Fat Cat Spreads Out (21 page)

C
hase's knees buckled. Detective Olson caught her around the waist with an iron grip and plunked her onto the hard bleacher seat.

“How long ago did you take this picture of Hardin and Ramos?” he asked. “If it
is
them.”

“I guess about half an hour, forty-five minutes, maybe a little more or less.”

“He might not have left yet. We'll get a dog here, block off the parking lot and start searching. I'll get his license number from Daisy. He had to register it for vendor parking.”

Detective Olson was speaking into his cell almost before he quit talking to Chase, requesting an APB on
Hardin's vehicle. Quickly he found Daisy, and they hurried away toward her office.

Chase's heart hammered. She clenched her fists, almost jumping out of her skin. Hardin was a dangerous man. A murderer! And he had Mike. How long would it take to transport a police dog to the fair? Too long. She couldn't stand still. She ran out of the building.

She sped down the midway toward the lot where the vendors parked. Two officers were questioning the man at the hot dog stand. Another one scribbled on a notepad while the chicken wing vendor waved her arms toward the parking lot.

Chase put on more speed and was at the vendors' parking lot in less than two minutes.

She spotted Hardin/Harper right away at a big blue van four rows from where she stood.

Running as fast as she could, she sprinted for the vehicle. The toymaker opened the driver's door and hitched himself up into the seat. She was still a row away.

“Wait!” she screamed. “Wait!” She windmilled her arms.

He looked in her direction and reached for his handle to close the door.

“You forgot something!” Not true, but she had to stop him. She put on more speed than she'd known she had. Almost there.

That got his attention. He let go of the handle and waited for her to reach him, panting and breathless.

“What did I forget?” he asked.

“Let me catch my breath.” She bent to put her palms on her knees while her lungs burned and heaved. The
cold air didn't help her recover. She was disappointed that Mike wasn't there.

“I need to . . . ask you . . . something,” she panted and coughed twice. She drew in the lingering odor of sweat and also that of the cigarette dangling from his surly lips.

He squinted at her, suspicious. “I thought you said I forgot something.”

“I'm sorry. I had to . . . stop you.” Her breathing was almost back to normal. “I desperately need to know something.”

“Know what?”

A
thump
ing noise came from the back of his windowless van.

“What's that? Do you have an animal back there?”

“Huh? Yeah, that's . . . that's Wolf, my dog.”

“Please tell me. I want to know. I have to know. I won't tell anyone you told me. The travel agent said you saw someone run out of the butter building.”

“How do you know that?”

“Her partner, Holly, told me. It was immediately before Dr. Ramos went in.”

“Not exactly. Maybe five or ten minutes before.” He started the engine.

“That person could very well be the killer. Who was it?”

“I'm not talking to any cops.”

“Can you tell me? I'm not a cop.”

“I don't want to get involved at all, understand?” He still had one hand on the door handle. His fingers twitched impatiently, and his vehicle idled loudly. It needed a new muffler, Chase thought, almost choking on the black
cloud of exhaust spewing from the rusty tailpipe. The thumping continued in the back of the vehicle.

“Yes, I understand. I said I won't say anything to them. I only want to talk to him, to know what that person saw when he was inside.” Well, that and whether or not he'd murdered Larry Oake.

“It was that feller, that crazy one.” He let go of the handle and made a circle beside his head, the universal symbol for
cuckoo
.

“Do you know his name?”

“Nope. There, I told you all I know.”

“Thanks so much. I appreciate it.”

“If someone comes around asking, I won't say I saw anything.” He sneered at her. He transferred his cigarette to his left hand and took hold of the door handle with the same hand.

The thumping continued, but now she noticed a pattern. Three short knocks, three slow ones, then three more short raps. SOS! The message Mike had been texting her! He was in the van!

Chase grabbed the handles of the bay door and tugged.

“What the hell you doin'?” Hardin yelled.

“Dr. Ramos is back there! I know he is! Let him out!” She shook the handles, but the doors remained locked.

“Let go of my door. I'm leavin'. This fair has caused me enough problems. That foreigner. And the blonde. And now . . . now you.”

