Catnapped! (12 page)

Friday

“A
toast!” Margery said. “A toast to the lucky grass widow! Hey, Helen. Come join us!”

Their landlady slouched in a chaise, her purple caftan hanging crookedly off one shoulder. She waved at Helen with a wide, sloppy swing and the wine sloshed in her glass.

Phil hunched in his chair, his face creased with concern. Margery’s cigarette was burning the arm of her chaise. Phil ground it out on the concrete. Their landlady didn’t notice, but Helen did.

“Margery, are you okay?” She hurried over to them.

“On topsh the world,” Margery said, her words slurred. “My darling ex-husband left me his condo. I’m an heiress of a luxsh—a luxsher—a luxury condo in beautiful Snakehead Bay. Sweets for the sweet! Snakes for the snake! I got the good news from Zachie boy’s lawyer this afternoon.”

“That’s good,” Helen said.

“Why?” Margery glared at Helen. “What’s good about it? He’s behind on the mortgage, the four-flusher.”

“Because as soon as the police release the condo, Phil and I can search it for clues and find out who really killed him.”

“Be my guest,” Margery said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck than old Phil here today. He says there are no surveillance cameras inside the restaurant except by the cash register. So nobody saw me not poison the son of a bitch.”

“You look tired, Margery,” Helen said.

“I’m not tired,” she said. “I’m drunk. Say it! You’re drunk, Margery.”

“Come on, Margery,” Helen said. “Let’s go inside. Phil will help.”

Phil took Margery’s liver-spotted hands and pulled her up out of the chaise. Margery flung her arms around him.

“You’ve got some shoulders on you, boy,” she said, as they walked toward her apartment. “Just like Zach. Been a long time since I’ve felt a young man’s arms around me. You gonna carry me over the threshold? That’s what Zach did. Carried me over the threshold and then broke my heart. Well, he’s dead now and I’m dead drunk. In the morning, he’ll still be dead and I’ll be . . .”

Margery’s voice wobbled, then stopped. Two tears, then four, then a bitter rainstorm ran down her wrinkled face. Helen had never seen their landlady cry. Her heart ached for the pain she must feel.

She opened Margery’s door, rushed inside and pulled back the purple bedcovers. Phil gently settled Margery on the lavender sheets. She was asleep by the time Helen tucked the covers around her.

She held Phil’s hand all the way back to their apartments. “I’ll change into my dancing clothes and meet you out here in twenty minutes,” she said. “Don’t forget to feed Thumbs.”

She was ready in fifteen. Helen felt odd teetering around in three-inch ankle straps after wearing shorts and sneakers, but Phil’s reaction made it worthwhile.

“Wow!” he said. “You look dazzling.”

Helen liked how her wide-legged silk palazzo pants swirled when she walked and her silver spaghetti-strap top showed off her
well-toned arms. Evidently, cat lifting was good exercise. She’d added a black-and-silver belt and long, dangly earrings for her night of dancing.

“You look pretty handsome yourself,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time you wore a jacket and tie.”

“Miss Sherry’s Academy of Dance taught me well,” he said.

“You took dance lessons?” Helen said.

“Until I was twelve. My mom insisted,” Phil said.

“I wish I could dance,” Helen said. “My grandma was a lovely dancer. I have two left feet.”

“Just follow the beat and your partner’s lead,” he said, and took her in his arms. He hummed “I Only Have Eyes for You,” and they danced along the narrow sidewalk in front of their adjoining apartments.

“I wish we could dance here all night,” Helen said. “But we have to go to the Coral Room to find out more about Daisy, Zach’s old flame. I’ll meet you there.”

“We’ll learn more if we go separately,” Phil reminded her.

Helen wished she were riding with Phil. Driving in those wide pants was difficult. She pulled the floaty fabric up past her knees to keep her pants from tangling in the brake and accelerator pedals.

At least it was a quick trip. The Coral Room was an Art Deco ballroom on Federal Highway. Outside, the old building featured flashing coral neon. Its sign was a landmark—a tuxedoed man dancing with a sophisticated thirties woman in a long ruffled dress.

Outside the vast ballroom, men and women in elegant dress lined up, many carrying bags with their dancing shoes. Helen remembered her grandmother’s dancing shoes. Their suede soles never touched a sidewalk.

