearly all of it each day.

On the way, Chase tried to find out why Inger was so eager to visit the shelter.

“You really like going to the shelter, don't you?” she said.

“It's a wonderful thing you and Anna do. I like to help out with that.” Her eyes glowed with her bright smile.

“Do you know any of the people who work there?”

Inger looked away, as if they were passing fascinating scenery instead of going down the streets of Minneapolis. “Not really.”

After they parked and went inside, though, and made their way to the kitchen, Inger scanned the dining room with a look of disappointment. They only had to make one trip to cart the two boxes of dessert bars inside.

The burly chief cook greeted them warmly. “Glad to see you again. The folks here always look forward to your desserts.”

He chuckled at Inger. “I think your young man's luck has turned. They're not here anymore.”

Chase raised her eyebrows at Inger in question, but the young woman turned away and busied herself unpacking one of the boxes.

When they finished unloading, the cook gave each of them a hug, his apron redolent of sausage, the main course for the night.

They walked out past the tables full of hungry homeless people. About half were single men, some old and some young. The others were couples or families, some with children, and one couple with two toddlers. Chase knew they all had to leave during the day and she wondered what people with babies did in the cold winter weather when they had no place of their own.

Inger inspected the diners one last time on their way out to Chase's car.

On the way back, Chase had to ask her point-blank. “Were you looking for someone?”

“Where? At the homeless shelter?”

“Yes. That's the only place we've been.”

“Well, sort of. He wasn't there, though.”

“A young man?”

Inger shrugged.

“I guess it's good news that he's not there any longer, that his luck has changed,” Chase said.

“Mmm.”

That's all Chase could get out of her before she dropped her at Anna's for the night. Before she pulled away from Anna's curb, Tanner messaged her that he didn't have product information and pictures yet. No, he didn't. At the next red light she messaged back that it might be a few days before she could get that to him. She would have to photograph each product and write a description. The prices wouldn't be hard; those were already set. How would Tanner set up online ordering for the customers? Or should they all just come to the shop to buy dessert bars, like Anna wanted them to? It might be too complicated right now to set up ordering and shipping procedures. It was a lot to think about. And Tanner had wanted a blog and Twitter and Facebook! No way. At least not in the near future.

Later that evening, she replayed the conversation that had come to her through the vet clinic door. The diamond cat collar again. She looked up the cat food company online and the dazzling collar was featured front and center on their page.

“What do you think?” She addressed the cat in her lap, who had been helpfully batting her arm as she reviewed the online information about Picky Puss. “Do we still want to enter the contest?”

Quincy blinked his large amber eyes.

“That means yes?”

Quincy twitched the very tip of his ginger tail.

“We have to come up with a costume. Honestly, I don't know if you would tolerate being filmed for a commercial, but it would be excellent to get your picture on a cat
food bag.” She stroked him and he lowered his head, arched his back, and purred his appreciation.

“I wish you could tell me exactly what you saw in that butter sculpture building.”

Quincy raised his head. Did he know the word
butter
?

“If only you could testify that Mike didn't kill anyone. I'm sure you'd do that if you could, right?”

He leaned into Chase's hand as she caressed the side of his head. She fingered his silky ear, the one with the notch missing from a fight.

Quincy closed his eyes and continued to purr.

T
here wasn't much letup in attendance, even though it was Monday, a regular workday for most people. The schools were having their fall break to coincide with the weeklong fair, which helped immensely.

There was a lull in the action at midmorning, however, and Chase took advantage of it to stroll out of the booth. She stopped to chat with the travel agents. The short redhead was gone, but the tall blonde stepped forward and, with a brilliant smile, handed her their promotional pamphlet.

“I don't think I've heard your name yet,” Chase said. “I'm Chase Oliver.”

“And I'm Sally Ritten.”

“You were talking about the missing diamond collar yesterday,” Chase said, leafing through it and admiring the pictures of exotic islands and European cathedrals. “Where is it supposed to be? In an exhibit?”

“It was the central exhibit.”

Chase said. “Is that in the main building?”

“Oh yes!” the woman gushed. “You
must
go see the exhibit. Absolutely charming. Even without the diamonds. There's plenty more there to see.”

