Catwalk (25 page)

fifty-one

Friday was a wash,
mostly. I never left the house except to pick up the backyard and throw the tennis ball for Jay a few times. I had planned to get groceries and run a few other errands, but I decided to be stingy and keep my cold all to myself. Tom called around ten and invited me to go to his place for lunch with him and Tommy, but I had to excuse myself every two minutes to sneeze or “blow by nodes” and we rescheduled for dinner on Sunday, after the cat show. Tom promised to be there to see Leo run. As the incidental teammate, I took no offense. “I just hope I can breathe to run,” I had said, and Tom assured me that if I rested and took my Echinacea I'd be fine by morning. I told him about my van, and he offered to drive me and Leo to the show the next day, but I assured him that the rental car was adequate.

“So tell me about the puppies,” I said. I knew he hadn't exhausted the topic the previous night. I hadn't heard him so excited since Drake finished his Master Hunter title. “Aqua,” he said, calling one puppy not by a name, since she didn't have one yet, but by the color of her rickrack collar, “has a really nice shoulder and turn of stifle,” meaning the angles formed by the bones in the shoulder and knee joints. Good structure goes a long way to keep a dog sound throughout its life, especially if it's jumping and retrieving. “But she's not as people-oriented as Pink. And Purple brought back every toy I threw, even the big duck she had to drag.”

Tom waited while I sneezed. “Pink is really nice, too. Great structure.” He paused, and I knew he was remembering every detail. “I'll send you the link to the latest pictures,” he said, and then his tone became softer, less analytical. “Pink followed me all around the yard without even being coaxed.” The smile in his voice told me that Pink was his puppy, but I didn't say a word. “It's going to be a tough choice, and of course they have to pass their eye exams in two weeks.” They would be screened for inherited eye disease, and an issue that might not be a problem for a family pet would be a nonstarter for a competition dog. “So she can come home in mid-December.”

“I'll mark my calendar.”
If we're still speaking by then.

We talked a few more minutes, but with Tommy there it wasn't the right time to ask about his travel plans. I was starting to wonder whether Goldie was right. Had I imagined something I hadn't actually heard?
No, I heard what I heard.
Right then I heard a man's voice in the background. I knew Tom wanted to spend time with
his son, so I suggested we talk later. I didn't tell him about my
kitten—my kitten! I didn't want to steal his thunder, but smiled at my little furry secret. I had a baby animal on the way, too.

After I hung up, I hauled out my makeshift feline agility obstacles. I dragged the coffee table into the kitchen and shoved the couch, chairs, and end tables back against the bookcases that lined the walls, and set up a course of sorts in the living room. After the fifth time I had to tell Jay to get out of the way, I shut him into the bedroom. Leo supervised from the top of a low bookcase, leaning toward me and talking the whole time.

“Mrrowwwwlllll!”

“Good thing I don't know what you're saying, Catman,” I said, and he chirped.

We had a terrific session, and lack of practice time didn't seem to have hurt. I offered a final squeeze of fish paste, and while Leo attacked it with his quick little tongue, I said, “I hope you don't mind a little sister, Leo
mio
.” I ran a hand from the top of his head to his tail, and said, “You'll always be my best boy cat.”

I don't know whether it was the fish paste or the activity, but by the time I got the furniture back in place, I was done in. I let Jay out of the bedroom and sat down on the couch to regroup. “Should we go back to bed, or have some lunch?” I asked.

“Lunch, definitely.” At least that's what I assume Jay would have said had he not already run into the kitchen. The back door banged open, and I shot up from the couch, thinking I hadn't closed it completely. Then a voice said, “Soup's on!”

“Wow, that was magical,” I said.

Goldie was standing by my stove, a soup pot in her hands and a deep, zippered canvas tote dangling from her wrist. “I am magical,” she laughed, setting the pot on the stove and turning the burner to medium.

“So I hear,” I said. I lifted the lid and sniffed. “What is it?”

“What's it smell like?”

“Doe idea,” I said, taking her coat from her.

“Poor baby,” Goldie said when I got back from the closet. “Some soup and a fresh baguette will set you straight.” Leo hopped onto the counter to inspect the canvas tote, and Goldie lifted him down and said, “Never you mind, Mr. Leo.”

Leo licked his paw, flicked it, and strolled away, tail high, as if to say, “Eh, who cares?”

Jay, who had been watching the same canvas tote very carefully, as if it might open itself, spun around and knocked me sideways as he shot out of the kitchen. “Holy
…
,” I said. The doorbell rang and I had a sneezing fit all at the same time. I grabbed a paper towel, wincing when it touched my sore nose and looking around for my box of tissue.

“I'll see who it is,” said Goldie, already half way to the door.

