Fat Cat Spreads Out (16 page)

M
ike's aunt Betsy was on receptionist duty when Chase and the distraught Elsa entered Dr. Ramos's clinic.

“He's tending a sick sheep,” she told them.

Chase had never been here when Betsy was on duty, since she was usually dropping Quincy off early, picking him up late, or visiting during lunchtime. Betsy smiled at them.

“He should be almost finished,” she said. “Is he expecting you?” She looked at a mostly blank appointment book open on the desk.

Dr. Ramos opened the door to the examining room. He ushered a young man through the door, leading a sheep on a leash.

“Thanks, Doc,” the sheep owner said. “I was afraid I'd done something terrible, letting her have that gum.”

“You're welcome,” Mike said. He leaned down to pat the sheep's back and gave the boy a reassuring smile. The boy took off whistling, his sheep trotting behind him.

“Chase, come on back.” He said to his aunt, “She's here to see her cat.”

And to see you, thought Chase, in case you haven't noticed.

“Elsa wants to take a look for her purse, too,” Chase said.

Mike laughed. The deep, rich sound resonated somewhere deep inside Chase. “I was going to try to track you down.” He walked to the parrot's cage and pointed. “Here's your culprit. I think she grabbed it when you were here. I saw it after you left.”

He picked up the red purse and handed it to Elsa.

“It's damaged,” she said. She pointed out two indentations in the soft leather.

“I think those are Grey's bill marks. I found it in her cage and rescued it.”

Elsa's worried expression finally left. She approached Grey's cage with a little smile. “You naughty birdie. What are we going to do with you?” She stuck a finger through the bars, which were certainly wide enough to admit the slim purse. The bird was fast asleep and ignored her owner. “Thank you, Dr. Ramos.”

“No problem. I'm sorry you were concerned. I couldn't get away and don't have your phone number.”

She thanked him again and left without giving him her phone number.

Chase had been thinking Patrice might have stolen the purse, had even suspected the jewelry sales couple, so she was glad that neither of those had been the culprit.

“Do the police still suspect Patrice for Oake's murder?” Chase asked.

“I think not. Vik finally told them that he and Patrice were having pizza at a picnic table at the food court during the critical time.”

“Why did it take so long for her grandfather to tell the police? To clear his granddaughter?”

“For some reason, they never questioned him. Patrice hadn't told him she was a suspect. Didn't want him to have one more thing to worry about. She slipped up and let him know, then he went right to the police station and told them.”

“I'm glad she's off the hook.”

“She's only off the hook for the murder because she stole the collar. After she admitted stealing it, he was bawling her out for that and kept her there for an hour.” Mike gave an ironic smile.

“Whew. She knows how to get into trouble. What was that about, with the sheep?” Chase asked, unlocking Quincy's cage and picking him up.

“The young lad left a package of gum where the sheep could get it. She ate it, package and all, and he thought he might have injured her.”

She was glad he'd gotten over the patient confidentiality thing with her. “They're here for the sheep jumping contest?” When Chase had walked past the exhibition room, low jumps were being set up. The idea was to make
it look like the standard cartoon pictures of counting sheep to get to sleep, except in this case, the judges would count how many jumps each sheep made successfully before losing interest, according to the description that had been in the brochure about the contests. “Did you fix up his sheep?”

“No need. Sheep can eat almost anything. They don't even chew their food until it's been swallowed, broken down, and digested.”

“Like cows chewing their cud?”

“Exactly like that. Gum is not an ideal diet, but it won't hurt the sheep at all.”

Mike busied himself with updating his notes and Chase stroked Quincy, enjoying his enthusiastic purr. It was still bothering Chase that she hadn't told Detective Olson about her latest encounter with Karl Minsky. Mike's examining room was so nice and private, it gave her an idea.

“Do you mind if I make a phone call here? It's not something I want to do in our booth on the midway.”

“Sure. Do you need me to leave the room?”

Mike was so sweet. “No, but I need to speak with the policeman. If I can get him.”

She set Quincy down on the floor and dialed the detective, expecting to leave a message but hoping to talk to him. She was pleased when he answered.

“Olson here.”

“This is Chase. I have something to tell you that may help your case.” Quincy prowled the area beneath the bird cage, looking up with his ears pricked forward.

She glanced at Mike. He was trailing a string for Quincy. Sometimes Quincy decided to play along and chase a string. Other times, he made it clear, by following the string with his eyes up to the human's hand, that he knew exactly what was going on and that this wasn't a huge mouse tail. Today, he was pouncing with delight.

Chase continued. “Karl Minsky threatened me on Thursday.”

“How did he do that? What did he say?”

“He said, um, that I'd better watch my mouth and that . . .” What else had he said? “He was warning me.”

