Catnapped! (5 page)

Helen bit back a reply. Nancie saw the fire in her eyes and stepped in quickly. “I’ve already discussed my concerns with Trish about the police. I’ve tried to prepare her for the worst, though I hope it won’t happen. There’s still a chance that Detective Boland will come to his senses or the prosecuting attorney will say there isn’t enough evidence.”

“Mort knew the prosecutor,” Trish said.

And that could work against you, Helen thought.

“Yes, well, there’s a possibility that you could be arrested, and I don’t think you’ll get bail,” Nancie said.

Trish’s control cracked. “Then how will I get my Justine back?” she wailed. Helen felt her heart contract. Trish might be a snob, but she loved her cat.

“The catnapper will know if you’ve been arrested,” Phil said. “He must be watching you. He knew exactly when you got home.

“Coronado Investigations has a dummy number on a cell phone. We can set it up to forward your calls to us and have you record a voice mail message. We’ll screen your phone calls. If the catnapper calls, I’ll say I’m your office assistant.”

Trish hesitated.

“Someone on your level should have an assistant,” Helen said.

“I’ll do it,” Trish said. “You have to get my Justine back. For her sake. There’s a big Gold Cup show in June and I know she’ll win. But what will you and Phil do until the catnapper calls next week?”

“I’ll be your office assistant and monitor your calls,” Phil said. “And I’d like to trace that red cat medallion we saw near Mort’s, er . . . near Mort. I think it may lead to the killer.”

He called up the photo on his cell phone. “Ever see this before?” he asked Trish.

“No,” she said.

“It says ‘Coventry’ in gold around the edge. Does that mean anything?”

“That’s in England, isn’t it? I think there’s a big cat show in Coventry, but I’m not familiar with the international shows,” she said. “But if you think it’s important, you should investigate it. Will Helen help you?”

“No,” Nancie said. “Time is limited. Justine is a show cat. Helen needs to get a job in that world. Trish, you’re wired into the local scene. Is Dee, the show cat breeder and exhibitor, hiring anyone at Chatwood’s Champions?”

“She’s always hiring,” Trish said. “Dee’s a difficult woman and her staff rarely lasts longer than a month. Jan’s managed to hang in there six months, which is a record. I’m sure Helen could get a job at her cattery. Persians require lots of brushing and bathing. I’ll give her a reference and say you worked with Justine. You have a cat, right, Helen?”

She nodded, too discouraged to speak. Phil would be answering the phone and she’d be up to her elbows in cat hair.

Nancie passed Trish a sheet of expensive plain cream stationery. “Write the reference now,” she said. “Helen can look for a job first thing tomorrow.”

“You’ll have no problem getting hired,” Trish said. “Dee goes through employees like cats go through litter.”

Terrific, Helen thought. We all know what happens in a litter box.

Tuesday

D
ee Chatwood’s door belonged on a fortress. Helen lifted the snarling lion’s-head door knocker carefully—it looked like it might bite her. A uniformed Latina maid answered.

“I have a job interview with Ms. Chatwood,” Helen said.

The maid nodded. “Ms. Chatwood is taking her morning swim,” she said. “I’ll take you to the pool.”

Helen felt like she’d been swallowed by a leopard. The walls of the vast entrance hall and living room were a dizzying display of animal-print paper, reflected in the shiny black marble floor. Palms lurked in the corners. On a sleek black couch, a Persian cat with ebony fur and gleaming copper eyes looked down its short nose at Helen.

“Beautiful cat,” Helen said.

“His name is Midnight,” the maid said. “He’s a stud.”

A stud? Oh, right, Helen reminded herself. Dee runs a cattery. Stud is Midnight’s job. She was glad she didn’t say anything dumb.

She followed the maid past a wall of oil paintings, all Persians with flat, haughty faces. The cats seemed to disapprove of Helen and her bloodlines. The portrait of a silver-haired Persian, labeled
CHATWOOD’S SILVER SHADOW—CAT OF THE YEAR, 2008
, hung over a case crammed with huge blue ribbons, the coveted cat-show rosettes. The shelves held dizzying numbers of framed photos of longhaired cats, plaques and trophies. They weren’t bowling trophies, either. Each had a figure of a cat, and some could have been sculptures.

The hall led to a screened-in pool the size of a lake, with a view of the Intracoastal Waterway. The house shouted money. The mustard mansion was built around a swimming pool with a bell tower. Yeah, a bell tower, a phallic object that thrust up from the edge of the deep end, where a diving board would be. The tower was taller than the house. The morning sun shining on the bell blinded Helen.

Then she saw a big-boned blonde in a leopard-print retro bikini doing the backstroke near the bell-tower end. Dee Chatwood.

When she reached the edge of the pool, Dee climbed out, toweled off her short platinum hair, and asked, “You’re Helen Hawthorne?”

“I’m here for the job at your cattery,” Helen said. “Trish Barrymore recommended me.”

