Catnapped! (11 page)

Friday

B
rat-brat-brat-braaat! Screeech! Screeeeeeeech!

The power tool shriek sent Helen rocketing out of bed. “Construction this early?” she said. “What are those bozos doing?”

“Merf!”
said a grumpy Thumbs. He’d been sleeping on Helen’s feet when she sat up and accidentally booted him across the bed.

“It’s six fifty-seven,” Phil said. “Almost time for you to get up, anyway. Of course the workers are starting early. It’s hurricane season. The contractor wants to get the Coronado finished in case a major storm hits.”

“Well, at least I’ll get to work on time today.” Helen peered through the mini blinds. “Nice sunny morning. Margery’s in the yard, spraying dollarweed again. I’ll get dressed and take my breakfast outside.”

“Make sure she doesn’t spray you,” Phil said. “I miss our usually cool landlady.”

“She’s still in love with Zach,” Helen said. “She can’t admit it, even to herself.”

“If you say so, Doctor Phil,” he said.

Helen, freshly showered and ready for work, carried her coffee and toast out by the pool. She loved South Florida’s soft mornings, with the silvery skies and slightly salty tang of the ocean.

The hard-hatted workers stopped chipping and hammering at the Coronado’s cracked and pitted face and stared at her. She waved, and the men went back to their noisy work. Upstairs, she saw Sal Steer, the beef-faced boss, pointing to the cracks around the window in 2C, Helen and Phil’s office.

Helen watched their landlady spray the dollarweed with the built-in nozzle on a square plastic jug of weed killer, working with savage intensity. Margery wasn’t her usual stylish self. Nobody wore good clothes to kill weeds, but her purple shorts and top had escaped from a rag bag. Her normally shiny, swingy gray hair was flat and uncombed, and she had a cigarette clamped in her teeth. Helen thought she looked slightly demented.

“Morning,” Helen said, and took her last gulp of coffee.

Squirt. Squirt.
“Did you see Daisy last night?” Margery asked. “Did you learn anything?”

“She still doesn’t know Zach is dead,” Helen said. “She tried to hit on Phil.”

“As old and wrinkled as she is? Fat chance,” Margery said, with a sneer. “What did she say when you told her Zach was dead?”

“We decided to let the police handle that,” Helen said. “We learned more this way.”

“You two still bent on drumming up business for that lawyer of yours?”

“Nancie doesn’t need us to find her work,” Helen said.

“You going to offer me more advice for my own good?” It was a challenge.

“Margery, what’s wrong?” Helen asked. “Did I say something that offended you?”

“Nothing,” she said. “Everything is just— Oh, hell. Here’s that snake from Snakehead Bay.”

“I’ll stay here with you,” Helen said.

Detective Whelan moved through the yard like an approaching storm—thick, solid, unstoppable.

“Morning, ladies,” he said, and nodded. “Mrs. Flax, I have a few more questions.” He took out a small notebook with a pen stuck in the spiral top.

“It’s Ms.,” Margery said. She plunked her weed killer on the table, dangerously close to Helen’s breakfast, folded her arms and glared defiantly at the detective.

“Your husband, Zachariah Flax—”

“Ex-husband,” Margery corrected.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” the detective asked.

“You asked that last night. I kicked him out some thirty years ago, after I found out he’d been running drugs with his fishing charter boat. I got that news from the feds. He took off with some floozy.”

Daisy’s a floozy? Helen thought. That’s harsh.

“I divorced him in ’eighty-four. He didn’t show up in court. My lawyer did service by publication. I didn’t see him again until this Monday, when he showed up here with a big bunch of flowers, saying he loved me. I threw him out on his posies.”

The detective dutifully made notes, then asked, “Have you placed any phone calls to him?”

“Never. I don’t have his phone number,” Margery said.

Another note. “Then how did you arrange to meet him at Beachie’s restaurant Thursday night?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” Margery said. “I was tricked into that meeting.”

“What is your relationship with the person who arranged the meeting?” he asked.

“I’ve known Elsie since grade school,” Margery said. “We’re ex-friends now.”

“Why would Elsie arrange the meeting?”

“Because she’s a meddling old fool,” Margery said. “She’s going senile. Her son wants to put her in assisted living.”