No tissue. I scurried to the bedroom, grabbed the box from my night table, and ducked into the bathroom, where I splashed warm water on my face. It helped a little. I went back to the kitchen.

“Nice jammies,” said Hutchinson. I'd forgotten what I was wearing, and anyway, I figured the bell was a delivery. “You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks, Hutch. Anything else while you're on a roll?”

His mouth twitched, and he said, “Yeah. Congratulations.” I raised my eyebrows at him. He looked at Goldie and back at me. “We could be the Three Little Kittens Club.”

I laughed. “Sure. We could get t-shirts and everything.”

“Wait. What?” said Goldie.

“Janet's adopting the little gray kitty,” said Hutchinson.

“Oh, that's wonderful!” Goldie clapped her hands and laughed. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I just found out myself,” I said. “And by the way, why didn't you tell me about the black kitten?”

She dished up soup for all of us, set the thick crusty loaf on a
plate,
and poured olive oil and balsamic with herbs into three saucers.

“Wow,” said Hutchinson. “What else do you have in that ruck
sack?”

“Just don't ask her about those herbs in the oil,” I said, dipping a hunk of bread.

Hutchinson hesitated mid-dip, then said, “Oh, what the hell,” and we all dipped and slurped without speaking for a couple of minutes
.
Then he wiped his mouth, patted his belly, and said, “So, I have some news.” Goldie refilled his soup bowl while he spoke. “I told you
they found blood on that table thing, right?”

“The pause table, yes.”

“It's not canine. It was human, and the same blood type as Rasmussen. They're waiting for DNA, which will be a while. The lab is backed up.”

“Okay.” It didn't make sense. No one picked up the pause table to whack the guy. “So, did he fall?”

Hutchinson pursed his lips, nodded, and pointed at me. “He apparently suffered three blows to the head. Two of them were with a sharp instrument of some sort. And the blood on that broken scooper thing they found also matches his blood type.”

I closed my eyes and mumbled, “Pooper scooper.”

“Yeah, that thing.”

Oh, Giselle, what have you done
, I thought.

“So they found Giselle's prints on the scooper, but
…
” Hutchinson leaned on his arms on the table, “there were a lot of other prints, too, including …” He waited until I looked at him to finish. “
…
a match to whoever left that poster board on your car. They pulled a print from the duct tape.”

“You saved that?” I hadn't thought about it at the time, or paid attention. I just wanted the crap off my windshield.

“Of course,” said Hutchinson, and then he leaned back and grinned.
“But the pooper-scooper injuries didn't kill him. They bled a
lot, but that's about it.”

“You said there was another weapon,” said Goldie.

“Not exactly a weapon. A heavy, sharp edge. And they found tiny splinters in that wound. They match the plywood in the, what do you call it? The pause table. At least at first glance. And when that hit him, or he hit it, it fractured his skull.”

“But how did he get inside the tunnel?” I asked.

“They said he could have walked or crawled a long way. He was probably disoriented, maybe scared. Maybe he crawled in there to hide.”

My head felt like a cotton candy maker, spinning with light fluffy
stuff for brains.

“Now we just have to figure out how it all happened,” said Hutch
inson. He pushed his chair back as if he might be leaving.

“And about your van,” he said. “I checked on that. The old man across the street saw someone in front of Alberta's place just before the fire. Fong thinks the guy might know who it was, but he's scared to say.”

“Can't say I blame him,” I said, “especially if it's the same person who's been vandalizing Alberta's place.” Which it had to be, since the message to her as well as to me was “the fire next time.”

Hutchinson stood up. “Stay there. Get some rest.” The front door opened, and he called, “Hey, I'm going to the cat show this weekend. See you there!”

fifty-two

As Scarlett O'Hara knew
very well, tomorrow is another day, and I was a new woman after sleeping the rest of Friday afternoon and, after a grilled cheese sandwich and more hot liquids, another ten hours before morning.

As an experienced obedience and agility dog, Jay knew something was afoot, and I felt guilty, knowing the rude awakening he was about to get. I bundled up and took him outdoors for a rousing game of tennis ball with some obedience commands thrown in for mental exercise. When we went in, I sat down with coffee and cereal and explained to him that this was Leo's weekend. I'm pretty sure he understood, and he wasn't buying it. I loaded Leo into his carrier, gave Jay an enormous carrot, and left.

Leo was scheduled for double duty. He would make his competitive debut in the agility arena, and spend some time greeting people at Alberta's TNR information booth. He wasn't feral and never had been, but he was very social, and, as a stray, he could easily have ended up homeless. Or worse. Besides, he was friendly.

Alberta had saved me a seat, and a spot under the table for Leo's carrier.

