Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (8 page)

Curious, Darla wondered what the two could have been discussing to lead to Nattie’s extreme reaction. While she was sure the old woman could hold her own against the breeder, she thought maybe she should find out what had gone down in case Nattie took it a step farther and went completely “old neighborhood” on the man.

“Pastry?” she asked in a bland tone, sidling up to where Nattie stood and waving the remaining bakery bag in the old woman’s direction.

Nattie gave her a genial smile. “Well, maybe one,” she replied, reaching in and pulling out a guava pastry, “but that’s it. I already ate four donuts out of the box Mildred brought. Gotta save some room for lunch. Besides, I don’t digest too good when I’m riled up.”

“Oh, that,” was Darla’s noncommittal response. With a swift look around to make sure they weren’t being overhead, she casually went on, “I saw you having words with one of the exhibitors. Who is he? Is anything wrong?”

“That was Mr. Fancy Pants Ted Stein.” Nattie’s tone made it clear she didn’t approve of fancy pantsers, be they people or shops. “He thinks he got robbed in the HHP category and wants to file a complaint against the judge.”

“I saw that category being judged, and I think Mr. Paul did a fine job. The cat that won was lovely.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Stein thinks
he
shoulda won. I told him if he has a complaint, he needs to take it to Billy.”

“You mean the head judge, Mr. Pope?” At Nattie’s nod, Darla asked, “Well, did he go complain, then?”

Nattie lifted her penciled-in brows. “No way is he gonna complain to Billy. Once they were friends, but now there’s bad blood between them two. That Stein fellow, he’s on the condo board where I live. He’s the one accusing Billy of stealing the missing condo association money.”

Before Darla could question her further, Nattie went on in a stout tone, “Billy’s innocent, of course. He never touched a cent of our association money that he wasn’t supposed to. But that Stein character, he’s a whole other bucket of goldfish.”

“I did get the impression that Mr. Stein was kind of a jerk,” Darla agreed, failing to understand the woman’s muddled metaphor but pretty sure she knew where Nattie was trying to go with it. “Do you think he’s trying to frame Mr. Pope on purpose?”

The old woman nodded.

“Bingo. I think he’s trying to make Billy look bad because Billy wouldn’t invest in Stein’s Minx scheme. Billy says Stein’s a charlatan out to make some fast money, and that new cat breed ain’t for real. It got pretty nasty at the board meeting last night. They about got into a fight in the parking lot. Me and Jacqueline, we had to break it up.”

Now it was Darla’s turn to lift her brows. Jake hadn’t mentioned that part of the evening’s excitement to her. “I can see where you don’t want to be in the middle on this one. Should I mention this little run-in with Mr. Stein to Jake?”

“Nah, don’t worry her. I can take care of myself.” Grinning, Nattie flexed a scrawny bicep before glancing past Darla, and adding, “Oops, gotta go. Some people need tickets here.”

Leaving Nattie to help the young family that had stepped up to the table, Darla left with her pastries and started through the exhibition hall toward the back. She was just congratulating herself on her restraint in walking through the vendor area (simply eyeing a cat tote bag surely didn’t count) when a scream of pure terror made her almost drop her pastry bag.

Darla and everyone else within earshot—which pretty much was the entire exhibition hall!—whipped around, frantically looking for the source of that chilling cry. Darla spied her almost immediately: the freckled girl whose cat had won first place in Household Pets. The young woman stood out from the rest of the crowd, mostly because she was spinning about like a cat chasing its tail in the aisle where Darla stood. Her hands, however, were the most noticeable thing about her, coated as they were with something wet and red.

And then the girl stopped spinning long enough to shriek, “Someone’s murdered my Cozy Kitty!”

SEVEN

MURDERED HER CAT?

Instinctively, Darla rushed forward to where the girl stood sobbing uncontrollably. Already, four other nearby exhibitors converged on the girl and were huddled protectively about her.

“No, stay back,” one of those women called in a shaky voice, raising a hand, palm-out, in a “stop” gesture. “It’s—it’s too awful.”

