The Fashion Hound Murders (5 page)

An announcement on the store speaker system interrupted her. “Edna to register two. Edna to register two.”

Edna went white with panic. “That’s Dave!” She pushed Josie toward another aisle. “I’ll see you tonight at six thirty. And leave that big purse at home.”

Josie bought the sack of dog food and the carob cookies, but not at register two. Jennifer was not panting to help her, but she did take Josie’s money.

“What was that all about?” Alyce asked as Josie loaded the purchases into her car.

“Edna figured out I was recording her conversation,” Josie said. “I told Harry that purse was too obvious. She thinks I’m an animal activist and wants to meet me tonight at six thirty. She’ll tell me what’s going on.”

“You are not doing that,” Alyce said. Her pale face was pink with anger.

“I have to. I’m pretty sure these two stores are selling puppy mill dogs. If I can get a name, I can file an anonymous complaint with the Humane Society and stop them.”

“Pets 4 Luv will do that when your report is filed,” Alyce said.

“Maybe. I can’t count on them,” Josie said. “Harry will cover up any crime for a customer. I have to turn in the purse cam by three, but I don’t have to turn in my report until tomorrow morning. My name’s not going on it until I know it’s accurate. Then I’ll file my complaint and stop this.”

“Josie, this is too dangerous. It will be dark at six thirty.”

“Not with all those parking lot lights.”

Josie thought of the warm pug puppy on his dog food mountain. “I’ll be fine. This is a safe neighborhood.”

“You need backup and I can’t help you. I’ll be home with Justin and Jake.”

“I’ll call you when I get to the store and again when I leave. You’ll be my backup.”

“You promise?” Alyce said.

“Pinkie swear,” Josie said.

They locked little fingers. “If you don’t call me at six thirty, Josie Marcus, I’ll use the ultimate threat,” Alyce said.

“I don’t think you can call a cop for this.”

“I’m calling someone much scarier—your mother.”

Chapter 4

“Mom, can I get a cat?” Amelia Marcus asked.

Josie choked on her brownie. Her ten-year-old daughter had a real talent for asking difficult questions at inopportune moments. Usually Amelia chose the car while Josie was trying to maneuver her way through after-school traffic. It was Amelia’s preferred place to discuss volatile issues. Maybe, Josie thought, because we’re both belted into our seats.

But there were no seat belts at the kitchen table.

Amelia had made one of Josie’s favorite winter meals: chili and a salad with ranch dressing, plus brownies for dessert.

Josie realized this wasn’t a dinner with her daughter. It was a seduction. Amelia had waited for dessert to pop the question.

“Why do you want a cat?” Josie asked, stalling for time.

“Zoe got a registered, pedigreed Himalayan show cat,” Amelia said.

Zoe. Josie should have known. The class troublemaker was the first to have every designer fashion. Now she had a pedigreed cat.

“It was twelve hundred dollars,” Amelia said.

Josie swallowed the rest of her brownie in one gulp and said, “I can get you twelve hundred cats for that price. Well, maybe a thousand. It would cost something to neuter them.”

“I don’t want a thousand cats. I just want one,” Amelia said.

Josie saw the tears puddling in her daughter’s eyes and trickling down her nose. Amelia hated her freckled nose and thought it was too big. Josie thought in a few years it would give her daughter’s face a distinction that her own lacked.

“We don’t have a thousand dollars,” Josie said. She didn’t mention Barrington’s demand for a thousand dollars. Her daughter had enough troubles.

Amelia was shrewd enough to see that argument wasn’t working. She tried another. “Zoe’s mom let her have the cat because it’s a good way for Zoe to learn responsibility.”

“How often does Zoe clean the cat box?” Josie asked.

“The maid does that, every morning.”

“Good,” Josie said. “Our maid can clean your cat’s box.”

“Really?” Amelia asked. “We’re getting a maid?”

“Sure, as soon as I grow two freaking heads,” Josie said.

“Oh. You were being sarcastic,” Amelia said.

“Of course, I was,” Josie said. “We live in the flat downstairs from your grandmother. You go to a rich kids’ school on a scholarship. I make my living as a mystery shopper, and most of those designer clothes you love so much were bought at garage sales or consignment shops. So how am I going to afford a designer cat?”

“I’ll clean the litter box, I promise. I’ve never had a cat. Please, Mom.” Amelia dragged the “please” out to at least four syllables.