“Okay. First of all, what did you say that prompted him to tell you to watch your mouth?”

“I was talking to Anna and I said I thought he may have killed Mr. Oake.”

“If I were an innocent suspect—not saying he is or isn't—I wouldn't appreciate that. Second, did he threaten to do anything?”

“It was the way he said it. He was acting like a bully.”

“I'll note that in my file, Ms. Oliver. Thanks for the information.”

He ended the call. That hadn't gone at all like she thought it would. She almost wished Karl Minsky had threatened her with something specific. Vague, intimidating warnings weren't much good, it seemed.

Following the string was fun for the cat for a while. But humans never got the movement quite right, never exactly like a mouse, or a wounded bird. The cat sat on his haunches
while the man hoisted himself onto the stainless steel table, waiting for his mistress to finish her phone call. As she put the phone away and the man started to speak, the door opened. Maybe there was something more interesting than a piece of string out there. He had to look.

Once again, Chase was at it, running after her cat, who had not only gotten out of the clinic when Betsy opened the door, but had managed to scoot all the way out of the building and was scampering down the midway.

He headed straight for the butter sculpture building. Horrified that he might get inside again and ruin one of the masterpieces, Chase picked up her pace. Mike, who had been pounding along behind her, seemed to sense the same fear and bolted past her on his much longer legs.

As Quincy reached the door, it swung open and he slipped through. Mike dashed inside. Chase, thirty feet behind, gave it all she had in a final burst. And ran full tilt into Winn Cardiman.

They both crashed to the ground and landed on their bottoms. To her amazement, the man started laughing. The tote bag he had been carrying had spilled most of its contents.

“I'm so sorry.” Chase jumped up. “Let me help you.” She started gathering his things. “Ouch!” Something stuck her finger, and she drew her hand back.

“Leave it. I'll get the stuff.” He started laughing again. His wrinkly, freckled face scrunched up in his glee.

“Am I funny?”

“No, it's just that your cat got into the building again. He's a crazy animal. I hope he eats Minsky's mess. Not that anyone could tell if he did.” He got to his feet and dusted off his jeans.

Chase had to agree that the abstract the man was working on wouldn't suffer from a few chunks missing. “Yes, Quincy is a handful.”

“Good at getting away, is he?”

Chase sighed. “That's a huge understatement. That cat is an escape artist.”

Cardiman scooped his tools into his bag.

“Those are your sculpting tools?” she asked.

“They are. I got so mad at everyone that I stormed out and left them here. Then I got to thinking, some of these are my favorites. They're not expensive, but I've had them for years. I work well with this wooden spatula and this metal dowel.” He reached into his bag and held them up. “So I came back to get them.”

The metal dowel looked almost like a surgical scalpel. It was probably what had pricked Chase's finger.

“You've been in there a long time.”

“Yes, I got to chatting with some of the other sculptors. The exhibit will be good. There's some good work in there.”

“Besides Minsky's, you mean.”

“Yeah, that son of a gun. Why he let his idiot daughter design their piece, I'll never know.” His pale face flushed bright red with anger for a brief moment. He looked at the finger Chase was unconsciously rubbing. “Is your finger okay?”

Chase looked at the place where Cardiman's sculpting
tool had poked her. A small drop of blood oozed from the tip of her finger. “It'll be fine.” That tool was so sharp that the hole was small. The murder weapon was also a pointed dowel. Did the fact that Cardiman still had a pointed dowel mean he wasn't the killer? Or did sculptors normally have more than one of those? If he only had one, he wasn't the culprit.

“Did I hurt your tool?”

Cardiman shook his bag. “I'm sure you didn't. Those dowels are sturdy. Anyway, I have half a dozen.”

That theory was shot. He could still be the killer. Unlikely but possible.

She hurried into the butter building. If the weather got any colder, they would be able to leave the door open.

Mike, holding Quincy, stood talking to the man who had been sculpting a gopher. Chase looked around. It seemed to her that all of the sculptures had been finished. The artists who were there were cleaning up and putting their things away. Chase moved to approach the two men.

On her way, she saw one woman smoothing a flat piece of her sculpture with a finger she was dipping into a bowl of cold water. Chase stopped to admire it.

“Your North Star is so intricate. I don't know how you do that.”

The woman beamed. “Years of practice.”

She wiped her buttery finger on a paper towel. “I have to quit now. It's so hard to leave it be.”

Chase reached the man Mike was chatting with. “I love your gopher,” she said. “It looks like he actually has fur.”

“Yellow fur.” The man chuckled.

“Yes, but it does look like fur,” Mike said. He held Quincy up next to the statue to compare their fur coats.