Up close in the bright light, Helen could see that Dee was fifty, fighting to look forty. Her waist had thickened, but the swimming kept her fit. She had skin like fine brown leather and long red claws. Her Botoxed forehead was frighteningly smooth and her collagened lips were overripe, but the effect was curiously attractive.

Dee slid into a black caftan with feline grace and settled herself at a wicker patio table. Helen half expected her to lick the stray water droplets off her arms.

The maid came back carrying a tray with two silver pitchers and glasses. “Water?” Dee asked. “Orange juice?”

“Water, thank you,” Helen said.

“Sit down,” Dee said. “Trish speaks highly of you.”

“I’ve heard good things about your cattery,” Helen said. “Congratulations on your Cat of the Year.”

“We’re small but choice. We have five cats: three breeding queens, one stud and a spay.” Dee gulped her water thirstily, and poured herself a glass of orange juice.

“Is the stud Midnight?” Helen said. “I saw him in the living room. He’s gorgeous.”

“He knows it,” Dee said. “None of the females are in season right now, so he has the run of the house.

“I’m campaigning two this year,” she said. “Are you interested in breeding cats?” Her green eyes narrowed and she studied Helen carefully.

She’s on the alert for something, Helen thought. All I can do is tell the truth and hope it’s what she wants to hear. “No,” she said. “I like cats. I have a rescue cat, Thumbs. He has six toes and he’s neutered.”

“Good,” Dee said, nodding approvingly. “Polydactyls should be altered. Their offspring have a higher incidence of birth defects.

“I’m glad you don’t want to be a breeder. I got burned once. Now I make my employees sign an agreement that they won’t breed or show cats for five years after they work here.”

“Fine with me,” Helen said.

“I’m not going to hire and train my competition. Breeding cats is a labor of love. I’m lucky if I break even. Persians require constant care.” Dee downed half her juice.

“Lots of brushing?” Helen asked.

“Combing. Daily,” Dee said. “Their fur mats easily. My cats must be bathed once a week, more if they’re going to be shown.”

“Do your cats like baths?” Helen said. Thumbs would claw off her arm if she tried to bathe him.

“Love them,” Dee said. “I start bathing them when they’re babies. They learn to enjoy them. The process takes hours, but the cats find the experience pleasant—and if they don’t, they’ll let you know.”

She swiped her red-tipped nails at Helen’s eyes, and Helen jumped back.

“Good,” Dee said. “You have quick reflexes. You’ll need them.

“We’re extra busy this week. I’m showing Red and Chessie at the regional Gold Cup show in Plantation on Saturday and Sunday, and my other girl up and quit. Walked out on me with no warning. Really, people have no work ethic. They’re bone lazy.”

Helen’s antenna went up. In her experience, employers who complained about lazy staff were cheap and demanding.

“What do you pay?” Helen asked.

“My wages are very generous,” Dee said. “Eight-oh-four an hour.” She said it with a flourish, as if she doled out bags of gold.

The cats aren’t the only queen around here, Helen thought.

“What are my duties?” she asked.

“You’ll change ten cat boxes daily—five in the cattery and five around the house. Gabby, the maid, will show you where the others are. You’ll have to wipe their eyes daily and keep their noses and bottoms clean. You’ll help with the grooming and bathing.

“During the shows, as well as the day before and after, you’ll be expected to work eight to ten hours.”

Helen knew the answer to her next question, but asked anyway. “Do we get overtime?”

“Of course not!” Dee sounded so shocked, Helen feared she’d lose her chance for the job. “I’m paying you eleven cents above Florida minimum wage. And don’t ask for sick leave. I don’t pay people to lie around in bed.”

“What about benefits?”

“You’ll get one major benefit,” Dee said, and smiled. “A
regular paycheck. Every Friday. You’d be surprised how few people appreciate that.”

Dee stood up. “Jan Kurtz, my head girl, is working in the cattery now. I’ll take you back.”

Finally, I get to meet Mort’s girlfriend, Helen thought. She’s why I’m cleaning ten cat boxes a day.

Dee padded down a back hall to a large, sunny room with pearly white walls. Helen saw a pair of blue-eyed beauties at a waist-high white table. Jan looked like she’d stepped off a romance novel cover, with her creamy skin and what could only be called raven tresses tumbling down her back. She should wear a silk skirt and a bustier, not a pink polo shirt, white shorts and flip-flops, Helen thought.

Jan was combing a white cat’s back, while the cat stretched luxuriously and rumble-purred.

“This is Jan Kurtz and my beautiful baby, Chessie,” Dee said. She scratched the cat’s small, delicate white ears, and Chessie yawned in her face.

“Jan, this is your new assistant,” Dee said. “I’ll be in my office.”

“Boy, do I need you,” Jan said. “Can you start work right now?”

“Absolutely,” Helen said. She felt a surge of triumph. This was easy. “What do you need?”

“Clean the ten cat boxes,” Jan said.

“Scoop them?” Helen asked hopefully.