“The display looks terrific,” I said, and it did. Sally Foster had set up a twenty-four-inch all-in-one computer to run a loop of informational videos interspersed with awww-inspiring photos and videos. Alberta had hung a beautiful new banner for “Save-the-Cats of Aspen Grove,” and another volunteer had a give-away basket of kitty coloring and sticker books flanked by a stuffed cat wearing a “Help Yourself, Help Us” sign.

By the time I tucked Leo's carrier under the table, stowed my gear, and said my hellos, I had about half an hour until Leo's agility class. I peeked under the table to see if Leo was reacting at all to all the sensory input. He had his eyes closed and his paws tucked up under his chest.

“Is Leon doing okay?” Sally Foster whispered, leaning in beside me for a peek.

“Leo,” I said. “He appears to be meditating.”

Knowing my cat was relaxed, I walked to the far end of the arena
to check out the agility enclosure. It was the same set up we had used for the demonstration at the Dog Dayz canine trial the week before, so no surprises there. A few competitors and spectators had already staked out their spots around the enclosure, but I didn't see anyone I knew at first. Then I noticed what appeared to be an enormous long-haired tabby standing on his hind legs and waving at me. For a split second I wondered whether the drugs I had taken to suppress my lingering cold symptoms were making me hallucinate. Or maybe Goldie really had put something in the soup? I leaned forward and squinted, and the waving cat morphed into Jared Spenser and Moose, his huge Maine Coon. I waved back, checked in with the gate keeper, and made a pit stop.

When I got back to the TNR table, Hutchinson was there talking to Alberta, a big cardboard box in his arms, It was stuffed to the rim with, well, I wasn't sure what all was in it. “What's all that?”

“Kitten supplies.”

Alberta smiled at me and winked, then asked Hutchinson to show us. Hutchinson emptied the box and then began to reload it, starting with the big items. “Here's her carrier. She'll need it to go to the vet and everything. And these are her beds.”

“Three beds?”

He stared at Alberta as if she'd lost her mind. “Yeah. For the living room, bedroom, and my office.” Alberta elbowed me. “Food and water bowls. This, just for now.” He held up an elegant little beaded pink collar that must have cost a bundle and might fit her for a week. “Kitten food.” He'd picked a top-of-the-line food, I'd give him that. He showed us a couple of books, and said “I'm reading
The Complete Idiot's Guide to Getting and Owning a Cat
on my e-reader right now, and that's helping me figure this out.” He nodded at us, so I nodded back. Positive reinforcement is a good thing. “And a few toys.” I counted seventeen of them as he dropped them into the box. “That's all I got. What else does she need?”

Alberta patted him on the arm and said, “Nothing, dear. You'll both do just fine.”

Hutchinson wanted to watch Leo in agility, so we stashed the kitten's hope chest under the table. I opened my carrier and Leo stepped
out and stretched, then stood while I slipped his harness on. I picked him up and he shoved his face into mine in a sort of combo nose-bump-and-cheek-rub maneuver. “You could maybe bring his carrier and my chair?” I pointed at my folding nylon chair, still in its sheath.

We found a good spot near the agility arena, and Hutchinson grabbed a chair for himself and sat next to me. “This is fun,” he said. “I had no idea there even was such a thing as a cat show until last week. I watched some of the judging.” He shook his head and laughed. “I can't believe the cats put up with all that lifting and stretching and stuff.”

“People just don't give cats enough credit, and most cats aren't socialized like they could be,” I said.

“Yeah. Look at that one,” he said, pointing at Moose, who was draped over Jared's shoulder. “That's the biggest cat I've ever seen.”

I couldn't argue with that.

Then Hutchinson changed subjects. “I talked to Fong this mor
ning. He found that kid, the one that's been following you around.”

“He did?” I blew my nose, hoping that Fong had shaken the snot out the kid when he found him.

“The neighbor, the old guy, finally said he thought it was a neighbor kid. Pointed them to the house.”

“Did they find out why he's been watching me?”

“Claims he was just going for walks,” said Hutchinson. “Just happened to see you around here and there. But,” Hutchinson lowered his voice, “the kid's been in trouble before. Small stuff. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”
Like what, other than stalking women?

“He was accused of setting a fire in a neighbor's tool shed last year.”

That made me stare at Hutchinson. “Did he torch my van?”

Hutchinson shrugged. “Fong said they didn't find any evidence. He's trying to get a search warrant for the kid's house, but they don't have a lot of cause, so I don't know.”

“Well, who is he?”

“Name's Rudy Sweetwater.”

I must have reacted without knowing it, because Hutchinson said, “You know him?”

“Not really,” I said, “but I've seen him around. His mother does agility.” I thought about sullen Rudy waiting for his mother at Dog Dayz and the agility trial and wondered whether she was keeping him close because he'd been in trouble. People were moving around in the arena and I didn't want to ruin the day with any more talk of ugly things, so I said, “They're starting.”