Helen winced. Poor Elsie. She didn’t deserve that. Detective Whelan wrote down her answer.

Out of the corner of her eye, Helen saw Phil run upstairs to their office. He talked briefly to the boss and the worker chipping out the rust-discolored stucco under the window. He started to unlock the door, then stopped to watch the detective interrogate Margery instead.

“Now I’ve got a question for you, Detective,” Margery said. “Do you think I poisoned my ex at that restaurant?”

“I never said that,” Detective Whelan said.

“A blind woman can see where you’re going,” Margery said. “I didn’t kill him. He’s been dead to me for years.”

“That’s not what Zachariah Flax thought,” the detective said. “He wanted to get back with you.”

“How do you know what he thought?” Margery said. “He’s dead.”

Please shut up, Helen prayed.

“Ms. Flax, do you understand how many witnesses heard your altercation at Beachie’s? I’ve talked with four so far, including your server. She says the victim, Zachariah Flax, insisted she be his witness, and he got down on his knees in the restaurant.”

Whelan paged through his notebook, then read in a monotone, “‘Margery, I love you. Come back to me. I’ll love you for the rest of my life.’”

The effect was comical, but Helen didn’t smile.

“She says you responded, ‘With any luck, that won’t be long.’ Did you say that, Ms. Flax?”

“I did,” Margery said. “I wanted to make it clear to him that our marriage—and any so-called romance—was over for me.”

“Really?” he said, drawing the word out as if he didn’t believe her. “Because from what I heard, you had a lot of heat for no fire.
You basically told him he should drop dead, and that night he does. An amazing coincidence.”

Margery’s eyes glowed with anger, and her words came fast and furious. “You want to know if I poisoned him? Go check the restaurant’s surveillance video system. Beachie’s has to have one. Those cameras are everywhere. You’ll see for yourself I didn’t poison him.”

Silence. Even the construction work was quiet. Helen studied her toast crumbs and wished Margery could get control of herself.

“Did you check the surveillance video at the restaurant?” the landlady demanded. “Well?”

“I don’t answer questions, Ms. Flax,” he said, closing his notebook. “You do. This interview has left me with more questions. I’ll be back. I promise.”

He stalked up the stairs toward Phil. Helen saw her husband shaking his head. He must be telling Detective Whelan that he couldn’t talk to him and neither could his PI partner.

“You asked a good question, Margery,” Helen said. “I’ll get Phil to check the restaurant surveillance video for you. Did you find that box of Zach’s papers?”

“I dug it out last night.”

“I’ll carry it up to Phil now,” Helen said.

“I can take it myself,” Margery said. “I’m no helpless old lady. You’ll have it as soon as that detective leaves.”

Helen started up the stairs to the office. Now Detective Whelan was talking to Sal. “That’s right, Detective,” he said. “I’m in charge of this project.”

Helen slipped into the Coronado Investigations office, closing the door carefully so the glass slats in the jalousie door wouldn’t rattle.

“Hey, there,” Phil said. “How’s it going?”

“Just fine,” she said. She mimed listening at the door, and they both eavesdropped on Whelan’s interview with Sal Steer.

“Yes, I was here on Monday,” he said. “My crew wasn’t. I’d given Ms. Flax my evaluation of her building’s rebar problem. I told her there was extensive damage. The rebar—that’s the reinforcing steel bars.”

“I know,” the detective interrupted.

“This building has been exposed to salty sea air for more than sixty years, and the rebar has started to expand and flake from rust. You can see the damage around the window on this unit here. That’s just a small example.”

Helen thought she heard the scratch of the detective’s pen on his notepad.

“My company is qualified to do the remedial work,” Sal said. “Faulty concrete repair can worsen the structural problems, you know.”

“Yes,” the detective said. He sounded impatient.

“I discussed the corrective measures that we’d need to take. Ms. Flax seemed shocked by the state of the building’s deterioration as well as the price of the restoration.”

“How much will it cost to repair?” Detective Whelan asked.

“More than a hundred thousand dollars,” Sal said. “When I told her that, she said she couldn’t afford it. She was going to sell out to a developer. This is a valuable piece of real estate, Detective. They’d have to tear down the building, of course, but land this close to downtown is worth a pretty penny.