“No, they have to be emptied, washed and dried.”

Helen’s surging triumph deflated like an old balloon.

“But first, come meet the other cats.”

The floor-to-ceiling glass windows facing the water had a series of white carpeted shelves. A longhaired orange cat lounged on the lowest shelf. “That’s Red,” Jan said. “She’s a spay. She’s being campaigned for a national win this year.”

On the next shelf was a cat whose glowing coat was a river of hot fudge.

“This is Chocolate, and her deep, rich brown looks good enough to eat,” Jan said. “Her coat is dark, long and thick, even in the summer when some Persians blow their coats.”

“Is she a breeding queen?” Helen asked, proud that she knew the term.

“A real queen mother. Choc is bred twice a year and produces the most beautiful kittens. She’s a good mother.”

“Doesn’t that come naturally?” Helen said.

“It should, but it doesn’t. Red showed little interest in nursing and nearly ate one of her last kittens. She was getting a little old for breeding by then, and Dee had her spayed.”

Choc licked Jan’s hand with her pink tongue. “She’s grooming me,” she said, scratching the cat’s ears. “Good girl.”

She patted Chocolate’s broad head and moved to the cat on the next shelf, a soft, pale gray cloud. “This is Mystery,” she said.

“Such a pretty shade of gray,” Helen said.

“Blue,” Jan corrected. “Pedigreed cats are blue, not gray. Mystery is a laid-back kitty. Most Persians are.”

With that, all three cats sat up, ears alert, short tails lashing, avid eyes on the scene outside. Mourning doves and tiny yellow-breasted finches fluttered around a bird feeder heaped with seed. The cats chirped and squeaked.

“Cat TV,” Jan said. “The birds are quite safe—this bunch never ate anything that didn’t come off a store shelf—but the Audubon Society here loves watching their feathered friends.”

Helen pointed to the barbed wire twined around the feeder’s pole like a deadly vine. “What’s that for?”

“It’s Dee’s squirrel deterrent. It doesn’t work. They still steal the birdseed. We wash the cats in that sink there,” she said, pointing to the long, deep metal sink on the wall near the grooming table.

Next to it were two more grooming tables and a shelf of thick white towels. Along the far wall were five wire cages the size of
bedroom dressers. Each held a plush bed, a cat-sized hammock, a carpeted shelf and a rainbow of toys—mice, balls, catnip pillows.

“The cage doors are open,” Helen said.

“When they’re not in season, the cats have the run of the house,” Jan said. “I’ll say this for her: Dee socializes her cats. Some catteries confine them in cages, but Dee’s cats love people. Makes them good pets and good show animals. Midnight likes the front of the house, but the queens hang around here for their baths and cat TV.”

In the corner of each cage was a small litter box.

“There’s your first chore,” Jan said. “There’s a stack of plastic litter boxes over there. Next to it, in that big green plastic garbage can, is fresh litter. The old litter gets dumped in the big metal can with the lid on it.

“Fill ten new boxes first, then collect and clean the used ones. Wash them in the porcelain sink by the litter supply. Meanwhile, I have to bathe Mystery and comb Red.”

Helen and Jan worked for the next hour. Jan groomed both cats, talking to them softly. They rubbed their heads against her hand and begged for scratches. She played with them, waving a wand with shiny Mylar strips and teasing them with feathers.

“I’m not goofing off,” Jan said. “This is how the judges get the cats’ attention at the shows. It’s also exercise for them.”

Helen’s job wasn’t nearly as pleasant. She filled the fresh boxes with litter, emptied the used ones in the cattery, found Gabby Garcia, the maid, and then carried five more fresh boxes—two to upstairs bathrooms, one in a guest bathroom, two more in a utility room off the kitchen—and removed and cleaned the old ones. Then she swept up cat hair in the cattery, wiped down the grooming tables, and tossed loads of wet towels into the washer and then the dryer.

By four o’clock, her arms ached and her nose itched from the cat hair, but her work was done and so was Jan’s.

“Tonight we can leave on time,” Jan said. “It will get hectic in a few days.”

Jan looked surprisingly fresh after a day of bathing and combing cats.

Her dark hair held its curls and her skin was still creamy and makeup free.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Jan said. “This has been a hellish week. My assistant, Petula, quit, Dee went on a rampage and yesterday was worst of all.”

“What happened?” Helen asked.

“My—my fiancé was killed,” Jan said. “Murdered, actually. I found out about it on TV. Last night on the ten o’clock news.”

“How horrible,” Helen said.

“It was,” Jan said. “I cried all night. Mort was a lovely man, and we planned to marry as soon as his divorce was final.” She wiped away more tears.

“I’m very sorry,” Helen said.

“I didn’t want to come in today, but Dee said she’d fire me if I didn’t. I can’t afford to lose this job. The kitties are a great comfort, and work helps me forget a little.” She sighed and said, “Well, you don’t want to hear me talk about Mort.”

“Oh, but I do,” Helen said.