Murder of the Cat's Meow: A Scumble River Mystery (4 page)

“They’re amazing.” For the second time that day Skye found herself talking to thin air. “I love their little pixyish faces.”

“We call that wedge-shaped.” A tall, thin woman in her late fifties emerged from behind the cage, catching the edge of the table with her hip and knocking over the oversize champagne glass full of tiny opalescent balls that had been perched on top of the crate. “Their heads should form perfect triangles,” she explained while righting the glass and rounding up the escaped faux bubbles.

Her own face had high cheekbones and a pointy chin. Those features, along with her buzz-cut white-blond hair, made Skye wonder whether the woman had chosen the breed because of its resemblance to herself.

“Interesting,” Skye murmured, then asked, “Are you Fawn Irving?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Skye Denison. I’m here to escort you to the judging area for number seven.”

“Great.” Fawn opened the pen door and swooped up one of the cats. “I heard people were getting lost, and Miss Pearl here gets spooked easily.”

Skye led the way to the basement door. Halfway down the steps, Fawn tripped and slammed into Skye. Luckily, for both women, Skye had a firm grip on the banister, and her substantially greater weight halted the lean breeder’s momentum.

When they were all on solid ground, Skye escorted Fawn into one of the three rooms being used for judging. Skye stopped just inside the door, but Fawn placed Pearl in the only vacant cage of the nine set up along the rear wall.

A woman whom Skye immediately identified as Elijah Jacobsen’s earlier victim, Alexis, stood with her back to the assembled cats, facing a long table. Attached to the front was a poster that read:

Glancing over her shoulder, Alexis curled her lips and said, “I see the late Fawn Irving has decided to join us after all.”

Two red circles formed on the gawky blonde’s pale cheeks. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t hear my number being called.”

Alexis raised a perfectly plucked sable eyebrow. “Perhaps if you had fewer holes in your head, your hearing would be better.”

Fawn recoiled, her hands flying to the multiple pierced earrings she wore. “I, that’s really…” She stopped, swallowed, and straightened her spine. “Would it hurt you to be supportive once in a while?”

“I’d like to help you, Fawn,” Alexis mocked, “because I know you need it, but I’ve mislaid my magic wand.”

“Maybe one of your flying monkeys stole it.” Fawn was breathing heavily and her fingernails dug into the tabletop, but she didn’t back down.

Alexis gazed at a bruise on Fawn’s forearm, then
tsk
ed. “Bump into something again—or did your husband come back?” Fawn gasped and Alexis smiled, shaking her head. “Your klutziness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Why are you always so mean, Alexis?” The fragile woman finally lost the inner battle for strength that she’d been fighting, and whimpered, “What have I ever done to you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Alexis bared her teeth in a self-satisfied smile. “How could you? You’re such a colossal nobody, you and your second-rate cats aren’t even a blip on my radar.” With that, she plucked a cat from its cage and began the judging.

As Fawn slunk to a chair in the back without retaliating, Skye relaxed. She’d lingered, thinking that the gorgeous judge might provoke another physical altercation—this
time by Fawn—but now that everything seemed calm, Skye left the room and returned upstairs.

As she continued to guide contestants to the correct areas, she thought about the most recent scene she’d witnessed in the basement. Why had Alexis insulted Fawn? There hadn’t been any discernible reason for her verbal attack on the older woman. Was Alexis just plain mean? Didn’t she care that her cruel words might make a bad impression that could damage her chances at the speeding-dating event? Maybe she thought the male participants would be blinded by her beauty and her bad behavior during the cat show wouldn’t be an issue.

After Alexis’s extreme nastiness, the rest of Skye’s escort duties went smoothly. Princess had been the only feline fugitive. And although Skye saw Elijah several times that morning, he appeared calm and in control of himself, mostly texting or fiddling with his rosary beads.

During the past few months, Skye had been trying to mind her own business no matter what went on around her, but Alexis’s treatment of Fawn continued to gnaw at her. So during the noon break, she looked for Bunny, determined to make her aware of the beautiful judge’s bullying behavior.