At the woman’s words, one young family made a swift retreat in the opposite direction, parental hands shielding toddler eyes. A few other spectators had already hurried to the scene with Darla to see if they could help. They all prudently halted a good ten feet back from the carnage, maintaining a respectful silence while the cat owner sobbed.

“I was only gone for a few minutes,” the girl wailed softly to the women comforting her. “She was just fine then, but when I came back she was like, like . . . that.”

The girl dissolved into fresh tears, and Darla felt her own heart sink in sympathy. More than once had she feared the worst for Hamlet, and each time the thought had sent a burning little dagger of disbelief ripping through her very core. At least the girl was among people who understood that a pet was far more than just an animal.

“Coming through, coming through,” Darla heard a man’s voice abruptly call behind her, and she reflexively moved aside.

The speaker was a young Hispanic man with slicked-back black hair wearing a blue lab coat and carrying a medical bag. He must be the show’s official veterinarian, Darla realized. Behind him, she spotted Billy Pope trotting along as fast as he could go, followed by his daughter, Alicia Timpson, aka the Martini Lady.

Darla held her breath as the vet reached inside the wire enclosure. His body blocked her view of the cat, for which she was grateful. Then he abruptly straightened and turned to Billy for a few quick words. Billy took a step back, his expression one of outrage as the vet lifted a red-streaked palm. A collective gasp rose from the spectators alongside Darla. Before she could wonder what in the heck was going on now, the vet leaned into the cage again.

He dragged out the limp white cat, covered in red . . . and thrust the feline into her owner’s arms! Darla watched in horror and then sagged in relief as the cat squirmed in her owner’s grip. Her meows weren’t yowls of pain, but merely indicated irritation at being unceremoniously dragged from her cage.

Darla turned to the stocky middle-aged woman wearing a “Cats Rule, Dogs Drool”
T-shirt standing next to her.

“Look, she’s alive!” Darla exclaimed, instinctively grabbing the woman’s hands as the two of them did an impromptu happy dance there in the aisle.

“False alarm,” Billy Pope called in a reedy voice. Waving his hands in a dismissive gesture at the surrounding crowd, he clarified. “You can go back to what you were doing. Dr. Navidad assures me that the cat’s fine . . . just a little messy.”

And, indeed, Cozy appeared quite hale. Her dance over—and feeling slightly embarrassed at her impulsive show of emotion with a stranger—Darla saw Alicia Timpson grab a towel from one of the grooming tables, wrap it around girl and cat, and begin escorting them away from the onlookers.

“But what about all the blood?” demanded Darla’s temporary dance partner. The cartoon feline on her T-shirt ballooned alarmingly as the woman heaved an indignant breath and pointed. “It’s like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre in that cage.”

“Ketchup,” Dr. Navidad answered as he headed back in the direction from which he’d come, wiping his hands on another towel and shaking his head in disgust. “Watered down so it looked more like blood. Just a prank, but pretty darned cruel.”

“Attention, everyone,” Shelley’s voice boomed across the hall. “We had a minor situation, but everything is just fine now. Let’s finish up the next rings before we break for lunch. And remember, at two p.m. we’ll have a special appearance by our guest of honor.”

Hamlet!

Making a quick good-bye to her new friend, Darla hurried in the direction of the stage, grateful that Jake had been with Hamlet while all this had gone down. The so-called prank hadn’t been funny at all. And what if this joker planned further disruptions? Another cat—maybe even Hamlet—could be the target of something far worse.

Jake was stationed at the side of Hamlet’s pen, arms crossed and looking even more badass than usual, given the frown plastered beneath her mirrored sunglasses. Obviously, she’d been keeping tabs on the disturbance. At Darla’s approached, she whipped off the shades.

“What the heck’s going on?” she demanded. “I heard all the screaming, and then the rumor flew around that a couple of cats had been butchered and hung from one of the judging rings. And then Shelley hops up on the stage to spout a bunch of sunshine and unicorns, without a word about what went down.”

