The Chocolate Cat Caper (14 page)

Aunt Nettie chatted easily with the other EMT, but neither Glossop nor I had anything more to say on the way to the Ripley house. More reporters were stationed there, and I ducked instinctively when we turned into the drive. And I admit that my stomach knotted up again as the big iron gate shut behind us. It was too much like being led into jail.

The ambulance drew up in just the same spot where I had stopped to unload the chocolates two days earlier. The back doors opened, and I started to climb out.

To my surprise the person who stretched out a hand to help me step down was Duncan Ainsley.

“Mr. Ainsley!” I said. “I thought you were going back to Chicago.”

“I haven’t been allowed to leave. Stuck here like a coon up a tree.”

“We all have to cooperate, I guess. And perhaps they like having someone with some business connection to Clementine Ripley on the scene.”

“They don’t need me,” Ainsley said. “They have the new owner of the property here to lend authority to their investigation.”

“The new owner? Oh. I wondered who Ms. Ripley’s heir would be.”

“Clementine may be astonished at the way things have turned out. At this very moment she may well be standin’ at the Pearly Gates gapin’ in surprise.”

“Surprise?”

Ainsley grinned sardonically. “Yes, even the heir appears to be amazed.”

“The heir?”

“It seems Clementine never got around to signing her will. Joe Woodyard gets everything.”

T
hat was a shock. Just twelve hours earlier Joe had told me he would suffer financially because of his ex-wife’s death, that he faced ruin because she had promised him money for a business deal and hadn’t come through before she died. Now it seemed he scooped the pot.

I wondered, wickedly, if Marion McCoy had known this all along. Was that the reason she’d been so mad at Joe after she learned that Clementine Ripley was dead? And I wondered how she was taking the news.

I didn’t expect Ms. McCoy to be happy, but I was still surprised by what happened when a uniformed state trooper opened the front door of the Ripley mansion.

Marion McCoy rushed toward me, shrieking, “Get him! Get him!”

For a moment I thought she wanted us to join her attack on Joe Woodyard. Then I realized a large white-and-brown dust bunny was slithering past my shinbone.

“Stop him! Don’t let him get out!”

Champion Myanmar Yonkers was sneaking out the front door, headed for freedom.

Duncan Ainsley made a valiant grab. He caught Yonkers and wrestled him up. There was a loud yowl and a flurry of brown feet. Duncan cursed and dropped the cat. Blood oozed from his hand, and the cat ran under a shrub beside the flagstone steps.

Marion came to the door with an expression more lethal than poison gas. “Duncan, you fool! You know he hates men.”

The bush in which Yonkers had taken refuge was a fairly bushy bush, with branches close to the ground. Marion knelt and looked under it. Then she looked at me. “You! Go around on the other side. Make sure he doesn’t get out that way. You!” That was directed to Gregory Glossop. “You stand in front. Be ready to grab him. And, Duncan, you go to the cat cupboard and bring out his can of treats and his catnip mouse.”

Her fury was so great that I didn’t even consider not obeying. I scurried around to the other side of the bush, which looked like some sort of holly, and Greg Glossop covered the front. We had the cat surrounded, but I couldn’t see that it was doing us any good. Our perimeter was full of gaps.

Duncan Ainsley gave an exasperated sigh, but he went into the house, as ordered. Marion began to coo at Champion Yonkers. “Here, Yonkers. Here, kitty. Nice kitty.” It didn’t sound sincere.

The forgotten person in all this was Aunt Nettie. Now she appeared at my shoulder. “Here, Lee,” she said.

She handed me the Diet Coke can Greg Glossop had been drinking from in the ambulance. I stared at her in amazement. “That’s Greg Glossop’s,” I said.

“Rattle it,” Aunt Nettie said firmly.

I moved it halfheartedly, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when it made a noise.

“I put some pebbles in it,” Aunt Nettie said. “Rattle it. Some cats like that.”

I looked back at Champion Yonkers, huddled under his bush. “Here, Yonkers,” I said. “Come and see this toy.” And I rattled the can.

Miraculously, Yonkers crept toward me.

Greg Glossop moved, but Marion McCoy stopped him with an imperious gesture. Aunt Nettie knelt next to me, maybe four feet away. I rattled the can and spoke coaxingly again. “Here, Yonkers. Come and see what I’ve got. Come and get the can. You’re such a handsome fellow.”