As she entered, Helen heard a recording of “This Can’t Be Love.” Some people in line were tapping their toes, anxious to start. Helen guessed the women outnumbered the men by five to one, and, at forty-one, she was one of the youngest. Dresses ranged
from short cocktail frocks with flirty skirts to evening gowns. The men wore anything from Hawaiian shirts to suits.

She paid her ten-dollar fee and got her ticket for a free drink. The ballroom was a step back in time: five thousand square feet of beautifully cared-for hardwood, surrounded by small black tables and chairs. The bandstand was empty, and the walls were decorated with framed autographed photos and posters of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, even Fred and Ginger. They’d all headlined at the Coral Room.

Helen saw Phil dancing with Daisy. She envied the two of them gracefully gliding around the floor. Phil winked at her, and when they whirled past he nodded toward the tables by the bar. Helen hoped that was the section claimed by Daisy’s fun-loving lady friends. She ordered a club soda from the bar and sat at an empty table at the edge of the section.

The song ended and Des O’Connor sang “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.” That’s a slow fox trot, if I remember right, she thought. And this is like high school. Once again, I’m a wallflower.

But then a balding man in his seventies came over. “Care to dance?” he asked.

Saved! Helen thought. “I’d love to. But I’m a little rusty.”

“A pretty lady like you?” he said. “I’ll have you warmed up in no time.” He smelled of bay rum, and his white shirt crackled with starch.

“My name’s Helen,” she said, as he led her onto the dance floor.

“Bob,” he said, and those were the last words they exchanged. Helen stumbled and tried to right herself. Now she was off beat. Her feet couldn’t follow his. Bob moved too fast for her, and then too slow. He held up his arm, and she gathered she was supposed to twirl. She tripped in her too-high heels.

That’s when Bob dropped her hand like a dead fish and walked away.

Helen was abandoned on the dance floor.

This is worse than high school, Helen thought. Boys didn’t dance with me then, but I’ve never been marooned on the floor before.

She stood like a statue while couples moved effortlessly to the music. Phil floated past with Daisy in rhinestones and ruffled hot pink chiffon. She was chattering and pointing at Helen.

I have to get off the floor, Helen thought.

She made her way back to her table, her face flaming with embarrassment, and sat down. Across from her, a stylish woman in her late sixties sipped a gin and tonic.

“I saw that,” she said. “Bob abandoned you. That was rude.”

“It’s not his fault,” Helen said. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “My name’s Susan. Bob can dance, but he’s not a good leader. That’s the secret of a good ballroom dancer. A good leader will make his partner move in the right way, position his body so your feet naturally follow his. He gives his partner little physical cues so you’ll know what to do. At the very least, he talks to you and tells you what he’s going to do. Well, I’ll talk to him, all right. He won’t do that again.”

“No, please,” Helen said. “Just forget it. I’m fine. Really.”

Susan was dressed like an experienced dancer in a long, full-skirted silver chiffon dress and silver dancing shoes with two-inch heels.

“If I can give you one tip, your heels are too high,” Susan said. “For ballroom dancing they should be around two inches. It’s easier to stumble in higher heels.”

“Do you dance a lot?” Helen asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Every Friday night,” she said. “I’m with a group of women who love to dance, and this is the best ballroom in town. It has a ‘floating’ floor. There’s cork or rubber under that wood. People think ballroom dancing is slow, but it’s fast. Good exercise. And with the right partner, it’s better than sex.”

Helen wasn’t sure about that.

“Don’t let one bad experience spoil dancing for you,” Susan said. “Get out there and dance with someone good, a real leader. Like that man with Daisy.”

“The tall guy with the long silver-white hair?” Helen asked.

“Yes. Exactly. He’s new here, but he’s good,” Susan said. “Go get him. Don’t be shy. The widow Daisy isn’t. She’s glommed on to him like the last lifeboat on the
Titanic
.”

“Daisy,” Helen said. “Is she the woman in the ruffled pink dress?”

“You mean the dress two sizes too small?” Susan said. “That’s her.”

“Hot pink seems an odd color for a widow,” Helen said.

“Oh, Daisy’s not a real widow. She never married Zach, but they lived together for some thirty years. He just passed away. She called me today crying about how she’d lost the love of her life. Now she’s dancing like she hasn’t a care.”

“Maybe she’s trying to forget,” Helen said.