“Did Quincy get into anything?” she asked.

“I caught him right inside the door. Decided I wanted to see these. Where have you been?”

“I've been outside knocking down people.” I wish I were knocking down killers and revealing their guilt, she thought, but how would I even do that?

“Is your cat competing in the Fancy Cat Contest?” the sculptor asked.

“I think so.” If she could come up with a costume very soon, he would be.

A
nna came over to Chase's apartment that evening to help get Inger moved to Julie's place. She insisted on lifting Inger's suitcase onto Chase's unmade bed.

“It's no problem for me, Mrs. Larson,” Inger said, taking her clothing from Chase's dresser drawers, where she had crammed her things in on top of Chase's.

“You shouldn't be lifting in your condition,” Anna insisted.

“Everyone keeps telling me what I should and shouldn't do.” Inger threw her hands out in frustration. “How do I know what I can do?”

“Inger, I'll get you a book about being pregnant,” Chase said, “but really, you need to make an appointment.”

“I don't know any baby doctors.”

Chase remembered what Mike had said. “Don't you have an appointment with a doctor at the clinic?”

“I guess. But I can't go to someone I don't know anything about.”

“You help her pack,” said Anna to Chase. “I'll get a doctor's name.”

She left the room and came back as they were stuffing Inger's underwear into the corners of the suitcase.

“Here.” Anna thrust a piece of paper, torn from the pad in Chase's kitchen, into Inger's hand. “This is the number of the doctor my friend's granddaughter is using. She's due in three months and likes Dr. Ingersoll very much.”

“Inger and Ingersoll,” mused Chase. “You should be able to remember his name.”

Inger smiled for the first time that evening, a small smile. “If it's someone you know, that's different. I promise I'll call him Monday.”

“Give him my friend's name. It's there on the paper.”

Chase wondered who was going to pay for the doctor, but she wasn't going to start worrying about that yet. Chase hoisted the suitcase off the bed and wheeled it behind her. They made their way into the kitchen, where Anna put the kettle on for herbal tea.

“Next project.” Anna dusted off her hands symbolically. “Quincy's costume.”

“Oh, can I help?” Inger sparked to life. She gave a wide grin. “I've been thinking and I have some ideas.”

Chase cocked her head toward Inger in surprise.

“He should be Babe the Blue Ox,” Inger said, clapping her hands.

Quincy lifted his head at the noise.

“It's better than Puss in Boots,” Chase said. “But how are we going to do it?”

“It shouldn't be too hard.” Inger turned the piece of paper over on the counter and started drawing. In two minutes she held up a sketch of a cat with horns and ears on a headdress, and a little bodysuit with a cow's tail at the back.

Chase looked skeptical, but Anna grabbed the paper and said, “Yes! This will be great. I have a bolt of blue felt that I bought for half price. I thought we might be able to use it in the shop somehow.”

“Do you have white felt for the horns?” Inger looked better than she had in days. Her blue eyes twinkled and her smile brought sunshine into the apartment.

“I have something, I'm sure.”

“So,” said Chase to Anna, “we need to go to your place.” Anna had the sewing supplies.

“Everyone else is there,” Anna agreed. “Might as well.”

Chase had a sudden thought. “Should we bring Quincy, with the parrot there? We'll have to. He has to be there in order to be fitted, doesn't he?”

“Lady Jane Grey does have a cage,” Anna said. “She'll have to use it tonight.”

The three of them, four counting Quincy, drove to Anna's. Anna and Inger went in Anna's blue Volvo, and Chase followed with Quincy in his carrier.

“You're going to look great,” she cooed to him on the way. “The other cats will all be dull next to you.” She hoped she was right.

At Anna's, bedlam broke lose.

As soon as the carrier was set on the floor of the strange living room, the cat sensed something very different was in this place tonight. When the huge parrot walked up to his crate and started pecking, he swatted, claws out. The people ran to them and they all started making a lot of noise. A pair of hands picked the parrot up while the cat's owner snatched his crate. But, before the bird could be caged, the clever cat hooked his claw in the latch, nudged it open, and jumped out. The cat stopped, mesmerized by the biggest bird he had ever been this close to. The parrot hopped to the floor.

“Control that filthy animal,” shrieked Elsa, stooping to grab her parrot's feet and pick her up. The bird squawked and flapped her wings, scattering feathers onto the floor. “He's going to kill Lady Grey.”

Chase cradled Quincy in her arms and looked at the animals. They were about the same size. “How much does your bird weigh?”

“Fifteen point eight ounces.”

“Ounces?”

“She was a pound when I weighed her at my place,” said Eleanor. “Here, let me have her.”