“It was just a really rotten prank,” Darla assured her, pausing to take a look in Hamlet’s cage. To her relief, the feline was snoozing peacefully on his back atop the footstool, paws curled to his fuzzy chest. Apparently, neither screams nor PA announcements could pierce his Zenlike nap mode.

“Someone poured watered-down ketchup on the cat that won the household pet category,” she went on, plopping into one of the folding chairs. “Her owner saw her lying in her cage all covered in what looked like blood, and she went into hysterics. The show’s vet, Dr. Navidad, checked the cat out, and said nothing’s wrong with her, except she needs a good bath. The Martini Lady is on the job, getting it handled.”

“That’s a relief. So, what do you think? The second-place owner taking a little revenge on the winner?”

Recalling how Stein had argued with Nattie over his Minx’s showing, Darla shrugged. “Maybe more like the third-place owner. He definitely wasn’t happy. Oh, and also he happens to be someone Nattie says you met last night: Ted Stein. You kind of forgot to mention breaking up the fight.”

“Eh, it was just a little argument,” Jake replied with a wave of her hand, sounding like her mother. “But what happened with the judging?”

When Darla had finished describing what had gone on, the PI said, “Yeah, Stein is a loose cannon. But from a logical point of view, it would have made more sense to dump ketchup on the cat before the judging, not after. I’m more inclined to think it might have been one of the animal rights protesters. From what I hear, that’s the kind of mischief they go in for.”

Darla nodded. “That’s a possibility. When I left the building to get the printing done, I noticed that the girl in the pink thong wasn’t protesting with her friends anymore. And she was still MIA when I got back. Maybe she threw on some clothes and sneaked into the exhibition hall for a little guerilla activism.”

“And here I thought bodyguarding Hamlet at a cat show was going to be a quiet gig,” Jake said with an ironic smile. “Don’t worry, no one’s going to pull that sort of stunt on Hamlet while I’m on the job. Speaking of which”—she paused and glanced at her watch—“my contract says I get a break right about now.”

“Go ahead, I’ll keep an eye on things here. Oh, and I brought you back some pastries, as promised. The owner wrapped them in foil, so they’re still warm.”

While Jake headed out to the floor, pastry in hand, Darla pulled out her fliers and busied herself stamping Hamlet’s “paw”-tograph on each before stacking the folded sheets neatly atop Hamlet’s pen. He’d finally awakened from his nap and was pacing about, much to the delight of the three grade-school-aged girls who were kneeling in front of the cage.

Darla spent the next half hour chatting with folks and munching on the cheese pastry while Hamlet did his Hollywood routine and posed for photos. By the time Jake returned, Darla had all but forgotten the unfortunate ketchup incident. But the sheepish expression on her friend’s face made Darla sit up and give the woman a wary “What?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Jake gave an airy wave, which only intensified Darla’s suspicions. Obviously, something was up. Then she spied a series of silvery hairs glinting against the black lapel of Jake’s jacket, and she opened her eyes wide. “Wait! Don’t tell me. You bought a cat!”

“What makes you say that?”

Jake glanced down, noticed the hairs on her jacket, and then gave a rueful smile. “I didn’t buy, but I admit it, I was looking. Not at the show cats,” she hurriedly clarified before Darla could say anything. “There’s a rescue group that has a few of what they called ‘un-adoptables.’ You know, cats with problems . . . too old, too ugly, health issues. There’s a Siamese kitten named Trixie who’s missing a back leg, but she’s a feisty little thing. I’m thinking about bringing her home with me.”

A three-legged cat named Trixie
.

“Hey, that’s great,” Darla replied, her sentiment sincere. Then, switching to a deliberately innocent tone, she mischievously added, “You think your landlady will mind you bringing a pet home with you?”

“Oh, jeez, I didn’t even think of that. Uh, Darla, any chance I can keep a cat in my apartment? Please?” the PI asked, turning the same puppy dog look on Darla that Darla had earlier used on her.