“She’s doing a good job,” Susan said. “I guess I sound witchy, but she bent my ear for ages, complaining about Zach. She could never get him to tie the knot. I got tired of listening to the same old song. ‘Daisy,’ I said, ‘if he didn’t say yes when you were young and pretty, why would he marry you now?’”

Ouch, Helen thought. Susan didn’t mince words.

“Daisy lives with her elderly aunt and takes care of her. The old lady has promised Daisy her house when she passes. She even let Zach live there, but she insisted on separate bedrooms. Not many men will put up with that and a crotchety old invalid.

“Daisy finally told Zach, ‘Either marry me or move out.’ He moved out. But she still chased him. He loved her apple pies, and she baked them for him. I told her to get a backbone and tell him to get lost. But Zach came to her house way up in Delray Beach to pick up his pie. She was convinced she could charm him back into her bed.”

That wasn’t quite the story Daisy told us, Helen thought, but she’d hardly reveal her failed love life to two private eyes.

Dionne Warwick was singing “Night and Day.” “That’s a slow fox trot,” Susan said. “You really should go tap on that new man’s shoulder. Go ahead. Break in on him. Daisy’s had him for three dances in a row. You’re not supposed to hog a partner. Especially a scarce man.”

Helen was still too mortified to go out on the dance floor again. Besides, Daisy might be giving Phil useful information. That’s why they were here.

“Oh, too late,” Susan said. “Nora got there first. Look at that! She tapped him on the shoulder, and Daisy won’t let go. She’s going to hang on to that man, no matter what. What nerve!”

Susan shook her head. “Daisy and men. She still acts like she’s sixteen. Too bad she doesn’t look sixteen. Well, soon we won’t have to put up with Daisy for a while.”

“Why?” Helen asked.

“She’s leaving the country Tuesday.”

“For good?” Helen said.

“Just for a month,” Susan said. “She has a sister who lives in Sydney, Australia, who’s turning sixty. Daisy’s going to spend a whole month with her, seeing the sights while they’re both well enough to travel. She says she hired someone to watch her aunt while she’s gone. Daisy’s taking a late-night flight to San Francisco, then heading for Sydney.”

The song was over. “Hear that?” Susan said. “That’s an international tango. I’m going to dance with the new man, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Susan got her man. In fact, Phil looked relieved when she cut in and released him. Daisy retreated to the restroom, sulking.

No wonder Susan thought dancing was better than sex, Helen decided. That tango practically was sex, right on the dance floor.
She tried not to feel jealous, especially when glamorous Susan whispered into Phil’s ear when the dance ended.

She led him by the hand straight to Helen and said, “Phil, this is Helen, and she needs to dance with a good partner.”

“My pleasure,” Phil said. Buddy Greco was singing “Fly Me to the Moon.” “Let’s waltz,” he said.

“I really am a bad dancer,” she said.

“Just follow my lead,” he said. “Put your arm here, and your feet like that, and talk to me.”

“I saw Daisy staring when I got dumped,” Helen said. “What did she say?”

“She said it doesn’t make any difference how young and pretty you are; if you aren’t a good dancer, no one wants you. I nearly left her right there.”

“But you didn’t,” Helen said.

“A graduate of Miss Sherry’s is always a gentleman,” Phil said.

“Did Miss Sherry teach you that torrid tango?” Helen said.

“International tangos are easy dances for beginners,” he said.

“What did you learn from Daisy?” Helen asked.

“She knows Zach is dead. She says she’s going traveling to forget her loss.”

“She’s visiting her sister in Sydney,” Helen said, and repeated her conversation with Susan.

“We didn’t learn anything useful tonight,” she said.

“I disagree,” Phil said. “This is our third time around the floor. You’ve been dancing. Is it really better than sex?”

“It’s romantic,” Helen said. “But I’d like to go home for a comparison test.”

Saturday

“L
ook at those beautiful Persians! I like the red one,” the woman in the orange Crocs said.

“My favorite is the blue-eyed white,” her friend said. “That’s one fine pair of queens.”

Helen swore Red and Chessie understood what the women were saying. Red adjusted her head to show off her incredible copper eyes. Chessie tilted her head slightly to display her full white ruff.

Pair of queens, indeed. Those two are the biggest hams this side of Smithfield.

