Fat Cat Spreads Out (9 page)

The last time the man stuck a treat into the cat's cage, the latch hadn't seated properly. The doctor had been in a hurry to treat a dog who had been yelping. The dog had howled forever, hurting the cat's ears. The cat hadn't dared leave the cage while the dog was there. He lay down for a nap and was eventually awakened by voices in the outer room. One was his own human, the other the pet doctor who was watching him lately. It was simple to lift the lever and walk out when his human left. He didn't get as many treats here as he did at home. He went searching for some more.

Dr. Ramos came
running after Chase. “Your cat is loose,” he called. He caught up with her as she walked out of the butter building.

“You let him out?”

“I didn't let him out any more than you ever let him out when he runs away.”

She was glad he recognized that Quincy's escapades were out of her control. “Where are the treats I left with you this morning?”

Mike held up the plastic bag.

“Oh, good, you have them. Give me one, then,” Chase said. She started calling his name and waving the treat close to the ground, hoping Quincy would smell it or hear her and would then respond. Those first two wouldn't necessarily lead to the third. After all, he was a cat.

She went up and down the midway twice, sticking to one side while Mike patrolled the other. Her first time past the Bar None booth, she stopped in to tell Anna what was happening. Anna had a steady flow of customers, so she had to stay where she was, but she wished Chase luck with the hunt.

In a tiresome repeat of Quincy's previous escapade, Chase encountered several vendors who had either admired or fed him—or both—but none who had thought to pick him up and capture him until his owner arrived.

Out by the rides, the ring toss barker had seen Quincy this time.

“That cat jumped into my booth and started batting at my rings.” He pointed to where they swung on the large nail hammered into the wooden frame.

“Was anything damaged?” Chase asked.

When he said it was not, Chase apologized for her cat and moved on. Quincy had also chased the balls a
customer was throwing at the milk bottles and had pounced on the plastic ducks in the kiddie duck pond.

She trudged back to the midway where the Bar None booth sat and walked the length of that again.

The man who sold handmade glass mobiles was adamant that he hadn't let the cat near his booth. Smart move, thought Chase. His wares were fragile. The cupcake sellers had given him a few bites. They stressed that they hadn't let him have any frosting. Chase groaned inwardly. The game vendor said Quincy had jumped up and walked across all the boards, spread out for demonstration. He had fed him a bit of cheese. Some small children thought he was part of the advertising and convinced their parents to buy three games. She thought he might be hiding among the children's clothing. Hand-smocked dresses hung on a line at the side of the booth. He wasn't there, though he had been earlier. The older couple running the booth thought it was adorable the way he had played peekaboo with the clothes. They had slipped him cookies.

Chase wondered if all the other vendors thought he was a cat that lived at the fair. They couldn't, could they, when she and her friends worried and searched for him constantly?

When she passed Harper's Toys, she didn't intend to talk to him, but he asked her what she was doing, waving that bag around.

“I'm trying to find my cat, who ran away,” she said.

“Looking for a feral cat?”

“He's not feral,” she snapped. “He just got away.” She
glanced over his collection and spotted some large, old-fashioned toys made up of a cup on a short wooden stick and a ball attached to it with a string. The object of the game was to toss the ball into the cup. A crude drawing showed how to play.

“Say,” she said, picking one up. “Could I borrow this?” She thought she might trail it along after her and lure Quincy from wherever he was. The string was long.

“Gimme that.” The horrid man snatched it from her hands. “You can have it if you pay for it.” One of his bluish tattoos looked like a cat, but not a nice one. It bared sharp, snarling teeth and had the eyes of a devil-cat.

Chase tried to give him a stern look, but it had no effect. She left and returned to the Bar None booth.

“Hello, dearie.”

Chase turned at the familiar voice. “Ms. Bjorn, how good to see you here.”

The tiny, gray-haired woman leaned on the arm of her neighbor Professor Anderson Fear. They both lived a short distance from the Bar None on Fourteenth Avenue Southeast. They both peered at Chase through their glasses. Hilda Bjorn's lenses were shiny and wire-rimmed, while Professor Fear's were thick and smudged.

“I came for some more of those Raspberry Chiffon Bars. The girl at your shop said you were out of them there.”

“And you came all the way here for them?” Anna said. “I'm afraid we didn't make any this week.”

“We didn't think they would hold up here, without refrigeration,” Chase added.

Anna held up a small box of Harvest Bars and opened them for inspection. “These are brand-new. Maybe you'll like these.”

Professor Fear peered at the box and sniffed. “Pumpkin. I'll take a box, too.”

While Anna wrapped their purchases, Hilda Bjorn pulled Chase close to whisper to her. “I know this is nonsense,” she said, “but I just saw a cat who looks exactly like Quincy.”

“Where?”

“He was napping in that big building.”

“On a glass case,” Professor Fear said. “In the room with the cat food things.”

“We thought the cat might be part of their display.”

Chase thanked them, left Anna to finish collecting their money, and ran to the main building.

She cautiously peeked into the cat food company's exhibit room and there Quincy was, curled up on top of the glass case that displayed the cat food bags and photos of cute kitties eating Picky Puss from fancy bowls. His tail covered his nose and he looked so comfy she hated to disturb him.

