Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (6 page)

“Check those out,” Darla told Jake, nudging her and pointing to a series of cat-shaped pillows in plaid fabrics. “Wouldn’t they look great in the bookstore?”

“Sure, but remember I’m here as Hamlet’s bodyguard, not as your personal Sherpa. You buy it, you lug it.”

Promising herself a closer look at all the feline paraphernalia later, Darla turned her attention to the opposite side of the hall.

Here were the “rings”: six judging areas arranged one after another down the wall and separated from each other by side curtains. In each ring space, twenty or so chairs for spectators were arranged in rows in front of the judging table, a waist-high platform the size of a desk, topped with a smooth white surface and a lighted wooden canopy—Darla later read that the bulbs were required to be full-spectrum to properly show off the cats—with one leg wrapped with sisal to make a scratching post. Behind each of those tables was a U-shaped arrangement of broad benches lined by a series of wire cages. No doubt this was where the cats being judged awaited their turns. Right now, however, all the cages were empty, for the first classes had yet to be called.

But the greatest portion of the show hall was taken up by the cats themselves. Darla made a quick mental estimate, guessing there were close to three hundred meowing, purring, hissing felines gathered there. The competitors spanned all breeds, from hairless Sphynx kittens that could pass as little extraterrestrials to fluffy Maine Coons the size of bear cubs. Rows of tables had been set up down the center of the floor, each topped with wire cages similar to what Darla had seen in the judging rings. Here was where the competing cats would stay during show hours when they weren’t in the ring.

“And I thought people who spend a fortune on their dogs are crazy,” Jake said. “Look what they’ve done to those cages! The place looks like a toy shop filled with doll houses.”

Each small kennel was covered on the top and three sides. A few exhibitors made do with towels, but most of the cages sported custom covers that reflected the owners’ tastes. Some were covered in big cat prints in homage to the felines’ larger cousins; others were more girly, with down-home ruffled gingham or upscale lace-trimmed satin; still others simply had the owner’s cattery name embroidered on canvas. But Darla’s favorite was an elaborate concoction that resembled Sleeping Beauty’s castle, except in sparkly purple.

“I think they’re cute,” Darla countered as they continued up and down the aisles, nodding to the exhibitors as they passed and accepting compliments on Hamlet’s good manners. “And, look, some of the cats even have little kitty vanities set up beside their cages!”

The vanities in question actually were either small folding tables set at right angles to the cages, or else full tabletops that the exhibitors had reserved next to their respective wire kennels. The temporary grooming areas were basic towel-covered spaces with an array of combs, brushes, and other trappings that far surpassed what personal grooming tools Darla herself owned. Some of the exhibitors had their gear stored in hanging travel toiletries bags, while others had cosmetic cases brimming over with tools and products, enough to outfit a dozen human salons.

Many of the tabletops featured short wooden or cardboard screens positioned to form a rear wall and give the tables a stage-like appearance. Adding to the ambiance, those screens were adorned with past show ribbons or championship photos of the competing felines. Some even included “kittens for sale” notices with pictures of roly-poly future champions posed on lush lawns or in beribboned baskets. Despite what Nattie had indicated, Darla was still shocked at the asking prices.

Maybe in addition to coffee, she should start selling registered kittens at the bookstore, Darla told herself.

As they walked the floor, they saw the feline beauty show contestants undergoing a final, pre-judging grooming session—fur brushed against the grain until it fluffed to gleaming perfection, claws trimmed, and faces and hindquarters mopped with damp clothes.

Darla watched with interest as one owner brushed out her female Himalayan from merely fluffy into a silvery white, seal-pointed feline powder puff. A nearby Russian Blue was submitting less docilely to his regimen and grumbling in response to every move his owner made.

Major spritzing of fur went on, as well—“conditioning spray” Darla overheard the product being called. And she puzzled over why a few tables even held boxes of dryer sheets, until she saw one exhibitor make a couple of quick passes with a sheet over her Persian’s coat, doubtless to keep the static down.