When the Gold Cup Southeast Florida All Breed Cat Show opened at nine a.m., some two hundred cat lovers swarmed into Fisher Hall in Plantation, a rich suburb ten miles west of Dee’s cattery.

Judging started in half an hour, but the spectators were already delivering their own verdicts—like the two women admiring Chessie and Red.

“She’s more orange than red,” said her friend. “Like you.”

Ms. Orange wore a brilliant orange-flowered top and pants. She was a grandmotherly woman, a bit wide in the hips, who had
a difficult time navigating the narrow aisles between the cat show benches. But she was determined to see the cats.

“I like the fluffy white one,” said her slender friend, with her own snow-white hair and a pantsuit the color of Chessie’s eyes. “How anyone could like that ugly, spidery thing there is beyond me.” Ms. White pointed to an elegant, pale brown Sphynx.

Becca, the breeder, moved closer to the show cage, as if to protect her cat.

Helen felt sorry she had to listen to the insults.

“Who wants a hairless cat?” Ms. Orange said. “I wouldn’t touch that scrawny thing.” She shuddered with disgust.

That was too much for Becca. “Then you’re missing a treat,” she said softly. “Anubis is a pedigreed Sphynx. He looks hairless, but his muscular body is covered with fine down. You won’t find a sweeter cat. He feels like warm suede and smells like potato chips.”

“I like a cat that looks like a cat,” Ms. Orange said.

To Helen, cats were works of art. There were fashions in felines, and right now, the slender, long-bodied cats with long V-shaped heads, like the Siamese, were in style, as were stylized cats like the Cornish Rex, the Abyssinian and the scorned Sphynx. Helen saw these cats as modern art, difficult for the average person to appreciate.

Fluffy, flat-faced cats like Persians and British shorthairs were popular art. She preferred old-school cats with sturdy bodies and broad faces: Bombays, the American Wirehairs, Tonkinese, even moggies—mutts—like Thumbs.

But she didn’t think one type was superior. Just different.

As more people crowded into the hall, the show crackled with frenzied energy. Exhibitors were frantically combing, patting and primping their cats, fluffing up or wiping down coats, depending on the breed’s standard. Spectators crowded the vendors’ section, checking out cat beds, T-shirts, treats and toys. People roamed the
aisles between the benches, passing their own judgments on the pedigreed cats.

The show cages ranged from modest wire ones with homemade curtains to elaborate custom designs. Helen thought one looked like a bordello—okay, a cathouse. Draped with red velvet and topped with swags of spangled red feathers, it displayed two white Angoras lounging on plush, red-tasseled pillows.

Some cages had warnings:
PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. HUGS AND SQUEEZES SPREAD DISEASES!
Others sported clever signs:
KITTENS FOR SALE: ABLE TO DO LIGHT MOUSE WORK
.

No one could resist the kittens, especially the leopard-spotted Ocicats with golden eyes.

Red and Chessie queened it at the end of a bench, silently accepting admiration.

Other cats were not so quiet. One thin, sculpted, seal-point Siamese let the cat world know his displeasure.
“Rorrrrr! Rorrrrr! Yi-rorrrrr!”
His long dark brown ears quivered with rage. His owner, a caramel-haired woman who looked like a large tabby, cradled him, but he would not stop howling.

Cats sniffed, yawned or stretched. A large striped male hissed at his neighbor. Most of the cats slept.

Each show cat was assigned a number, which was called to summon them for judging at one of the four rings. Helen could barely make out the announcements over the hall’s noise.

The loudspeaker crackled, “Ring Two, Longhaired Championship: numbers eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three.”

After a blast of feedback, “Ring Three, Longhaired Premiership: numbers one ninety-three, one ninety-four, one ninety-five, one ninety-six . . .”

“Helen!” Jan called.

Helen hurried over to the bench. She felt a slight stab of guilt. She should have been helping the frantic Jan, not looking at
kittens. Dee was chatting with a breeder who wanted Midnight for stud service.

“I’m taking Red over to the Premiership judging ring, then I’ll come back for Chessie.” Jan checked Chessie’s cage and her face changed from harried to horrified. “Oh no, Chessie, baby, don’t!” she said.

An unmistakable odor rose from Chessie’s litter box. “Quick!” Jan said. “Get the box out of the cage so she doesn’t step in anything.” Helen stashed the box under the bench. “Now powder her backside with cornstarch and use the butt comb.” Helen looked at the bewildering array of combs. “That cheap one,” Jan said. “It’s reserved for the area.”