Flattery will get them every time. Yonkers crept closer to the edge of the bush. I rolled the can back and forth, then moved it toward him, keeping it within my reach. Then I rolled it to Aunt Nettie. She rolled it back to me. We all held our breaths.

And Yonkers pounced on the can. He batted it back and forth idly, not far from Aunt Nettie. She reached out and petted his head, managing to tuck a thumb under his collar. Then I slid my hand around his body, and we had him, Coke can and all.

I scooped him up. “You are a naughty cat,” I said. “You scared Ms. McCoy.” She was looming over me, and I handed him to her.

“Thank you,” she said. She glared. The look wasn’t for me or for Champion Yonkers, but for some target behind me. “He’s a valuable animal, and I certainly wouldn’t want to fail in my responsibilities to his new owner.”

With that, Ms. McCoy turned and marched back into the house. I heard a snort—maybe it was a growl—and I turned to see Joe Woodyard approaching from the path that ran around the house. Ms. McCoy’s glare had apparently been aimed at him.

Joe didn’t acknowledge my presence, and I didn’t speak either. I was still withholding my opinion on Mr. Woodyard. A uniformed state policeman motioned, and I followed Aunt Nettie toward the door of the Ripley mansion.

Joe Woodyard had disappeared, but Duncan Ainsley reappeared with cat toys, holding a tissue to his scratched hand. He was all attention to both Aunt Nettie and me. Chief Jones materialized—from behind the bushes, I guess—and headed off Greg Glossop, keeping him outside.

We entered through a massive door and found ourselves in a large foyer. Although the decor was as severe as that in the house’s main reception room, on that day it seemed suitable. It formed a quiet background for masses of flowers and plants. At least Clementine Ripley’s demise had been a windfall for the florists of Warner Pier. Probably for the florists of every town in western Michigan.

Detective Underwood met us in the foyer and motioned for Aunt Nettie and me to go into that big reception room. It, too, was full of flowers and plants, but its atmosphere was still cold. But Marion McCoy was mad enough to heat things up. She spoke sternly to Underwood.

“I’m going to have to leave the cat in here, since the detectives won’t allow me to use my office, and that’s the spot we ordinarily use if we have to coop him up.” She put him down on the floor, and he immediately made for the stairs to the balcony. Once up them, Yonkers disappeared behind a large white ceramic pot.

Marion spoke again. “I would appreciate everyone taking care not to let him out.
Again
.”

She glared around at all of us, as if we’d conspired to let the cat reach the dangerous outdoors. For the first time I noticed that Marion was wearing what appeared to be deep mourning—calf-length black skirt, black turtlenecked T-shirt, black loafers—even opaque black stockings. Her skin looked washed out, and there were deep shadows under her eyes.

“Perhaps if we
try
, we can handle this situation with a modicum of efficiency,” she said.

Underwood was plainly annoyed at her dressing down, but I could see that he was in a bad position. His superiors would obviously have adopted a policy of politeness for this group, given the intense press scrutiny the crime was getting, and apparently some representative of the state police had been responsible for the cat getting in a position to slip out the front door. But Marion McCoy wasn’t in charge there; the state police were. Underwood could hardly allow her to give the orders.

I was relieved when Duncan Ainsley smoothed the situation over, speaking quietly and in his most folksy tones. “Marion, I know you feel like you’ve been pulled through a knothole, but you and the investigating officers will need to work together if y’all are goin’ to get all your coons up one tree.”

Marion McCoy laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “I’m going to my suite,” she said. “Duncan, I leave you in charge of the cat.”

It wasn’t much of a curtain line, but she exited on it.

Duncan Ainsley left, too, murmuring something about finding a Band-Aid. Underwood seated Aunt Nettie and me on the couch in front of the stern stone fireplace. Then he disappeared, and Lindy Herrera appeared.

She came from the kitchen, neatly dressed in black slacks and a white jacket. She winked at me and said, “Could I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Lindy!” I struggled up from the couch, which turned out to be just as hard to get out of as I’d anticipated it would be.

Aunt Nettie spoke to her without getting up. “What are you doing here?”

“Joe decided he needed somebody around to keep things picked up and to feed the two houseguests.”