Chase noticed that the woman wore rings on almost every finger and a wide choker studded with what must have been faux diamonds. If they were real, the necklace would be priceless.

“You like jewelry?” Chase asked.

“Of course.” She smiled and waggled her gem-studded fingers. “But these are just . . . you know. The exhibit, though . . . You have to go see it.”

She decided she would. There was no better time than right now. Chase nipped back to the Bar None and told Anna she was going to be gone for fifteen minutes.

“Take your time. If we get swamped, the customers will have to wait in line. It'll make us look good to have a line out the door.”

That had already happened a few times over the weekend, even with two, sometimes four, of them there and working as fast as they could.

Chase made her way to the big exhibition hall. An easel inside the door listed the exhibits and their room numbers. She hadn't noticed it before but now saw that
the Picky Puss exhibit was in room 3A, down the hallway to her left.

The room was smaller than the animal contest arena across the hall but roomy enough for the three dozen or so people inside to comfortably browse and meander.

Several tables held glass cases full of feline-themed items. The first was filled with cat toys, according to the sign, including some replicas of famous old ones. These were not toys
for
cats, though, they were toy cats. There were modern cat dolls and stuffed toys. Also darling old metal windup cats, a vintage rubber cat, some cloth ones, some with fur. One metal toy was a striped cat, like Quincy, that held a ball between its two front paws. The original ears, which had been made of leather, were missing, but the sign next to it said that it still worked. If you pushed its blue metal tail down, it would scoot across the floor.

She passed by the next case, which held cat sculptures. Some of them were ceramic and some metal. A few pieces even purported to be Egyptian, but they didn't look old enough to be ancient treasures to her untutored eye.

The next exhibit she came to was the one she had been seeking, the cat food company's main table. It held cat food bags and boxes featuring large photos of various pretty kitties. Some of them were from years ago, since the local company had been around for at least twenty years. The bags surrounded an empty blue velvet cushion. The card next to the cushion read, “DIAMOND CAT COLLAR,” in large letters. A woman came up from behind, stood next to her, and huffed loudly.

“It's a shame it's missing, isn't it?” Chase said to her.

The woman was overdressed for the occasion, in a dark blue power suit, white blouse with a large billowy bow, and low heels.

“I am Cassandra Sharp, representing Picky Puss. It is not a shame. It is a travesty.” She spit out her words as she waved a wrist bearing a flashy watch. Chase wondered if the diamonds on it were real.

“How terrible for you, Ms. Sharp,” Chase said, trying to be nice to the rather rude and abrupt woman. “I hope it can be recovered.”

“It does not seem to be a priority for the police, now that that man was murdered.”

“I'm sure you can understand that. Murder is more important than—”

“This is my job on the line. The company will hold me responsible. Our insurers will have my head. I never dreamed I would need ironclad security at this Podunk fair. When our insurance company hears about this . . .” She clamped her thin lips shut.

“Don't you think the two events are tied together? Maybe solving the murder might find you the collar?”

“Do not make me laugh.” The aptly named Ms. Sharp sneered at Chase, then stalked off and out the door of the exhibition room.

But they
were
related, the murder and the theft—they had to be. The wheels in her head started spinning. She ticked off the facts that she knew, or had overheard and assumed were true.

The Picky Puss company, in the person of the rude sourpuss in the blue suit, had put the valuable item on display in a glass case without a visible lock. Chase assumed she could lift the lid to get at the contents. Not a wise move, even in a “Podunk” fair. People were people everywhere.

Patrice was sticky-fingered. She had probably filched the collar from the exhibit. An even sillier move.

Where was the cat collar now?

“I still cannot believe it,” said a man behind her. “Do you see this?” He had a heavy accent—Russian?—and his words dripped with sorrow.

“Papa, keep your voice down,” said a whispering man.

The man continued in a softer tone of voice, but with the same intensity. “For you, Peter. I want only best for you. Some day you understand that.” His last words came through his sobs.

“Papa, let's go. There's no reason they shouldn't do publicity.”

“Peter, the money should go to you.”

“No, it should not, Papa. It never should have. Stop saying things like that.”