The loudspeaker blared, “Ring Three, Longhaired Premiership. Last call. Number one ninety-five. Number one ninety-five.”

“That’s Red!” Jan said. “Hurry, Helen, before Chessie’s white fur stains. Get her paws, too. I’ll be right back.” She ran off with Red draped over her arm.

This is the low point of my private-eye career, Helen thought. Phil always asks: What would Bogie do? Well, what would V. I. Warshawski do?

Clean the cat, she decided.

She gently lifted Chessie out of the cage, carefully powdered her behind and combed it. “Listen, cat,” she said. “You and your pals better deliver, after all I’ve gone through.”

Chessie rubbed her head affectionately against Helen’s hand. She didn’t dare hug the cat and flatten her fur.

By the time Helen had cleaned the litter box, Jan was back. She gave the white Persian a last check. Dee inspected her favorite one more time, fussing over her with Q-tips and cotton balls. Then Chessie draped herself along the length of Dee’s forearm. Jan and Helen followed as the star’s entourage.

Most exhibitors at least smiled at their friends as they carried
their cats to and from the ring. Helen thought people in the cat fancy avoided the sharp-tongued Dee.

Ring Two had sixteen wire cages arranged in a U around the judging stand.

The stand had two poles holding up a fluorescent light; one pole was sisal-wrapped and the other twined with silk flowers. The stand was on a long pink-skirted folding table.

“Nice setup,” Jan said. “Some shows don’t have the sisal pole or the light.”

Next to the judging stand was a pot of pink silk flowers and two bowls of candy. Spectators sat on three rows of folding chairs.

Each wire cage had the cat’s number on a card—pink for females, blue for males. The other contenders were two copper-eyed whites, a blue-eyed white male, three blacks, two grays—no, blues, Helen reminded herself; pedigreed cats are blue—plus two big Maine Coons and two Himalayans. One Himi had red-tipped ears and tail; the other looked like hers were dipped in chocolate. In Helen’s inexpert opinion, both cats could have been better bathed. They weren’t nearly as fluffy as the Chatwood’s Champions.

“That tabby Persian needs a good combing,” Helen said.

“I think I see a mat in his ruff,” Jan said. “We only have to worry about the solid-color Persians. We’re looking at tough competition. We’re up against a male blue-eyed white, two copper-eyed whites, the three blacks and the two blues.”

“No contest,” Helen said. “Chessie is the best.”

“That’s for the judge to decide,” Jan said.

A clerk wearing a tiger-striped T-shirt sat next to the judging stand, recording the decisions.

Judge Lexie Deener was as well groomed as Dee’s Persians. She wore a dramatic red scarf and a sleek black designer suit with a diamond cat pin. Did Smart Mort’s financial advice help buy that pin? Helen wondered.

Dee took a seat up front. “We’ll stand in the back row so we
can keep an eye on Red in the next ring,” Jan said. “The judge is starting with the blue-eyed male.”

The white Persian looked at the teaser—and the audience—with disdain and refused to play.

Ms. Orange and Ms. White sat in the front row, hogging the candy bowl. “That cat’s too fat,” Ms. Orange said when the judge returned him to his cage.

“Humpf!” muttered the woman standing beside Helen. “Fat! Has she looked in the mirror?”

Helen bit back a laugh. Chessie waited in patient silence. The male Maine Coon paced restlessly. Helen tuned in to the spectators’ chatter.

“Pretty color,” said a thin brunette.

“I like a white cat,” the woman said.

“No, I meant your turquoise top.”

Judge Lexie lifted Chessie out of her cage next. “Note the beautiful tail, big blue eyes and fluffy coat,” she said.

Helen thought Chessie put on quite a show. She played with the teaser and batted the brown feather. Finally, she stood on her short legs and stretched up the sisal pole, clawing it as high as she could reach.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
Her claws raked the sisal wrapping.

“Way to go, Chessie,” Jan whispered.

The sisal trick was a crowd pleaser. “A pole dancer!” a woman shouted.

“Now, that’s cute,” a gray-haired woman said. “Persians are supposed to have short bodies, so stretching up a pole can emphasize a fault, but this cat shows off a well-shaped body.”

Jan whispered, “While the other solid Persians have their turns in the ring, let’s check on Red.”

