Claw & Disorder
Praise for Eileen Watkins and her Cat Groomer mysteries!
The Bengal Identity
A first-rate sequel to The Persian Always Meows Twice. It doesn’t take a cat lover to fall in love with this perfectly crafted cozy series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“The story is well-paced, and readers will enjoy the way the mystery plays out. Another good tale by Watkins!”
—RT Book Reviews
The Persian Always Meows Twice
“A fantastic thriller that is sure to make your pulse race, The Persian Always Meows Twice is an awesome mystery debut from Eileen Watkins.”
—Modern Cat
“Cassie McGlone is a great character with spunk, strength, and a great group of people surrounding her. The story is interesting and will keep readers guessing all the way to the surprise ending.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The purr-fect mystery to curl up with for a lovely cozy read, preferably with a cup of tea, cuddly cat optional but recommended.”
—Leslie Meier, author of Irish Parade Murder
“[A] delightful first novel and series opener.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Persian Always Meows Twice is a delightful debut mystery. It’s smart, well-plotted, and features a cast of characters—both human and feline—that I want to see more of. This book will be catnip for cat lovers.”
—Laurien Berenson, author of Game of Dog Bones
Books by Eileen Watkins
THE PERSIAN ALWAYS MEOWS TWICE
THE BENGAL IDENTITY
FERAL ATTRACTION
GONE, KITTY, GONE
CLAW & DISORDER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
CLAW & DISORDER
EILEEN WATKINS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Eileen Watkins
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2301-7 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2301-5 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2298-0
Acknowledgments
Once again, I must thank my critique partners, Nicki Montaperto, Lew Preschel, and Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa, all members of Sisters in Crime Central Jersey.
Thanks also to my agent, Evan Marshall, and my Kensington editor, John Scognamiglio.
My friend-since-college Anne-Marie Cottone accompanied me to several jazz events, so I could get a better feel for Mark Coccia’s new hobby, and helped with other research questions.
Thanks also to Matt Chylak for info on the University of Pennsylvania, and to Pat Marinelli for her insights on small-town police operations.
Chapter 1
Gillian Foster removed her tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses and tucked them into her small Coach crossbody bag. Her cool hazel eyes swept over what she could see of the front of my store. “Hmph. I expected this place to be bigger.”
“It’s deceptive,” I assured her. “The building lot is pretty deep.”
She frowned at my hot-pink sales counter and the screened wall just behind it. “What’s all of this . . . wire mesh?”
“That’s the playroom, where we let the cats out for exercise. Would you like to see—?”
Just then, my assistant, Sarah Wilcox, entered through the wood-framed door in the screen, and I introduced her to our prospective customer. Again, I got the impression that Gillian did not totally approve. To give her the benefit of the doubt, I didn’t think she objected to Sarah’s dusky complexion as much as to her sturdy figure and unglamorous, graying hair. Her bib apron, branded with the shop name, CASSIE’S COMFY CATS, still sported a few wisps of pale fur from the last Persian we had groomed.
So did mine, and I also wasn’t looking my best in other respects. Some of us actually worked for a living, and I found myself wondering if Gillian Foster would know anything about that.
Despite the warmth of the June morning outside—and the fact that it was Saturday, a dress-down time for most residents of Chadwick, New Jersey—our visitor remained crisp and cool in a pressed white cotton blouse, pale-gray ankle-length slacks and low-heeled sandals. I judged her to be at least in her mid-forties. The blond streak at the front of her classic pageboy haircut probably camouflaged some silver, and those appraising eyes tilted up at their outer corners in a way that suggested surgical help.
I tried to maintain a pleasantly professional demeanor. “How did you hear about us? From our website?”
“Not initially. I was picking up a few things this morning at Towne Antiques, down on Center Street? I mentioned that I needed to find a place to board my cat, Leya, for a week or so, and Philip recommended you. He told me, ‘Cassie McGlone’s just been here a couple of years, but everyone says great things about her.’ Thought I might as well stop by while I was still downtown. It’s a good thing he described the building to me, though, or I might have driven right on by.”