“I was concerned Ms. Flax was making her decision too quickly. I wanted to discuss it with her further, but then the white-haired gentleman showed up with an enormous bouquet of flowers, and I stayed, hoping I could talk with her after he left.”

And to watch the show, Helen thought.

“She called him Zach, and she didn’t seem happy to see him,” he said.

“What did they discuss?” the detective asked.

“It was quite heated,” he said. “I gathered they used to be
married and he’d been gone some time. Now he wanted to come back. Ms. Flax was very angry and the discussion ended violently.”

“How?”

“She hit him.”

With a bouquet of flowers, Helen wanted to scream.

“He was bleeding,” Sal added.

His cheek was scratched! Helen had to fight to keep from running outside and telling Detective Whelan what she’d seen. Phil looked at her and shook his head, warning her to stay out of it.

“Zach said he wanted to come back to her, but Ms. Flax said, ‘There’s not enough room in South Florida for both of us.’ She threatened to call the police, and he left. I left right after that.

“The next day, Ms. Flax called me. She said she’d changed her mind and wanted me to fix the building.”

“Did she say why she changed her mind?” Detective Whelan asked.

“No.”

“Do you know where she got the money?”

“No. She wrote me a check for half the estimate, fifty thousand dollars. I cashed it and the work started today.”

“Thank you, Mr. Steer. That will be all for now.”

Helen and Phil heard footsteps on the cracked stairs. Phil looked out the window. “They’re both gone.”

“That no-good Sal,” Helen said. “Twisting Margery’s words.”

“There’s nothing we can do but find Zach’s real killer,” Phil said. “Did Margery find the box of Zach’s unclaimed papers?”

“Yes,” Helen said.

“I’d better get it before the detective comes back here with a search warrant for her apartment. And you’d better run. You’re going to be late at the cattery.”

“I can’t believe my job is making me late for work,” Helen said.

Friday

H
elen slid into the cattery like a base runner reaching home plate.

“Safe!” Jan said. “But cutting it close. Another sixty seconds and Dee would have flown in here.”

“On her broom?” Helen asked.

“Careful,” Jan said. “I can’t afford to have you fired. I can’t do tomorrow’s show alone. Not with two cats.”

“The traffic gods were with me,” Helen said.

“I do have bad news, though,” Jan said.

“What?” Helen’s voice was a croak. Was she going to be fired after the show, before she learned anything that could help Trish?

“Dee says she doesn’t need you Sunday. She and I can handle that day. We will need you to help set up and groom Saturday and come in at six Monday morning to help wash Red and Chessie for the Hasher School Pet Appreciation Day.”

“Why the change in the show plans?” Helen asked.

“She saw the entry and judges lists. Dee knows the Sunday judges and thinks her cats will win.”

Helen tried to hide her relief. She could help Phil with
Margery’s case on Sunday. They were sure the police would arrest their landlady any moment.

“Do you know who the Saturday judges are?” Helen asked.

“Sure. Here’s the schedule, downloaded from the Internet.” Dee handed her a fat printout. “It has the cat classes and breeds.”

Helen scanned the list and saw Lexie Deener, the cat-show judge Mort had been giving financial advice to, was judging on Saturday. She had the longhair championships in Ring Two, including Maine Coons and Persians.

“Red and Chessie are entered in the solid-color division,” Jan said.

“Dee’s going to let her cats compete against each other?” Helen asked.

“No, Red’s spayed,” Jan said. “Cat shows allow altered adults to be shown in the Premiership Class. Dog shows don’t permit that. Their champions are supposed to be breeders.”

“So, what’s the plan today?” Helen said. After work, she and Phil were going undercover to the Coral Room, where Daisy went ballroom dancing, and she didn’t want to be fiddling with cats all evening.

“We’ll comb the cats who won’t be shown, then pack the van for the show. While you, lucky girl, clean the litter boxes, I’ll pick up the cat curtains at the dry cleaner.”

“Cat curtains?” Helen looked at the tall windows where the four cats—silvery-soft Mystery, fiery Red, snow-white Chessie and Chocolate, the delicious brown beauty, sunned themselves on their shelves. “You put curtains on these windows?”

“No, these are cage curtains,” Jan said. “Start combing Chocolate. I’ll take Mystery and explain. Here, little girl.” Mystery buried her pale gray head in Jan’s thick, dark hair, and Jan carried her to a grooming table.