The judge in Ring Three, a slender brown-haired woman in forest green, was hanging ribbons on the cages.

“Red has a ribbon!” Helen said.

“Don’t get too excited,” Jan said. “It’s for best color, and she’s the only red-haired cat in this class. It’s kind of like an attendance prize.”

“She’s got an orange ribbon now,” Helen said.

“Rats!” Jan said. “That’s second place in Best of Breed.”

“Our Red deserves a first,” Helen said.

“It’s just one judge’s opinion,” Jan said. “A cat who gets second place in this ring could get a first in another. She’s still handing out the other ribbons in this division. Let’s go back to Chessie.”

Ring Two was quietly tense as Judge Lexie paced from cage to cage. She ran the feather along the cage wire for Chessie and teased both black Persians.

“What’s she doing?” Helen asked.

“Deciding who gets the big one, Best of Division,” Jan said. “The toy focuses their attention so the judge can see the natural set of their ears. It also makes them open their eyes so she can judge the shape and color.”

Judge Lexie started hanging ribbons on the solid-color Persian cages. Chessie got a blue, a black, and a brown ribbon. Helen felt disappointed. “She should have three blue ribbons,” she said.

“No, she swept the ring,” Jan said. “Chessie got best blue-eyed white female, Best of Color, and Best of Breed. First place all the way for Chessie.”

Judge Lexie confirmed Jan’s opinion. “The female blue-eyed white has a robust body and an endearing personality,” she announced. “She’s my Best.”

“Yes!” Helen said. She and Jan high-fived while Dee pushed forward to claim her champ.

“Dee’s taking Chessie back to her cage,” Jan said. “She wants to show her off. I’ll return Red.”

“Can I stay here and watch the rest of the longhair judging?” Helen said.

“Sure,” Jan said. “It’s your first show.”

The male Maine Coon was next. “You’re looking at the only longhaired breed native to the United States,” Judge Lexie said. The cat stolidly ignored the feather Lexie lightly brushed across his nose. He turned his back when she waved the teaser at him.

Lexie carried the last cat to the stand. “The Maine Coon is our largest breed,” the judge said. “Notice her smooth, shaggy tabby coat, well-tufted ears and toes.”

The female Maine Coon was more playful. She batted the teaser with her paw, then chomped the silk flowers. The audience laughed and applauded. She nuzzled the judge. “Suck-up!” someone called, and the audience chuckled.

“She has personality,” Ms. Orange said approvingly.

The female Maine Coon won Best of Breed, and the male was second best. Helen agreed with that decision.

Back at the bench, Dee accepted congratulations from spectators for Chessie’s performance, while Helen and Jan hand-fed both cats so they wouldn’t mess up their coats. “I feel like my girl’s at a birthday party, wearing a white dress, and they’re serving chocolate ice cream,” Helen said.

Jan laughed. “Exactly.”

“Is it my imagination, or does Chessie know she’s a winner?” Helen said. “Look at the way she fluffs out her fur.”

“Oh, she knows,” Jan said. “She was born and bred to be admired. Chessie and Red are in the ring again this afternoon. Want to break for lunch and sit outside?”

They bought sodas, limp turkey sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies, and sat on a bench under a tree by the parking lot.

“It feels good to get away from the noise,” Helen said. “Here comes the judge. How can she wear black without getting cat hair on it?”

“They teach it at judges’ school,” Jan said.

Two thirtysomething men strolled out with Lexie, flirting with her. “Are those cat exhibitors?” Helen asked.

“No, they’re vendors,” Jan said. “The guy in the plaid shirt sells toys. The other man sells organic cat food.”

Both men extravagantly admired the judge’s car, a shiny black Jaguar with a red leather interior.

“What year is that?” Plaid Shirt asked.

“An ’eighty-six Jaguar,” Lexie said. “I’m a cat person. I even drive a cat. These cars are high maintenance but worth it. There’s nothing like them on the road. I drove here all the way from North Carolina and loved it.”

Helen asked Jan, “What do you know about Lexie?”

“The judge likes fast cars and faster men,” Jan said. “She was a breeder for many years. She bred shorthaired Orientals—long, skinny cats with wedge-shaped heads and large ears. Then she switched to Persians. Since she’s bred both long- and shorthairs, you could say she’s unbiased.”