Josie sighed. But she was secretly delighted that her daughter was asking for something. Amelia had been remote and listless since her father’s death. They were approaching the first anniversary and Josie was worried. Fighting for a cat was a sign of life after Nate’s murder.

“Let me look into it, honey,” Josie said.

“That means no,” Amelia said.

“It means I want to look into the situation,” Josie said. “It’s time to clean up.”

Amelia rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher, wrapped the brownies in plastic, and cleaned off the table like a model child. She even swept the floor. Josie knew this was her daughter’s way of demonstrating she could take care of a cat.

“The kitchen looks terrific,” Josie said. “Now you need to finish your homework.”

“Are those cookies?” Amelia asked, spotting the bag of carob chips Josie brought home.

“Sure, have one,” Josie said.

“Did you make them?” Amelia asked.

“No, I bought them at the store,” Josie said.

“Good, then they’ll probably taste okay.”

Josie was used to digs about her cooking. This would be a sweet payback. Amelia crunched the cookie and said, “Not bad. A little flat. The chocolate chips suck.”

“They’re carob chips,” Josie said. “They’re healthier than chocolate.”

“Oh, healthy,” Amelia said, as if that were an explanation. She had her mother’s distrust of health food.

“Chocolate’s not good for dogs,” Josie said.

“Dogs?”

“Those cookies are from Pets 4 Luv,” Josie said. “Look at the bag.”

Amelia made gagging sounds. “You gave me dog food? I’m calling the child abuse hotline.”

“It’s not dog food,” Josie said. “People eat them, too. It’s an interspecies snack. Those cookies aren’t dangerous. I ate one.”

“So? You drink beer and I can’t,” Amelia said. “What if I made you a cat-food burger?” She had the same stubborn look as her grandmother.

How did that gene get passed on? Josie wondered. “I might be too sick to consider that cat,” she said.

The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Amelia said.

Josie let her answer the phone. The caller was probably for Amelia, anyway.

“It’s Grandpa Jack,” Amelia said. “He says to tell you hello.”

“Give him my love,” Josie said.

Amelia retired to her room to talk with her grandfather. Jack Weekler was one of the few good things to come out of Nate’s death. He’d rushed to St. Louis when he’d discovered his only son was dying, and met Amelia and Josie for the first time. Grandpa Jack lived in Toronto, but he e-mailed often and called several times a month. Amelia asked him questions about her late father, and Jack told her stories about Nate. Nice, normal stories that gave no clue as to how his son had ended up a drunk and a drug dealer.

Amelia came running out of her bedroom and said, “Grandpa said Daddy had a cat when he was a little boy. He used to feed it buttered carrots and anything else he didn’t like on his plate. Daddy’s cat was brown with black stripes and had a little white vest. Grandpa calls stripy cats ‘tab bies.’ He said it was a stray.”

“Not a registered, pedigreed show cat?” Josie said. She couldn’t resist.

Amelia ignored her. “The cat followed Daddy home from school when he was six. He called it Cookie. When Grandpa asked him what color Cookie was, Daddy said, ‘Dirty.’ ”

Josie laughed. “That sounds like your father.”

“Grandpa’s going to e-mail me a picture of Daddy and his cat.”

“Good,” Josie said. “I’m sure your grandfather also wanted you to do your homework.”

“He did ask if I was getting good grades.”

“Then don’t disappoint him.”

Bringing up Amelia was easier with a benevolent grandfather, Josie thought. It cut her nagging in half. Maybe Grandpa Jack’s story about Nate’s cat would tip the scales toward a mixed breed. Josie got on her computer to check out feline adoptions.

She found pedigreed cat rescue groups, where people could adopt a cat for little or no money. Josie learned that Himalayans were a cross of the Persian and Siamese breeds. She also saw that Himalayans and Persians were prone to health problems. These included a progressive brain disease, breathing difficulties, and hip joint problems. Josie wondered if Zoe’s cat cost so much because the breeder had to be aware of these conditions. For Josie, they meant massive vet bills. She knew no cat’s health could be guaranteed, but why go for a breed with built-in trouble?

Also, a Himalayan’s long coat required constant brushing. Josie figured Amelia would get tired of that chore after a few weeks.

The Humane Society of Missouri did have a “breed interest e-mail notification” program for people who wanted a pedigreed cat or dog. Josie could register, if Amelia really wanted one.