“Talk about a lot of work,” Jake observed as they watched one cat owner with a pair of cuticle scissors painstakingly clip a few stray hairs from between her Abyssinian’s front toes. “These people must really want to win.”

“Oh, yes,” a voice spoke up behind them. “They most certainly do. Shows are a serious business.”

The speaker was a helmet-haired woman with tiny, steel-rimmed glasses. Since she was about the same size and age as Nattie and also wore a purple shirt and a big “Volunteer” button, Darla guessed this must be—

“Mildred? Hi, I’m Darla Pettistone.” With a gesture at Jake, she added, “And this is Nattie’s daughter, Jake Martelli. And of course, this is Hamlet,” she finished, proudly indicating Pettistone’s Fine Books’ official mascot.

Mildred gave them all a wide smile, revealing a smear of pink lipstick on slightly bucked front teeth. “Nice to meet you ladies. And we know all about Hamlet.” She leaned over and gave him a quick visual once-over. “He’s a beautiful boy. Such a glossy black coat. Are you going to show him in HHP?”

“HHP?” Darla echoed, giving her a confused look.

“The Household Pet category,” the old woman clarified. “Our shows aren’t just for registered cats. A fine specimen of your basic domestic shorthair, like Hamlet, would fit right in there. As long as he’s neutered and hasn’t been declawed, he can compete with other everyday cats and even win ribbons.”

“That sounds like fun,” Darla agreed, intrigued, “but we’d better let Hamlet concentrate on his guest-of-honor duties this time around. Nattie said you had a special area set up for him?”

“Oh, we do. It’s right in front of the stage.”

Mildred led them past the final row of exhibitors to an open area. In the corner behind the vendor booths, Darla saw a small concession stand serving coffee and breakfast sandwiches. The whiteboard menu also promised hot dogs and nachos for lunch.

In the opposite corner, a portable stage had been set up, complete with a large wooden podium and an oversized, flat-screen television mounted on a stand. The back third or so of the stage was curtained off, the heavy blue drapery forming a colorful backdrop. The stage rose waist high from floor level and was angled so that anyone who climbed up there would have a view of the entire hall. For the moment, however, the only person in the figurative spotlight was a chunky bald man in a maintenance worker’s uniform fumbling with a series of cables behind the podium. A teeth-gritting squawk of feedback momentarily drowned out the meow chorus, which, Darla noticed, had grown far quieter.

Or maybe, like Nattie had said, Darla had just gotten used to it.

A vaguely pie-shaped section of floor space that could accommodate perhaps a hundred standing spectators lay between the stage front and the exhibitor area. Since the hall was still filling up and no activity was happening to draw attention, only a few people milled around, examining a large structure made of wire and wood situated just in front of the stage.

Easels on either side featured bunting-draped white posters that proclaimed in red and gold letters:
The Feline Society of America National Championship Welcomes Its Guest of Honor, Hamlet the YouTube Karate Kitty!
A glossy black-and-white photo of Hamlet was affixed to each placard, reminding Darla of the “coming attractions” posters in movie theater lobbies.

It wasn’t until they were standing right beside the temporary digs, however, that Darla realized what else the show folks had done with Hamlet’s quarters.

“I can’t believe it! Look, it’s a little bookstore,” she pointed out to Jake and Mildred, bending to examine the pen more closely.

The cage was a good ten feet long and half again as wide, and tall enough that Darla could easily kneel inside it. Short wooden bookshelves filled with actual hard covers were arranged along the back of the pen to form a wall of books, while a couple more bookshelves had been set at right angles to divide the pen into three sections. A tufted gold footstool and a couple of pillows suspiciously similar to the sherbet ones in their hotel room were neatly scattered on the blue linoleum floor that had been cut specifically to size.

“His potty is back there”—Mildred pointed to a litter box discretely hidden by one of the divider shelves—“and his food and water are over there. The shelves are short enough that he can walk along top of them without bumping into the top of the cage. We even left spaces between the books if he wants to sleep on the shelves instead of one of the cushions.”