“Merp!”
Chocolate protested when Helen picked her up. She didn’t like leaving her sunny spot, but soon began luxuriating in
the soft strokes of the comb. Chocolate closed her coppery-gold eyes and let Helen groom her.

“At the shows, the cats are displayed in cages on long folding tables—benches—while they wait their turns in the judging ring,” Jan said, pulling a clump of gray fur off her comb. “Each cage is like a miniature stage to show off the cats. Most cages are decorated with signs, toys and curtains. Dee’s cage curtains are custom-made and have to be dry-cleaned.”

“Must be some cages,” Helen said.

“They’re little jewel boxes,” Jan said. “Some breeders rent wire cages, but Dee has pop-up cages with mesh sides. Chessie has a black show cage with blue curtains. With a blue-eyed white, that combination is devastating. It really showcases her eyes. Red has a deep blue cage with copper curtains that make her eyes glow.”

“Do the judges like the cages?” Helen asked.

“They never see them,” Jan said. “But they’re a good way to get your cattery’s name in front of the spectators, especially if you’re selling kittens or have a stud.”

Jan finished combing Mystery and set her on her carpeted shelf. Helen started to pick up Chocolate, but the Persian said,
“Merr?”
and patted Helen’s arm with one paw.

“What’s she want?” Helen asked.

“She wants to stay on the grooming table and watch you,” she said. Mystery jumped off her shelf and patted Helen’s sneaker.

“And what can I do for you, Your Majesty?” Helen asked.

“Lift her up and put her next to Chocolate,” Jan said. “They like to hang out together.”

“She can’t jump up?” Helen asked.

“Sure she can, but she’d rather you do it,” Jan said.

Helen lifted up the fluffy gray-blue cat, who snuggled in her arms. “You’re like a warm teddy bear,” she said, scratching her soft silvery ears.

Mystery and Chocolate curled themselves into muffins to watch Helen empty and wash the litter boxes, while Jan had assembled a long row of cat supplies, then packed a soft-sided bag with treats, cornstarch, Q-tips, ear cleaner, tissues, cotton balls and more.

“Now what am I missing?” she said, half to herself.

“Cat litter?” Helen asked.

“No, they’ll have that at the show,” she said. “I’ll load the van, so all we have to pack tomorrow are the cats. Show check-in starts at seven thirty a.m., so be here at six thirty sharp.”

Helen tried not to groan. She had no idea how late they’d be out tonight.

“Hey, I have to come in at five thirty tomorrow to feed the cats,” Jan said. “I’ll get back from the dry cleaner about three thirty today, and we’ll bathe both show cats.”

“Why so late for the baths?” Helen asked.

“We’re lucky Dee’s letting us wash the cats the day before the show,” Jan said. “Usually she makes us bathe them the morning of the show. That would mean getting here at three a.m.”

Helen winced.

“This show is local. It gets really crazy when we have a road trip. You haven’t lived until you’ve washed two cats in a hotel bathroom.”

Jan returned from the dry cleaner at three thirty. “Bath time. You take Red,” she said. “She’s easy to work with. She’ll need a vinegar rinse to get out every last bit of shampoo. I’ll wash Chessie. Her white coat needs special treatment for a show.”

The red Persian was on her window shelf, watching cat TV, chirping at the birds gathered around the feeder and twitching her tail.

“Sorry, baby,” Helen said, gathering the soft, fluffy cat into her arms. “We have to make you beautiful for the show.”

“Merrr!”
Red said, protesting slightly. Then she buried her soft
head in Helen’s shoulder and licked her neck with her sandpaper tongue.

“Thank you,” Helen said. “So nice of you to groom me first.”

She set Red on the grooming table and laid out her supplies, while Jan worked on Chessie. “Her fluffy white coat needs some extras at showtime,” Jan said. “She’ll get a special whitening shampoo and a vinegar rinse.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Helen said.

“After a while, it becomes routine,” Jan said. She worked on the cat with swift, practiced movements. Helen thought the contrast between Jan’s black hair and Chessie’s snowy whiteness was a picture in itself.

Helen was slower than Jan and had to spend extra time getting the soap out of Red’s long fur. The two groomers finished combing and drying their cats about the same time.