She paused, confused by what Hardin had said. Chase changed tactics and grabbed the driver's door, still open.

The van started to roll. She hung on, jumped onto the
running board beside the driver's seat. “Stop!” she yelled over the sound of the loud engine.

He accelerated and shoved her with his left arm. The man was strong, but Chase clung to the door and started screaming. The cotton candy vendor, loading a pickup truck with boxes, raised his head.

“Help! He's a kidnapper!” she screamed. Maybe that wasn't the best tactic, since she was obviously not being kidnapped. “Help!” she continued to yell, hanging on tight. Hardin let go of the handle and pounded on her knuckles with his fist. She gulped down a scream, but still didn't let go.

The cotton candy vendor ran toward them, followed by two others in the lot.

The van sped up, heading toward the exit of the parking lot. Chase kept screaming. Hardin kept pushing her, trying to get her off his vehicle. Her knuckles slipped on the handle. If she gripped the edge of the door, she was afraid he would slam it on her hands.

They reached the gate. The brakes squealed. Chase grinned in relief, trying not to fall off as the van screeched toward the heavy metal gate that barred the way.

It was a solid metal affair, and if the van hit it, Hardin probably wouldn't be able to drive away. The vendors were inspected as they left the fair every day and today, the last day, was no exception. The gawky kid in the blue uniform came out of the small white guardhouse waving his arms.

“Slow down, sir. You were going too fast.”

Chase jumped off as the van rolled to a stop. “There's
a man in the back.” She was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “He's a kidnapper.”

“The man in the back is a kidnapper?” the kid asked.

She pointed at Hardin. “
He's
a kidnapper. You have to get Dr. Ramos out of there.”

“Hands on your head, don't move.” Detective Olson was behind her, pointing a gun at Hardin.

Chase collapsed, hard, onto her knees. Olson didn't catch her this time.

C
hase finally staggered into the arena. The Fancy Cat Contest was well under way. Anna flapped her hand, urging Chase to hurry to their stand.

When Chase got there, she looked her over. “You look . . . well, you've looked better.”

“I'll tell you later.”

She and Mike had been questioned and checked over by medics in the parking lot. They had bandaged her knees where she had hit the pavement and her hand where Hardin had banged it with his fist.

Mike had sat on the ground beside her. He was rumpled and his knuckles were raw from pounding on the inside of the van, but he didn't look too awful from his ordeal when he emerged from the back. He related some
details to her. Hardin had gone to the clinic after packing up and told Mike he had something he needed to see and that it was in his van. Mike had thought he was going to show him the collar. But, when Mike stuck his head in the back door, Hardin had shoved Mike all the way in and slammed the door.

As they watched, Hardin was stuffed into the back of a squad car in handcuffs, yelling that he hadn't done anything and didn't know anything. Detective Olson climbed into the front seat to question him. Chase thought Hardin wouldn't tell Olson anything about who he had seen run out of the butter sculpture building.

One thing puzzled Chase. The patrolman who had read Hardin his rights had said he was under arrest for murder.
He
had killed Larry Oake? That didn't make a bit of sense. Then it dawned on her. He must have strangled poor Sally Ritten. But why?

When Chase ducked her head inside the squad car window and said she was showing Quincy any minute now in the Fancy Cat Contest, Detective Olson, showing his softer side, told Chase to go ahead and he'd get her official statement later. She had waved to Mike and limped off.

“Most of the cats are finished,” Anna said, keeping her voice low. “It's almost our turn. Where have you been?” She sniffed. “I can't decide if you hair smells more like a locker room or a bar.”

“I'll fill you in, I promise,” Chase said. “I feel much better than I look . . . and smell. Although I'm still
completely confused. At least I found Mike and he's all right. He should be here any minute.” Quincy crouched on the stand where Anna had been steadying him with one hand while he watched everything that was going on, his whiskers twitching and his ears swiveling.

Since he was in full costume, Chase snapped his picture, then scooped him up. She laughed when he got a good whiff of her and drew his head back, his eyes narrowed and his ears flattened against his furry skull. He worked his nostrils in and out. It felt good to laugh.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mike walk into the arena. He took a seat in the front row of the bleachers and gave Chase a wink. Her heart fluttered a bit.