Josie looked at the society’s list of mixed-breed cats. These looked more affordable. The adoption price of one hundred twenty-five dollars included shots, a feline leukemia test, worming, flea treatment, spaying, tracking microchip, collar, a tag, and more. There was an extra charge for declawing.

Josie thought Amelia could find a cat here. She was about to examine the online photos of cats available for adoption when her phone rang. It was her mother, Jane.

“Hi, Mom,” Josie said. “Thanks for another cooking class. Amelia made a terrific dinner.”

“You could come, too, and learn how to cook,” Jane said.

“I don’t have the knack. The kid’s a natural.”

Jane sniffed her disapproval. “You don’t even try.”

“I did try. Your granddaughter doesn’t like my cooking. That’s what drove her upstairs to your kitchen. I’ve done her a good turn.”

“Must you make everything into a joke?” Jane said. “I wanted to talk to her about our next cooking lesson. Can she come tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so. We’re probably going to the Humane Society to adopt a cat.”

“A cat! You know I hate cats,” Jane said. “Sneaky, slithery things. I can’t stand how they rub up against my ankles.”

“The cat will stay downstairs, Mom. Your ankles are safe.”

“This house will stink like cat pee,” Jane said.

“Not if your granddaughter cleans out the litter box every day.”

“What if that cat uses Mrs. Mueller’s flower bed for a litter box?” Jane said. “You know how particular she is about her yard.”

“A little fertilizer is good for flowers.” Josie could almost hear her mother levitating. Mrs. Mueller was their troublesome next-door neighbor. Any cat of Josie’s would immediately head out the front door and water Mrs. M’s shrubbery.

“Mom, calm down,” Josie said. “If we get a cat, it will be an indoor cat. They’re healthier and they live longer. Besides, your granddaughter wants this cat, and it’s the first thing she’s cared about since her father died.”

“Well—,” Jane said. For once, she was at a loss for words. Jane loved Amelia.

“I’ll go get Amelia,” Josie said. “Could you watch her for an hour or so? I have to go back to work at six thirty.”

“Why are you working at that hour?”

“I’m being paid double and Christmas is coming,” Josie said.

“Isn’t Stan delivering the couch tonight?”

“He and Howie are coming at seven thirty. I should be back by then. Here’s Amelia.” Amelia appeared in the doorway like a rescuing angel. Josie gratefully handed her daughter the phone, eager to escape more meddlesome matchmaking.

While Amelia talked to her grandmother, Josie looked at pictures of cats on the Humane Society of Missouri’s Web site. Several were brown tigers like Nate’s cat, Cookie.

“I’ll be right up, Grandma,” Amelia said, and hung up the phone.

“Honey, look at my computer,” Josie said. “The Humane Society has more than a hundred cats for adoption, and some of them look like your daddy’s cat.”

“Tigers!” Amelia said. “That one has a white vest. When can we go look at them?”

“After school tomorrow night,” Josie said. “If you find one you like, we’ll talk about adopting it.”

“Thanks, Mom!” Amelia said.

“They also have a service where they’ll e-mail you if they have a Himalayan or a Persian for adoption,” Josie said.

“I want a tiger cat like Daddy’s,” Amelia said. “Are we going to get it declawed?”

Josie thought of her new couch. “Yes,” she said.

“Isn’t that cruel?” Amelia said.

“If we leave the back claws, the cat can still defend itself,” Josie said. “Ruining my new couch would be cruelty toward Mom.”

Amelia laughed and went upstairs.

Josie arrived at the Pets 4 Luv in Rock Road Village at 6:28 p.m. and called Alyce.

“I’m here. I’m going to talk to Edna now.”

“Don’t forget to call afterward,” Alyce said.

Edna was coming out the automatic doors when Josie reached the store’s sidewalk. The saleswoman’s shoulders had that weary, end-of-the-day slump. She wore a black coat, a thick red scarf, and a red wool hat. Even Edna’s dark hair looked tired.

“Edna!” Josie cried, as if the salesclerk were a long-lost friend.

“Good to see you,” Edna said, and gave Josie a hug. Josie realized Edna didn’t know her last name. The saleswoman steered Josie away from the store.

“Amelia is adopting an animal from the Humane Society,” Josie said.

“Good,” Edna said. She glanced at Josie’s small purse and whispered. “Is that thing on?”

Josie unzipped it and showed Edna the inside. “It’s too small to hold a recorder. Just a plain black bag.”

“I don’t have much time.” Edna was talking so fast Josie could hardly understand her. “Do you work with Nedra?”