Quincy hadn't taken his wide, staring eyes off Grey
since he'd escaped. Chase made sure she had a good grip on him. He wasn't struggling to get at the parrot. Maybe he was intimidated.

Eleanor deftly got the parrot into her cage. Quincy didn't relax one bit.

Eleanor eyed the cat. “I'll take Grey into the bedroom.”

“You'd better put her in the bathroom,” Anna said, picking the feathers off the floor. “My sewing machine is in the bedroom.”

“That doesn't seem very convenient.” Elsa stood watching as Anna cleaned up after her bird.

“It's convenient for me,” Anna said evenly. “I live here.”

The sooner these women left Anna's place, the better, thought Chase. If Elsa isn't a murderer now, she might become one. Or Anna might.

Anna got a tape measure and wrapped it around Quincy in a few places, then handed the cat to Inger, but before she and Inger made it to the bedroom, a knock sounded on the front door. Bill Shandy didn't wait but came right in.

He greeted Anna with a tight hug.

“How are you doing?” she asked him quietly so Elsa and Eleanor couldn't hear. Chase was close enough to, though. “You still okay with my decision?”

Bill ran a hand over his face. “I'm fine now that I'm here. The sight of you cures everything.”

“Oh, you sweet-talker, you.” Anna patted his shoulder.

“I can't stay long, but I wanted to see you for a few minutes.”

Chase gave them some space and they talked together on the couch for fifteen minutes or so about flowers and music and wedding details.

After Bill left, Anna and Inger finally retreated to the bedroom to do some work on the costume. They took Quincy with them. That left Chase with the twin sisters. Julie had called to say she'd be very late. It had sounded like Jay Wright was involved. Chase couldn't very well blame her for finishing her evening up with Jay. She probably wanted to discuss her findings with him from the dinner with Bud, the real estate lawyer. Chase hadn't mentioned that she wanted to move Inger to her house tonight. Chase inwardly kicked herself and felt a stab of pain behind her left ear. If Inger stayed with Chase again, it would be her own fault.

Chase envied the speed at which Julie's romance was progressing. For that matter, Anna and Bill Shandy were moving quickly, too. They were all further along than she was with Mike Ramos. Everyone was leaving her in the dust! Then she considered the woman in the same room who had just lost her husband and gave herself a mental slap.

Elsie and Ellie, as they called each other, sat side by side on the couch, both of them staring at Chase with the same hard brown eyes. Grey, brought in from the bathroom, chattered away in her cage on the table at the end of the sofa.

“Who wants to play? How
are
you? Nothing is forever. Everyone's a critic.”

Chase burst out laughing.

“What's so funny?” asked Elsa.

“Your parrot! She's a regular little philosopher. Did you teach her all her phrases?”

Eleanor leaned forward like she was going to spill a secret. “She watches TV.”

To illustrate that point, Grey started shrieking like a police siren. Chase's head almost split open.

Anna ran out of the bedroom, looked around, glared at the cage, and went back to the bedroom muttering, “That bird again.”

“She's . . . something,” Chase said, rubbing her temples.

Elsa and Eleanor smiled identical smiles.

The cat had been turned loose in the bedroom when the two women brought him there to work on a noisy machine with some cloth. The animal that so intrigued him was on the other side of the bedroom door, so he stayed close to it. The animal smelled like something delicious, but it was much too big to bring down. Besides, it had almost acted friendly. He was intrigued. When the animal shrieked and the older woman ran out of the bedroom, he slipped out. He slunk around the edges of the room, nearing the big bird cautiously. Nothing was going to keep him from investigating this strange creature.

Everyone had eaten, so, besides talking about the parrot, there wasn't much else to do.

“It's too bad I can't let her out.” Elsa gave Chase a baleful look. “She could show you her tricks.”

“It's too bad there isn't a parrot competition at the fair,” Chase said.

“It
is
too bad,” said Eleanor. She spoke to Elsa. “Maybe you could suggest it for next year.”

Elsa drew back in horror. “I'll never be at that fair again! I'm never coming to this town again! As soon as I get my husband's poor body, we're leaving. We may never—I mean,
I
may never come back to Minnesota again.”

That was understandable, thought Chase. If Elsa hadn't killed him and didn't get locked up in Minnesota for a good long time, why would she ever return? Maybe, thought Chase, she could do some digging while they were here together.

“I suppose,” Chase said to Eleanor, “your sister told you about how she found her husband after he had been killed?”

“Oh my, yes. She did. She said she screamed her head off.”

Elsa leaned her head on the back of the couch and closed her eyes. “It's something I hope to never see again. I close my eyes and it's right there, every night. I wonder when that will stop. He was lying there in the straw. There wasn't very much blood. That metal dowel handle was sticking out of his ear.” A tremor went through her.