Not wanting to be rude and stare, Chase cocked her head, as if studying all the pieces in the case, one by one, until they moved on. Then she turned her head the slightest bit to catch the speakers in her peripheral vision.

They were the same height and looked almost like brothers, but must be father and son. From the back, the two were unremarkable, both wearing jeans and nylon
jackets, both with short brunet haircuts. The younger one was pulling the other by his upper arm. She didn't know if she would even recognize them again if she saw them. She knew for sure that one of them was quite emotional.

Was the man with the accent affected by the display? Was he even referring to it? They were standing facing it, but she had no idea what they'd been talking about. They may have just stopped there to have their discussion.

“Ahead we plow, into the darkening night,” she sang under her breath. She continued singing “Autumn” from
Titanic
as she exited the building.

Chase returned to their booth to find Anna deep in serious conversation with a woman who had a stylish short hairdo. Chase recognized her as the weeping woman who had been denied a ride in the ambulance with the dead man. What on earth was she doing back at the fair? Chase thought that if her own husband, which she didn't have now, but might someday, had been murdered here, she would stay far away. Maybe never visit another fair again.

The widow looked up, startled, when Chase entered the booth. She wore long spiral earrings that twirled when she moved her head.

“Hi, Chase.” Anna's voice was bright, in contrast to Elsa's glum expression. “Have you met Elsa Oake?”

Chase shook her head. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

“Yes. Same here.” The woman sniffed, as if she had been crying. She dabbed at her eyes, but they were dry. She swiped at her nose with the same tissue that she had
dug out of her large shoulder bag, then walked out of the booth.

“Is she all right?” asked Chase.

“Of course not, Charity. Her husband has been murdered.”

“Well, yeah. But I meant, should you go after her?”

“She's meeting someone official from the fair, or maybe the police, to collect the rest of Mr. Oake's things. They're releasing some of his tools. The things they're not holding for evidence.”

“I saw his workstation.”

“Poor Elsa is especially distraught because of the situation between her and her husband when he died.”

Chase helped herself to a Lemon Bar. She couldn't be around them all day and never eat any. “What situation?” She held the tangy goodness on her tongue to savor it as long as possible.

Just then a chattering family came in and bought so many dessert bars, they seemed to be stocking up for a famine. The rush continued until closing time. The two women worked nonstop, except for brief forays for sustenance when they got so hungry they were ready to drop.

Finally, it was time to pack up. Chase spied something shiny on the floor. She stooped to pick up a spiral earring. “I think Elsa Oake must have dropped this,” she said.

Anna took it and held it up to inspect it. “I think you're right. This looks like hers. Looks like a nice one, too.”

“We should try to return it. She didn't give you her phone number or address, I don't suppose.”

“No, but she said she's staying at the Crowne Plaza
downtown. If you want to run this stuff to the shop, I'll stop by there and see if I can give it to her.”

“Anna, what were you saying earlier about her situation, when her husband . . . died?” Chase hated to say the word
murder
.

“It's tough. She had been going through some papers of his—I'm not sure why—and she found a stack of real estate ads he'd cut out. I think she's naturally snoopy. She confronted him before they came here, and he said he was going to buy a live-in studio in Madison and carve butter full-time if he won the prize at this fair.”

“He thought he could retire on
that
prize?”

“How much is it?” Anna asked.

“It's twenty-five thousand dollars, which is a nice amount, but that's not enough to live on for the rest of your life.”

“Apparently, he's done well with other business ventures, and this would be enough for him to acquire the property and retire. However, his plans didn't include his wife.”

“He was going to leave her?”

“If he won,” Anna said.

“According to Julie and Jay, he would have won. I don't think anyone here could have beaten him. Not if he really was the best butter sculptor in the Midwest.”

“Elsa said she was livid about it. They've been arguing ever since they arrived, but she finally blew her stack.”

“Did that happen in the sculpture building?”

“I'm not sure. I got the feeling that the confrontation
was here at the fair, somewhere. The argument was the last time she spoke with him.”

After Anna left with the earring, Chase twirled her hair and wondered exactly how angry Elsa had been. Angry enough to commit murder?