The owner of the Maine Coon, outfitted improbably as a ballerina, complete with sequined lavender tutu and four satin ballet slippers, was returning the cat to his oversize cage.

Inger caught Chase's eye and waved from the bleachers. Chase held a hand out to her and pointed to their stand, asking if she wanted to join them. After all, she had designed the costume. But Inger shook her head. She pointed to Peter Aronoff and surprised Chase by making her way out of the bleachers to stand next to him and his father.

Patrice had shed her gauzy Madame Divine garments and wore blue jeans and a pink fluffy sweater. It very much matched the tutu Princess Puffball wore. The chubby cat also bore a cardboard tiara, covered with silver glitter, on her pretty head. From the nonchalant look in
the cat's blue eyes, it was obvious she already considered herself the winner, if not the queen.

Daisy spoke into the microphone at her stand. “And now, Quincy, owned by Charity Oliver.”

Quincy was fully dressed, thanks to Anna, little blue jacket snug on his round body, ox horns tied firmly, if lopsidedly, on his head.

“Do you want to take him?” Chase asked Anna, since she looked so ragged.

“No, he's your cat. You do it.” Anna nudged the small of her back. “You don't look that bad.”

Chase carried Quincy to the center of the semicircle formed by the contestants and put him on the judge's carpeted stand.

There were three judges. Chase figured there had to be an odd number to avoid tied votes. A stern woman and two men, one old with a crew cut, and one younger bald and jolly man, stared at Quincy, assessing. The stern woman tilted her head to the left, then to the right. The older skinny man bent over and squinted at the horns. The jovial one leaned back and smiled, clasping his hands over his substantial belly. He was the only one to give Chase's injuries a look.

Chase held her breath and kept her expression neutral, trying not to read anything into their faces or actions. The jolly man certainly looked pleased, but she couldn't tell about the other two. The jolly man would be the one she would want to play poker against.

After a few moments, the stern woman, still frowning,
nodded at Chase. She took that to mean she should return to their station, so she picked Quincy up and cuddled him, scratching behind his ears, as she walked back to their stand. His horns fell off and she stooped to scoop them up and stick them back on his head.

Peter and Ivan's handsome black cat wore a slick black cape and a black hood with extra large pointy ears. He made an adorable Batkitty. Or maybe, since he was owned by a man, he really
should
be called Batcat.

Other cats were outfitted as ballet dancers in tutus (two of them, one being the Maine Coon), firecats (three), and one had on a mermaid outfit, complete with wrapped back legs. That cat, a sassy Siamese, yowled over and over and looked miserable. The other Siamese seemed to be Neptune, in similar blue-green colors with a trident fastened to its back. The cat was trying hard to bite it off.

There were five orange tabbies dressed as Puss in Boots. That made her smile. She was right not to have picked that for Quincy's costume.

“Next,” Daisy announced, “Shadow, owned by Ivan and Peter Aronoff.”

What had Hardin muttered when she was clinging for all her life to his van?
That foreigner has caused me enough trouble.
How had she missed putting that together? The only person who sounded like he was clearly from someplace else was Ivan Aronoff. He was also cuckoo, as Hardin had pointed out. Chase frowned in thought. No, Hardin hadn't killed Oake. But she knew who had.

Chase stared at Shadow's stand. Both Peter and Ivan
were still there. Peter picked up his cat and took him to the judges.

Shadow behaved admirably, and Peter returned to their stand and tucked Shadow into his carrier.

“That's it,” Anna said. “Quince and Shadow were the last two. Now it's time to hold our breath.”

Chase had been doing that a lot lately. She fidgeted, trying to decide what to do about what she had figured out.

One of the police officers from the parking lot strode a few steps into the arena, looked around, and beckoned Daisy over to him. She hurried to the doorway. They bent their heads together, the large man leaning down to Daisy's level. After a few seconds, she jerked her head up and stared at him. He nodded grimly. After he said a few more words, she nodded, too, then came back to the contest.