When Skye couldn’t find Bunny, she decided to ask Frannie if she knew where the elusive redhead had gone. Earlier, Frannie had explained that she was in charge of the food and nonalcoholic drink portion of the events, so Skye headed toward the grill.

The young entrepreneur was behind the counter selling cold sandwiches, chips, fruit, cookies, and sodas, and when Skye reached the front of the line, she asked, “Do you know where Bunny is? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She’s in the bar working with the deejay for tonight.”
Frannie handed Skye a key, adding, “Here, you’ll need this. The door’s locked.”

“Thanks.” While Skye made her food selections, she noted that Frannie seemed to be in her element, managing the crowd with finesse and chatting easily with the customers as she took their money and made change. “Looks like you’re doing a brisk business.”

“Yep.” Frannie leaned forward and whispered, “We deliberately only gave them forty-five minutes for lunch so they’d have to eat here if they didn’t want to risk being late for the next round.”

Skye started to speak, but held her tongue. Frannie was no longer her student, and as Skye slipped into the bar, then relocked the door behind her, she reassured herself that actions that seemed unscrupulous to her were just good business practices in the retail world.

Bunny was standing with a bearded guy wearing jeans, mirrored sunglasses, and a black T-shirt. Waving, Skye took a seat. As she removed her lunch from the brown bag Frannie had placed it in, she studied the man and woman in front of her as they moved around the stage talking and gesturing.

The DJ’s appearance was unremarkable except for his dark brown hair, which was parted on the side and puffed out in the shape of a football helmet. Skye wondered how much hair spray he needed to hold his elaborate coiffure in place. She mentally scratched her head. Did he really think that was an attractive style?

Bunny held up a finger indicating that she’d be done in a minute, then turned back to the DJ. But that minute turned into fifteen, and Skye had finished eating her turkey wrap and chips by the time the redhead pulled out a chair and joined her.

“Phew.” Bunny adjusted her black and purple spaghetti-strap top, pulling up the front while simultaneously tucking her boobs more firmly into the padded
cups. “I hope he knows eighties music like he claims to, or tonight will be a catastrophe.”

“Why are you worried?” Skye tore open her packet of cookies. “Isn’t he a professional?”

“He’s from Chicago.” Bunny pronounced the name of the city with reverence. Small-town living would never have been the redhead’s first choice if she hadn’t run out of options. “Of course he’s a pro, but the eighties was an extremely complex musical era.”

“Sure it was.” Skye crossed her fingers as she agreed. “But shouldn’t you have soft music for speed dating? Something low and sexy to put the participants in the mood, and so they won’t have to shout at each other to be heard?”

“Duh.” Bunny snatched a ginger snap from Skye’s pile. “DJ Wonka is for afterward. We’re having a bowler disco party from ten till midnight. The servers are going to wear the cutest bowler hats.”

“Where are you having the party?” Skye moved the remaining two cookies out of Bunny’s reach. “The alleys are full of cages and feline paraphernalia.”

“Round three ends at four, then the finalists are announced, and all cats and equipment must be removed by five.” Bunny got up, went behind the bar, snagged a bottle of water from the cooler, and reseated herself. “Then the guys I hired to put down the tarps and plywood will remove them and the cages, and, voilà, we’ll be ready for the bowler disco party.”

“So you’ve got it under control.” Skye was impressed with the redhead’s planning. Preparedness was usually not her strong suit. “That sounds like fun.” Then she frowned. “But how about tomorrow? Won’t you have to put everything back for the final judging?”

“Nah.” Bunny shook her head, making her magenta chandelier earrings swing. “There will only be nine cats in the Best of the Best round, and there’s plenty of room
for those cages in the lounge area where we now have the two vendors and the photographer.”

“So this afternoon is rounds two and three, then dinner, and this evening is speed dating and the party?” Skye held up a finger for each activity.