“Mildred, this is marvelous,” Darla exclaimed while Jake whipped out her cell phone and snapped a couple of shots. “I wouldn’t mind hanging out here all day myself. I’m sure Hamlet will love it. Right, Hammy?”

The cat deigned to give her a small mew that could have been interpreted a couple of different ways. Darla chose to believe it was a definite “you bet!”

“Now, we figured Hamlet would stay here most of the time while the show is going on,” the old woman went on, “but maybe every couple of hours you can take him out on his lead and walk him through the hall. Oh, and I almost forgot,” she went on. “This morning is all the preliminaries, but after lunch we’re going to have a little ceremony up here on the stage to formally introduce Hamlet and play his video. I think someone from the newspaper might even show up. So I need to be sure that Hamlet and his entourage”—she giggled at that last word—“are back here a little before two p.m.”

“Loose cat!”

The cry came from the exhibitors’ area. Reflexively, Darla glanced down to make sure she still had Hamlet’s lead firmly in her grasp. She did, which meant that some other wily feline apparently had escaped its owner.

“Don’t be alarmed, this happens at least once each show,” Mildred explained, all business now. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes. I need to join the search team.”

“We’ll be glad to help look, too,” Jake offered, while Darla nodded her own willingness to jump in.

Mildred shook her head. “No, dear. Please stay right here. We ask that only the designated search team and the owner look for the cat. Too many people running around will frighten the poor thing more than it already is. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Darla replied, “but isn’t that the cat right there?”

She pointed to a tiny tortoiseshell kitten crouched beneath one of the grooming tables in the last row of the exhibitor area.

Mildred glanced from the cat back to Darla and smiled. “Why, it certainly must be. My, you have sharp eyes. I’d better signal the team.”

While Darla and Jake watched, the old woman moved casually toward the table. A few more volunteers wearing the official polo and oversized lapel button were nearby, and Mildred waved an arm to gain their attention before pointing toward the bench. With military precision, the team moved in and surrounded the wayward tortie. Then, in a quick move, Mildred swooped down and scooped up the kitten before it realized what was happening.

A smattering of applause from the nearby spectators greeted Mildred’s capture of the kitten. The cat’s owner, meanwhile, rushed to join them. A sixtyish man with a tie-dyed T-shirt and blue bandana over lank gray curls smiled as he took his cat from Mildred. Snuggling the orange-and-black kitten tightly to his chest, he hurried back to his spot among the exhibitors.

“I guess she’s done that a time or two,” Jake said in approval as Mildred, dusting her hand together in a “that’s finished” gesture, headed back to where they waited.

“Well, that was a little excitement,” Mildred said a bit breathlessly as she rejoined them. “Now, where was I?”

“Two p.m. for the video. We’ll be ready,” Darla promised, hoping that if the press did show up, she could get a few minutes’ interview time to publicize her store. Then, with a look down at Hamlet, she said, “So, Hammy, you want to try out your new place?”

Setting him inside the pen and unsnapping his lead, Darla let him loose and fastened the door behind him again. Jake, meanwhile, was taking her bodyguarding duties seriously, making a careful round of the pen to check for any cat security breaches.

“Hamlet’s an escape artist,” the PI warned Mildred, “so either Darla or I will be here with him at all times.” Pointing to a second opening at the other end of the cage that Darla hadn’t noticed, Jake added, “And we need to make sure every door on this cage is double-fastened.”

“Don’t worry,” a woman’s cool voice abruptly spoke up behind them. “Our local FSA organization has been handling cats for years. You’ll find this pen as secure as Fort Knox. The earlier escape was strictly the owner’s fault.”

Darla had been kneeling beside the kennel, watching Hamlet tentatively sniff at the books. Reflexively, she glanced up and rose to greet the speaker. As she took a second look, however, she realized that she’d met the woman before . . . at least, in a manner of speaking.

Catching Jake’s gaze, Darla took advantage of Mildred’s nervous laugh and her burbling, “Oh, you startled me, Mrs. Timpson,” which momentarily distracted the newcomer. She mouthed three swift, panicked words in Jake’s direction.