The policeman looked behind him, into the corridor, then went to sit in the bleachers, on the first row, very close to the entrance. He should be able to catch Ivan if he made a run for it. But why would he run? No one here knew he was the killer except Chase. And what concrete evidence did she have? None. Just Hardin saying he saw someone who was probably Ivan leaving the building at the critical time. It didn't seem that Hardin had told the police what he told her, or ever would.

Daisy climbed the stand to the microphone and tapped it. Every single cat and half their owners flinched. “I need to make a special announcement. After the contest, no one is to leave the building. This is by order of the police. There has been . . . an incident and they want to question everyone here.”

The huge space buzzed with startled exclamations and whispered words. It seemed that every single person stirred, either in their seats or where they were standing.

Daisy continued. “We'll finish the judging and award the prize, then, everyone, please stay here.” She stepped down and nodded at the judges to continue.

The three judges put their heads together and conferred for the longest time. The crew cut man pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and thumbed through a few pages. The woman consulted her phone. Chase assumed she had taken notes on it. The jolly man bobbed his head in agreement. Finally, the stern woman beckoned Daisy to the trio. She tripped across the floor, her frizzy hair bouncing, her eyebrows up expectantly. She was light on her feet, in spite of the heavy atmosphere. Daisy stood listening, gave two quick nods, then went back to the stand with the microphone. She refrained from tapping it this time.

“May I have your attention, please? The judges have reached a decision in the Fancy Cat Contest. Here are the results. In third place, Princess Puffball the ballerina, owned by Patrice Youngren.”

Patrice, with a huge smile on her face, held her pudgy ballerina up so everyone could admire the frilly pink costume. Ms. Sharp, the prickly Picky Puss rep, marched over and handed a ribbon to Patrice.

When the clapping started, it was so loud that Chase looked around for the first time at all the spectators, perched on risers to one side of the competition area.
They filled every row, up to the top. She was surprised by the number of faces she saw. There were too many people there, she thought, for the crowd to be made up of just the friends and relatives of the contestants. It was clearly a popular contest. It was the last contest of the fair, and the contract for appearing on the cat food containers, plus a possible television ad, with royalties, were such high stakes—but would have been higher if the collar hadn't disappeared.

After the applause died down, Daisy spoke again. “Ladies and gentlemen, in second place is Shadow, dressed as Batcat.” Shadow's owner was announced. Peter grinned and displayed Shadow as Ms. Sharp went to their stand and gave a red ribbon to Ivan. Chase wasn't sure how she felt about the show going on and a murderer winning a prize. If Peter was innocent of his father's crimes, she felt happy for him. Ivan, however . . . She had no happiness for him. In fact, anger was building inside her.

“And in first place, Quincy, as Babe the Blue Ox, owned by Charity Oliver.”

The butterscotch cat's owner gripped him so hard, she was in danger of crushing him. Nevertheless, he purred loudly. Maybe he'd caught her infectious joy at winning the contest. Maybe he could tell he'd won and was happy about it. Maybe he liked being squeezed by his owner. The loud applause made him a bit jumpy, but he felt safe in his owner's arms.
After all, she was the one who fed him those delicious treats. The other woman stroked him. He basked in the attention and purred even more loudly, closing his eyes tightly in contentment. The two women swelled with pride.

Inger smiled at Peter then ran over from the Aronoff's stand to join them. Chase grabbed Inger's hand and raised their arms in the air together, signifying that Inger had a lot to do with the first-place win. Daisy handed the blue ribbon to Anna, since Chase's hands were full.

“Where should we put this?” Anna asked Chase.

“Maybe in the shop?” Chase was distracted, watching Peter and Ivan. Shadow was still out of his carrier. Ivan held him and Peter admired their ribbon.

“Yes,” said Inger. “In the front. I'll explain it to people.”

“Be sure,” Anna said, “that you mention who helped—”

A ginger furball leapt down, streaked past Chase and Inger, and jumped upon the pedestal where the black cat's carrier rested.

“Quincy!” Anna wasn't far behind, running to try to catch him.

The ginger cat dove into the carrier and started pawing the bedding, looking like a dog digging a hole, or maybe a cat looking for a fresh place in the litter box.