Darla laughed. “Of course you can.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not a done deal, yet,” Jake assured her. “Most you can do here at the show is call dibs on the cat you want and fill out the paperwork so they can do a background check on you. They won’t let you take home the cats during the show since they don’t want impulse buys, which makes sense. I’ll check again tomorrow, and if Trixie’s still there, I’ll fill out the papers and let the rescue people do their background check. And I’ll still have until the end of the week to be really sure I want to do this.”

“That’s a good idea, thinking it over for a few days. Believe me, being a cat owner is tougher than it looks. Right, Hamlet?”

The feline paused in his pacing to shoot her a cool green look that seemed to say,
Ha! Being the cat is tougher.

Darla exchanged looks with her friend. “See what I mean? Hammy,” she addressed the cat again, “how about we make another round of the hall before it’s time to show your video? Maybe we can even meet Trixie.”

Snapping the lead on Hamlet again, Darla left Jake to finish off the remaining pastry while she and Hamlet once more went out to greet his public. As before, the sleek black feline was met with praise and laughter, the latter coming from those who’d already seen the YouTube video. Darla had to disappoint more than one person who asked if she and Hamlet would be recreating their tournament performance during the cat show by explaining that Hamlet performed only when and if it suited him. She assured them, however, that they
would
be seeing Hamlet in action that afternoon, via the video presentation.

Darla found the rescue exhibit Jake had mentioned tucked alongside the vendor tables. Tropical Adoptables, it was called, with a cute cartoon logo featuring a big-eyed tabby peeking out from behind one side of a palm tree, and a goofy beagle peeking out from the other.

Trixie was easy to pick out from the cluster of ten or so kittens playing together in an open pen, since she was the sole Siamese of the bunch. A petite little girl with classic seal point markings and the biggest blue eyes Darla had ever seen on a cat, Trixie seemed unfazed by the lack of one rear limb. When Darla paused near the pen for a closer look, Trixie and Hamlet exchanged polite sniffs through the mesh. A good sign, Darla thought to herself.

Leaving Trixie to her kitten game, Darla and Hamlet continued to make the rounds, finally stopping at the judging area and the ring where Billy Pope was presiding over a group of Russian Blues. To her mind, they were striking cats: a solid blue coat—which was actually gray—the tips of which hairs were a shimmering silver. And their eyes were deep bottle green, far darker than Hamlet’s emerald orbs.

Darla took a seat in the back row so as not to disturb the cats with Hamlet’s presence and watched with curiosity. Hamlet eyed the proceedings with seeming disapproval, whiskers and tail flicking every so often, but sat quietly in the chair beside her.

She was a bit surprised at Billy Pope’s judging technique, which was nothing like the other two judges she’d witnessed. Despite his grandfatherly image, the man was all business when it came to sizing up each feline. It didn’t help that all of the Russian Blues seemed exceedingly ticked off about being in the show, displaying their displeasure with much pawing and meowing as they were taken out to be evaluated.

“These Blues sure are pistols,” the middle-aged gentleman with a cane sitting on the other side of her softly observed with a small chuckle.

When Darla nodded her interest, he went on in a stage whisper, “They’re one of the smartest breeds out there. If they don’t want to be shown, they figure out real quick that if they act up with the judge, they get put back in their cages faster. There’s a saying with Russian Blue breeders that they breed for dumb. The smart ones, they’re too hard to show.”

Sounds a lot like Hamlet
, Darla thought with no little amusement as she thanked him for the insight. And the Russian Blue 101 lesson likely explained why there were no head kisses or silly asides with this breed.

Still, she wished Billy could be more like the other judges in that they’d explained their reasoning with the spectators. Billy Pope judged in silence, his poker-face expression giving away none of his thoughts as he poked and prodded each cat before making copious notes in his binder. When the last entrant had been judged, he grabbed up a handful of colored ribbons and quickly hung them on the cages, leaving it to the ring clerk to dismiss the group.