The Martini Lady!

SIX

“OH, DARLA,” MILDRED EXCLAIMED, CLUTCHING DARLA’S
arm, “I was hoping I’d be able to introduce you. This is our show committee chairwoman, Mrs. Alicia Timpson. She’s the one who arranged for your Hamlet to be our special guest. She even oversaw the design of his pen. Mrs. Timpson, this is Darla Pettistone.”

Darla met the woman’s cool amber gaze and noted her jaw-length frosted hair and pale blue linen skirted suit, which had yet to wrinkle despite the humidity. Definitely the Martini Lady from the previous night. Now, however, she appeared stone-cold sober—and, unless she was one heck of a poker player, she appeared not to recognize Darla.
Thank goodness!

“Ah, yes, the bookstore owner,” Alicia replied with only the faintest of patronizing airs. “All of us on the local FSA board are thrilled that you and Hamlet were able to accept the invitation to our little event.”

She put out impeccably polished but surprisingly beefy fingers for a languid handshake.

“Thank you for providing such lovely accommodations. The hotel is first-rate,” Darla managed as she accepted the proffered hand, only to release it as swiftly as she politely could.

“We may not be New York City,” the woman conceded in a tone that indicated she was quite glad of it, “but we do have our certain small charms here in South Florida.” Turning to Jake, she added, “And who is your, ah, friend?”

“Jake Martelli, Martelli Investigations,” Jake said and handed over a business card. “I’m handling personal security for Ms. Pettistone and Hamlet.”

“I see,” the chairwoman replied, tucking Jake’s card into her leather clutch without bothering to look at it. “Of course, the Waterview provides for security both here and at the hotel. But extra protection for our special guests can’t hurt.”

The niceties out of the way, Alicia gave a regal nod. “It was lovely meeting all of you. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask Mildred or another of the volunteers for help.”

With that, she turned on her spiked heel and started back toward the exhibitor area.

“Wasn’t that lovely?” Mildred said, rushing to fill the sudden gap in the conversation. “Mrs. Timpson has chaired this show for the past four years, and she’s also in charge of our annual benefit that we put on in the fall. Because of her, we’ve doubled the amount of money we can distribute to various pet rescue organizations.”

“Impressive,” Jake agreed while Darla simply nodded, still processing the unexpected encounter with the Martini Lady. It seemed like that whole event on the patio was a “no harm, no foul” situation. Even so, instinct told her to watch her back around the woman.

“Of course, it helps that Billy Pope is a multimillionaire,” Mildred went on in a confidential tone.

At Darla’s confused look, she clarified. “Mrs. Timpson’s father. He made a fortune in real estate before the bubble burst and everyone lost their shirts. He used to show cats himself as a hobby, but he retired back in the nineties, and now he judges. He has tons of rich friends who wouldn’t dream of saying no to his daughter when she asks them to give to the cause.”

Another screech of feedback drew their attention to the stage again.

Darla jumped. Hamlet, who had gone from checking out the books to lazily batting the tassels on the tufted footstool, shot an annoyed look behind him before returning his attention to tassel batting.

“Oh, look, it’s time to begin,” Mildred declared with a glance at her watch. “Let’s move closer so we have a better view.” Pointing to a zaftig middle-aged blonde in a tight pink skirt suit who had climbed onstage and was now wielding the mike, Mildred went on, “That’s Shelley Jacobson, our announcer and events coordinator working with Mrs. Timpson. She’ll be introducing all the judges and pointing out the rings. If you have any questions, she can help you out, too.”

Darla nodded in recognition at the name. Shelley Jacobson had been the one who’d sent the official letter of invitation to Hamlet, and she’d been helpful over the phone in coordinating arrangements. Together, Darla and Shelley had agreed that the odds of a meteor striking the cat show were better than trusting Hamlet to recreate his famous kitty karate kata. Instead, Shelley assured Darla that they had a version of the viral video that had been specially enhanced for the event. What that entailed, Darla couldn’t guess, but she was taking it on faith that the cat-show crowd would find it entertaining.