“Houseguests?”

“Ms. McCoy and Mr. Ainsley.”

“Oh. Mike sent you over?”

“No, Joe called me himself. He knew we could use the money, with Tony laid off. I’ll just be here from ten until four for a few days, and my mother said she could watch the kids some, if Handy Hans calls Tony to work. So I came. All I really have to do is fix lunch and then leave something that Ms. McCoy can heat up for dinner. But I’ve been keeping a pot of coffee on. Do you want a cup? Or a soda?”

Aunt Nettie and I both declined. Lindy went back to the kitchen, and I looked around, assessing the situation before I sank into the couch again. That was how I happened to witness the next Yonkers attack.

Chief Jones came into the room from the foyer, an entrance that required him to walk under the balcony from which Clementine Ripley had fallen. Just as he reached exactly the right spot, there was a flurry of white and brown, and the chief gave a loud yelp. Yonkers bounced off his shoulders and onto the bar—almost exactly as he had the night of the party.

It was just as funny as it had been when Yonkers gave Jason the treatment. I stood there and tried to keep a straight face.

The uniformed state policeman, however, didn’t try. He hooted with laughter. “Got’cha, Chief,” he said. “Now I’m not the only one.”

The chief looked at me, and I belatedly tried to look sympathetic. “I’ll carry an umbrella when I walk under that balcony,” I said.

“Ms. McCoy says you’re safe,” Chief Jones said. “She says the cat only does that to men.”

“I thought you had taken yourself off the case,” Aunt Nettie said.

“I’m just a gofer,” the chief replied. “Just coordinating between the local force and the state police. They took over my office, so I came out here to get under their feet.” He went out the door onto the terrace.

I sank back into the soft leather cushions. I’d barely hit bottom when something furry brushed against my leg, and I looked down to see that I’d been joined by Champion Yonkers.

I offered him my hand. “Hi, Champ. You’d better behave yourself.”

Yonkers narrowed his blue eyes, twisted his milkchocolate snout into a sneer, then scooted under the couch, turned around, and poked his head back out between Aunt Nettie’s feet and mine.

Aunt Nettie leaned over and looked at him. “He certainly looks like his picture.”

“Looks like his chocolate copy, too. I was a little surprised when I saw him wandering around Friday. I thought champion cats would be raised in cages and wouldn’t be allowed the run of the house.”

“It’s called raised underfoot,” a deep voice said. “It helps what they call socialization.”

I looked up and saw Joe Woodyard coming in one of the doors from the terrace. He left the door open, but pulled a sliding screen door across it.

“Are you into showing cats, too?” Aunt Nettie said.

“No. But Yonk and I got along.”

“Does he jump on you, too?”

“Hasn’t so far.” Joe pulled one of the spindly chairs over and sat down near the fireplace. Yonkers immediately came out from under the couch and wound himself around Joe’s feet, mewing and rubbing his fluffy side and tail around Joe’s jeans.

“He’s beautiful,” Aunt Nettie said.

“Do you want him?”

“Heavens, no! I have no place for a pet. Are you looking for a home for him?”

Joe nodded. “I can’t have him around the boat shop. He mostly lives at the Chicago apartment, and that’ll be gone pronto.”

“This place . . .”

“Will also go on the market.”

“Oh. Yonkers ought to be worth a lot of money.”

“I suppose so. Maybe he’d be happier with a breeder, at that.” Joe reached down and scratched Yonkers under the chin. The cat arched his neck and lifted his head, indicating the exact spot he wanted to receive attention.

Joe grinned at the cat. “Yonkers would probably love having a large harem.”

“I can picture him lying on a silk cushion,” I said, “watching his ladyfriends do the cat equivalent of a belly dance. He’d just loll around like a Persian pasha.”

“Uh-oh!” Joe reached down and covered Yonkers’s ears. “Don’t use the word ‘Persian’ around Yonkers. Birmans are not Persians, and some of the breeders are very touchy about that. It’s an old controversy.”

I bowed to the cat. “I do apologize, Champ. I had no idea.”

Yonkers gave a sassy meow, and disappeared under the couch with a haughty flick of his chocolatetipped tail. Aunt Nettie, Joe, and I all laughed.

Interesting. Joe had been nothing but rude to me, but he had no trouble being friendly with a cat.