The cats were gorgeous—and they knew it. Both posed on their tables: Red, a flaming beauty, and Chessie, a dazzling snowball.

“Look at them,” Helen said, “Fire and ice!”

“Now we have to keep those coats pretty till tomorrow,” Jan said. She took four paper coffee filters, folded each in half and shredded the center to make a hole big enough for a cat’s head.

“Here’s the scissors,” Helen said. “You can cut a hole.”

“Cutting will shear those beautiful ruffs,” Jan said.

She pulled a filter over each cat’s head. “There,” she said. “That keeps off water and food stains. We’re done.”

“What about Midnight?” Helen asked.

“Damn, I knew I forgot something,” Jan said. “Let’s go round him up.”

The black cat was in a mischievous mood. When he saw Helen, he jumped off the living-room couch and hid in the shadows by the cluster of palms. As she approached, he sprang out. She chased
him down the hall, past the cat portraits and trophies and around the kitchen island.

“Herd him down the hall toward the cattery,” Jan said.

Helen feinted as the cat tried to pass her by the fridge, and he ran past her down the hall.

Jan popped up, Midnight ducked into the guest bath and Jan slammed the door. Helen and Jan leaned against the wall, breathless.

“That little devil,” Jan said, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes. “This is no time for his tricks. I’ve got to go home and feed my cat before I see Mom tonight.”

Her cat? Jan said she didn’t have a cat because she didn’t have time for one.

“You open the door and I’ll stand back-up,” Jan said.

Helen slowly opened the bathroom door, and Midnight stuck out his head.

“Gotcha!” Helen said, and clamped her hands around his furry black body.

“Mrrrow!”
he said. Helen held him tightly, hoping he wouldn’t scratch her. Midnight kept his claws sheathed but whipped her arm with his tail. Back in the cattery, Midnight allowed her to comb him without running away.

Jan fed the cats, then rechecked her show list. Helen brooded on Jan’s comment about feeding her cat at home. That was the second time she’d mentioned a cat she supposedly didn’t own.

Did Jan kidnap Justine after she killed Mort?

According to Amber, Mort’s former lover, his fiancée stood to inherit half his substantial fortune. The five hundred thousand Jan got for Justine’s ransom would also help her start over in style—and get some cash from Trish, who’d sneered at her as the Other Woman.

I need to get into Jan’s home for a look, Helen thought.

When Jan carried the clean litter boxes out to the van, Helen noticed her purse waiting on the counter. Helen removed Jan’s wallet and stashed it in her own purse. Just in time. Jan was back in the cattery.

“All our work is done. It’s five thirty. I’m ready to go,” Jan said.

“Me, too,” Helen said. “I’ll duck into the bathroom. See you here tomorrow, bright and early.”

She waited until Jan left, then got in the Igloo and checked Jan’s address on her license. She lived in an apartment on Seventeenth Street, on Helen’s way home.

She called Jan’s cell phone. “I found your wallet in the driveway,” Helen said.

“Oh, lordy, it must have fallen out of my purse,” Jan said.

“I’ll drop it by on my way home,” Helen said.

“No! I mean, that’s okay. You can give it to me tomorrow,” Jan said.

“And what if you’re stopped by the police?” Helen said. “You don’t have a license, checkbook or credit cards.”

“Well, okay,” Jan said. She recited her address. “I’m in unit two, next to the manager’s apartment.” She sounded reluctant. Helen was doubly suspicious.

Jan lived in a grim beige eight-unit apartment with a parking lot and a scraggly palm tree. Helen rang the doorbell to her ground-floor unit, and Jan answered quickly. She blocked the entrance, but Helen thought she saw movement behind her. Something gray and catlike.

Justine? Was the search over? Helen had to know.

“Here’s your wallet,” she said, and pretended to stumble against the door.

A gray-striped tabby came streaking out the front door. Helen captured the cat and it sliced her arm.

“Ow!” she said.

“Get in here,” Jan said, and pulled them both inside.

“Now you know my secret,” she said, taking the big, green-eyed tabby from Helen. “This is Grover,” she said, scratching the cat’s thick fur. His eyes were dramatically outlined in black stripes and his nose looked like a red rubber eraser.

She hugged him. “I love him, but my landlady doesn’t allow pets. She’ll make me give him away.”