Shelley, meanwhile, now flapped open a sheet of paper and bellowed into the microphone, “Test one, two. Test one, two. May I have your attention?”

The woman paused while the crowd began drifting in her direction. In another minute or so, sixty or seventy spectators started to fill the area in front of the stage. From babes in arms to elderly folks steering walkers, all ages and both genders were well represented.

As the crowd settled in, Shelley called, in slightly less deafening tones, “Welcome, everyone, to the Forty-third Annual Feline Society of America National Championship, being held for the ninth year in a row here in beautiful downtown Fort Lauderdale, Florida!”

Spectators and exhibitors alike clapped enthusiastically. Smiling, Shelley went on, “For all you first-time show attendees, we have a nice brochure at our front table that explains all about our cats and the judging process. And remember that the show lasts the whole weekend. If you have fun today, be sure you come back tomorrow to see even more wonderful cats.”

She paused to gesture a group of six men and women up onto the stage, and then went on, “Now, before our first events start, let me introduce our show judges.”

More applause followed as she read the names from her list. “Ms. Jane Trent, Mr. Robert Pyle, Ms. Cecilia Levin, Ms. Ida Greene, Mr. Mitchell Paul,” she called, with each respective judge nodding and waving to the crowd. “And, of course, we can’t forget our head judge, who has been part of this organization since its founding. Everyone knows Mr. Billy Pope.”

The applause increased as a white-haired man who looked to be in his seventies stepped forward, smiled, and waved. He was dressed in a tan, European-cut suit worn over a surprisingly whimsical orange-and-yellow shirt that Darla figured probably cost more than her whole outfit. Even better, Darla spied a pair of white wingtips peeping from beneath his trousers cuffs. Though she vaguely recalled an old sartorial rule about no white shoes before Memorial Day, she had to give the old man props for not dressing like a stuffy real estate baron.

“Love those shoes,” she muttered to Mildred with a smile.

“They’re Mr. Pope’s trademark look,” she whispered back. “You know, like Tom Wolfe and his white suits.”

With that bit of trivia, Mildred gave her a friendly nod and vanished back into the crowd. Jake, on her other side, gave Darla a nudge.

“That’s him, Ma’s friend,” she said. “Now, you tell me if he looks like an embezzler.”

“You’re right. He’s the kindly old guy who fixes your kids’ bikes and has the best candy on Halloween,” Darla agreed with a smile. “Though, actually, that makes me doubly suspicious of him.”

But, she wondered, why would Mr. Pope steal condo association money? It didn’t make sense. Hadn’t Mildred said earlier that the man was a multimillionaire? For him, a cool fifty thou would be chump change, hardly worth risking freedom or reputation over.

“Snap decision,” Jake replied with a matching grin. “The correct answer is:
I’m withholding judgment until I have more information
.”

“Fine. I’m withholding judgment until I have more information,” Darla obediently parroted, adding, “but in the meantime I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

“That shouldn’t be hard. I’m sure Ma will make a point of introducing you to him later today.”

Shelley continued, “And most of you know already that we have a very special treat this year. Hamlet the Karate Kitty of YouTube fame is here with us”—she gestured to the pen where said feline was lounging atop the footstool, looking more like a couch potato than a martial arts star—“and he’ll be walking the aisles meeting his fans throughout the day. And at two p.m. we’ll have a special playing of his video, so be sure to stop back here after lunch. Now, enjoy the show!”

While a good portion of the crowd filtered back toward the rings in anticipation of the judging, a small flock of children migrated to see Hamlet the Karate Kitty in person. To Darla’s surprised relief, rather than playing reclusive celebrity, Hamlet seemed to be relishing his fifteen minutes of fame. He rose from his perch and, leaping atop one of the bookshelves, posed politely for photos.

“I can’t believe how well Hamlet is taking to all this attention,” Darla told Jake in amazement. “If this was happening back at the store, there would be all sorts of hissing and pouncing. Maybe I should look behind the litter box for a pod.”