“Right.” Bunny’s attention shifted to another topic and she tilted her head, examining Skye. “Elijah was wrong.” She pursed her glossy mauve lips. “I don’t think you’re going to have a black eye after all, and I bet you could take off the bandages. You heal really fast.”

“Thank goodness for small favors.” Skye touched her cheek, wincing at how swollen it felt. “Hitting someone is never the solution to a problem. Even if they hit you first.” She bit back a chuckle. She sounded like she was doing a social skills class at the elementary school, which was probably about the level Bunny would understand.

“And you, my darling, should never get between me and a man.” The redhead giggled hysterically. “Especially one that I’m mad at.”

“On that note, let’s change the subject.” Skye drained her can of Diet Coke and asked, “What’s up with Alexis Hightower?”

“Well, she’s working for free.” Bunny attempted to flatten a crease in her black lace leggings and grimaced when she realized the wrinkle was in her thigh rather than in the fabric. “She waived her judging fee in return for food, drinks, and complimentary participation in the speed-dating portion of the weekend.”

“Ever hear that you get what you pay for?” Skye crumpled a piece of wax paper. “You should have seen how nasty she was to that poor Fawn Irving.”

“Hmm.” Bunny frowned, then quickly used her pinky to smooth the line between her brows. “I know she really pressed Elijah’s buttons, too, but she’s always been okay with me. In fact, she gave me a lot of help organizing the cat show. We were on the phone every day for weeks. She
told me all the stuff I needed to know about how to do things so the event would be fun even if it wasn’t official.”

Skye carefully considered her next words. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but from what I’ve seen—her being verbally abusive to Elijah and Fawn, but nice to you—Alexis appears to bully people she considers less powerful than herself.”

“That’s something I won’t tolerate.” Bunny’s brown eyes were suddenly serious. “Fawn’s had a hard time lately. She told me she just got out of the hospital a week ago.”

“I’ve just met Alexis today, and have only seen her in two situations, so it’s hard to say if I just caught her at a bad time”—Skye bit her lip—“but it worries me that she appears to target the most vulnerable people.”

S
kye delivered the last stray contestant to the judging room a few minutes after three thirty. Her assignment completed, she grabbed her purse from Bunny’s office and headed toward the lounge to browse the vendor booths. She also wanted to check out the feline photographer, to see if she could arrange for him to do a portrait of Bingo the next day.

The first stand held cat toys, feline furniture, and kitty accessories of every conceivable—and a few inconceivable—kind. Who knew there were clothes for cats, let alone wigs? Didn’t cats already have enough hair?

Skye closed her eyes, trying to envision Bingo in a tuxedo and a blond toupee, but the only image that came to mind was the bloody mess that her hand would become if she attempted to turn her cat into a dress-up doll.

Moving on, Skye studied a brightly colored package with the words
KITTY-CASSO
emblazoned on the top. She was struggling to imagine how the kit was used when she noticed a little old lady wearing a name tag that read,
SANDY—EIGHTY YEARS OLD AND LOVING LIFE,
approaching her.

The octogenarian smiled widely at Skye and asked, “Can I help you, dear?”

“Uh.” Skye didn’t want to insult the woman, so she said carefully, “Am I reading this right? This is a painting set for cats?”

“That’s correct, dear.” Sandy plucked the box from Skye’s hand and said in a TV pitchman’s singsong voice, “It’s no mess and contains nontoxic paint. This wonderful product stimulates your pet’s creativity, provides exercise, and is the hit of all my pet parties.”

“Wow.” A vision of the tiny woman in a finger-painting session with a group of cats wearing paper hats popped into Skye’s head. “I’m not sure Bingo would enjoy it. He considers himself too macho to be an artist.”

“How about our Jester Ribbon Wand?” Sandy held up a yellow and red striped baton with a blue and green donut on the end. Five objects hung from streamers attached to the ring. “This combines sound, scent, and movement to entice even the manliest cats.”