Oh so carefully, she tiptoed to him and gathered him into her arms. The lights for the display made the top of the case nice and warm. She thought that might be what had attracted him to it. There didn't seem to be food nearby.

“That cat likes the corn chips.”

She whirled to face the man she knew only as Papa—Peter's father, the man with the accent. She looked back
at the case. It was sprinkled with a few teensy crumbs, next to where Quincy's head had been.

“You fed him corn chips?” Mike wasn't going to like this one little bit.

“He seem like he is hungry.” His accent was heavy.

The younger man, the one she'd seen with him the day before in this room, came rushing up. “There you are,” he said, relief in his tone. “Where have you been?”

“I want to look where collar was.”

“Sorry if my father was bothering you.” The man shook hands with Chase. “I'm Peter Aronoff, Ivan's son.”

“My good, brave only son,” Ivan said.

Peter took his father's upper arm and tried to pull him away.

Ivan shook him off. “I not ready to go yet. Look, see what they wrote?” He pointed to the sign beside the empty cushion and laboriously read the whole thing. “DIAMOND CAT COLLAR” was in large letters. Beneath, in smaller print, it said “Designed and donated to the Bunyan County Fair by Picky Puss Cat Food. Pick the only food for your picky cat: Picky Puss.” He turned to Chase. “It says it was donated by the company.”

“I see that,” Chase said. The sign hadn't changed, but she hadn't noticed the parts in smaller print before.

“They are rich company. Too much money. They glory in donating such a thing.”

Chase squinted at the card in the glass case. “The print is very small. It doesn't look like they glory in it to me.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Ivan said. He took a menacing step toward her.

Peter put his hand on his father's arm and shook his head.

“It not right, Peter, and you know it,” Ivan snarled.

Peter mouthed the word
sorry
behind Ivan's back. “Papa, let's go. What the company does has nothing to do with me now. It's perfectly fine. These people don't want to hear about this.”

He was finally able to lead Ivan away. The older man was still muttering about diamond collars and fairness and glory.

A lot of people were concerned about that cat collar.

*   *   *

“Here he is,
the rascal,” Chase said, settling Quincy back into the roomy cage in the vet clinic. “Now I guess I'm not the only one he's escaped from.”

Mike gave a sheepish grin. “No, you're not. I don't think I've ever seen a cat that clever. Somehow, he was able to get that latch open.”

“Maybe you didn't shut it all the way.”

“Maybe.” Mike rattled the latch and the door, testing it and pondering with a frown.

The black cat in the neighboring cage flinched at the rattling, then settled down. She wondered if it was the same one she'd seen here before.

“That's what happens at home and in the shop,” Chase said. “We leave a door the least little bit cracked, or the latch not quite seated, and away he goes. It's too bad they're not having an escape contest for cats. Quincy would win that one for sure.”

“Are you showing him in the Fancy Cat? Patrice is entering her butterball.”

“I thought the cat was Princess Puffball.”

Mike laughed. “That's her name, but she
is
a butterball. Wait till you see her.”

“I hope to. If I can think of how to fancy up Quincy, we'll be at the competition.”

Mike scratched his chin. “How about dressing him up as Quincy Jones?”

“The musician? He's one of Anna's favorites.”

Mike started to look excited. “He'll need a mustache and a little suit. At least a shirt and a jacket.”

“A mustache? Really?”

“Well, maybe not that. But a little suit coat would be doable, don't you think?”

Chase did not think so. “Let's try some more ideas. A Cat-wich?”

“Like a sandwich or a witch-witch?”

“Not a witch, he's a boy. That would be a warlock. Cat-lock?”

They both groaned.

“I got nothing else.” Mike turned up his palms in surrender.

“We'll keep thinking about it. I'd better get back to the booth.” Since Halloween was coming soon, that might be a good theme to keep in mind. Bat, goblin, ghost, devil—maybe even a superhero, like so many of the little trick-or-treaters.

When she slid behind the table to help take money
from the horde of customers, Anna gave her a grateful grin. “This just doesn't stop.”

“We thought we had baked enough for the whole fair, but we hadn't. Good thing you've been doing so much baking this week. Maybe it's my turn tonight.”

During the next lull, Anna perched on the chair. “I don't mind doing all the baking. Bill came over and kept me company after I got back from seeing Elsa at the hotel.”

“I think you're seeing about as little of Bill as I'm seeing of Mike.” Chase grabbed a Lemon Bar and took a nibble.

“Quite a bit less. You're seeing Dr. Ramos every day here.”

“I know, but that doesn't count as
seeing
seeing. You had a late night, didn't you?” Chase was still feeling guilty for leaving all the baking to Anna.

“No problem. Elsa said she would come over tonight and help out.”

“Elsa? The wife of the dead man?”

“Yes, that Elsa. The
widow
of the dead man. She's in a terrible state. There's nothing she can do until the killer is caught. She can't even have a service for Larry until his body is released.”

“Is she that upset about his funeral?”

“Maybe not. She keeps saying it's so terrible Larry is dead. But then she goes right ahead and starts cursing him for being a sneak and planning to leave her penniless.”