“Yeah, he’s certainly on his best behavior,” Jake agreed, sharing a smile at Darla’s old sci-fi movie reference. “Either he’s still zoned out from that spray of yours, or he’s decided it’s more fun playing to his fans. Let’s just hope it lasts.”

“Speaking of lasting, I’m already almost out of ‘paw’-tograph fliers.” Darla waved the stack of folded brochures, the thickness of which had diminished appreciably over the past few minutes. “I’ve got the file on a flash drive. Maybe there’s a copy shop somewhere on the block where I can print up some more before this afternoon.”

“Check in with Ma. She’ll probably know.”

As Darla nodded, more feedback sounded from the PA system, as the various ring clerks summoned cats to their respective stations.

“Long-haired kittens to Ring One. Entrants number one through sixteen.
Household Pets to Ring Two. Entrants number three through eighteen,”
came the announcements, one after another. While the remaining ring assignments were called, Darla turned to Jake and stared at her with puppy dog eyes, hands lifted high on her chest to imitate begging.

“Can I please, please, please go see the kitties while you watch Hamlet?” she wheedled in the same tone she’d heard her nieces use.

Jake laughed outright. “Go ahead, kid. I’ve got things handled here. Just don’t get carried away and decide to buy a show cat.”

“Oh, no danger of that. Hamlet is about all the cat I can handle.”

Leaving the fliers with Jake and giving Hamlet a final wave, Darla grabbed up her tote bag and followed the stream of spectators toward the judging rings. The ring clerks were repeating ring assignments, and Darla watched as a few tardy exhibitors gave their cats final quick brush swipes before trotting them over to the judging area.

Unable to resist, Darla made her first stop the long-haired kitten ring. The judging cages each held a single fluffy kitten—mostly Persians and Himalayans—the majority of whom seemed less than thrilled to be there. Tiny fuzzy paws reached through the cage wire and waved wildly, while the meow chorus moved up a register to a refrain of squeaky mews.

“So cute,” sighed a glasses-wearing brunette teen to her pimpled boyfriend, who seemed impervious to the sight.

Atop each cage now was a numbered card, alternating blue and pink around the ring.
Boy, girl, boy, girl
, Darla realized after a moment. While it might not matter much with kittens, no doubt such spacing was necessary for unneutered male cats.

Darla recognized the ring judge from the earlier introduction as Ms. Ida Greene.
Poor kittens
, she thought as the woman, who looked like every child’s scariest grade-school teacher, stalked over to the first cage and opened it. Darla hoped the little felines wouldn’t be traumatized by the woman’s brusque manner and sour expression. Feeling a bit indignant now, she wondered why someone would choose to judge cats—particularly kittens!—if she didn’t actually enjoy the job.

While the gray-haired, African American ring clerk busied herself with paperwork beside the judging table, Ms. Greene removed a smoky gray Persian kitten from his cage and carried him over to that platform. There, she plopped the little fellow into place, lightly hefting him a time or two as she ran her hands along his body. Her touch was efficient yet surprisingly gentle, and Darla wondered if perhaps she’d misjudged the woman.

“This one has sound coat color,” Ms. Greene murmured to the spectators, and then pulled back all the fur from around the kitten’s little face to better examine its eyes. Nodding in approval, she added, “Very nice head style.”

With efficient moves, she gave each tiny paw a little squeeze to reveal the required claws and checked under his tail for the requisite boy parts. Then, setting him down once more, she again felt along the length of him, brushing his fur backward to look more closely at his undercoat. Finally, the judge picked up a feathered wand similar to the one Darla had for Hamlet and began teasing the little Persian with it. The kitten promptly snared the feathers between two fluffy paws and wrestled with it for a moment before letting it go and flying halfway up the scratching post.

At the sight, Ms. Greene cracked what Darla was stunned to realize was a smile as she gently disengaged the kitten from the post. Then, to Darla’s even greater delight, the stern judge gave the kitten a little kiss atop his fuzzy head before returning him to his cage.