I found this a little hard to believe. Though my business is in an older, converted two-story house, I’d stenciled the name in large purple letters across the front window, to make sure it stood out among its neighbors.
The counter phone rang and Sarah picked it up. Cheerfully, she assured the caller that we handled cats only. We did not accept ferals, she explained, but yes, we would take cranky household pets, as long as they were fixed and vaccinated.
Gillian asked me, “Was this place a private home?”
I nodded. “And then a beauty salon, for a while. You could say it’s serving a similar purpose now, but for felines.”
That inspired the faintest of smiles. “You’ve got room to board here, too?”
“We make optimal use of the space we have. Can I show you around?”
Leaving Sarah to take over in front, I opened the door in the screened wall and escorted Gillian through.
Meanwhile, my prospective client raked me again with a critical eye. Did she expect someone who boarded and groomed cats for a living to maintain an appearance as meticulous as hers? At least I’d tied back my shoulder-length brow
n hair and wore my own “CCC” apron over a T-shirt and jeans. More likely Gillian was wondering, How old are you, anyway? I was still a couple of years shy of thirty but didn’t usually wear makeup on the job. People sometimes told me that without it I looked younger—though not necessarily in a good way.
Instead, Gillian asked, “How long have you been in business?”
“A little over two years. People around here say we’re really filling a need. Many pet groomers won’t even deal with cats, and the cats often get upset if they’re kept in a kennel near dogs.”
“That is true. The first time I boarded Leya, when Donald and I went to Cancun, it was in a facility about ten miles from here with a very good reputation. But still, the other wing had a lot of barking dogs, and I could tell she hadn’t been happy. She’d lost a whole pound and even had a bald patch on one leg. The fur grew back as soon as she settled in again at home.”
“Yes, I hear stories like that a lot.” My opinion of Gillian rebounded a little. At least she’d cared enough about her pet to notice these signs of stress. “Is she a longhair?”
“Himalayan, purebred.”
Of course she was.
In the cat playroom, I began pointing out all of the carpeted tunnels and towers, sisal scratching posts and wall shelves that our boarders could use for exercise. Meanwhile, I saw Gillian mentally count the three felines perched at various spots around the room.
“You turn several cats out at the same time?” she accused me. “That’s unacceptable! They could fight and injure each other, or pass germs . . .”
“We only do this with animals that come from the same home, with the permission of the owner.” I went on to explain that, except under emergency circumstances, I took only altered cats. Each owner also had to sign a release stating their pets did not have any diseases that could easily spread to others.
That calmed Gillian somewhat, though I still wasn’t a hundred percent sure she trusted me. “My husband’s folks live in upstate New York,” she said, “and when we visit them we put Leya in a wonderful place—a cat hotel, really. They have several different play areas, and you can choose an ‘activity package’ including your pet’s favorite types of play.”
I thought fast. “We don’t have any structured arrangement, but if Leya prefers certain activities, we can try to provide those. When the cats are turned out here, Sarah plays with them most of the time, and I help when I can.”
“You’ve only got one assistant to exercise . . . what, a dozen boarders? And there must be other cats that come in just to be groomed.”
Although the implied criticism annoyed me, I had to admit the woman was observant. It was true, I did feel the crunch at times. Still, I told her, “It works out. Lately, since our business has been growing, I’ve taken on another part-time helper who comes with me on house calls.”
Gillian wrinkled her nose again over my cute pink and black grooming studio, which I’m sure did not compare to the spa-like accommodations of the upstate New York “hotel.” Neither, I guessed, did the baker’s dozen of cat condos, ten of them currently occupied. Each was the size of a broom closet and featured two wide shelves, with a litter box at the bottom, dishes for food and water at midlevel, and a cat bed on the top.
She told me wistfully, “The New York place had a choice of condo size, and some ‘luxury suites’ had their own exercise areas.”
“As you can see, ours are very democratic. We did add this larger one, set off by itself, in case we have to take a cat who’s ill or not neutered, and needs to be kept apart from the others.”
Gillian glanced toward the white-painted tin ceiling. “What’s upstairs?”
“My living quarters.” I certainly hoped she didn’t ask to see those. But from her disappointed air, she’d probably hoped that I might be hiding the luxury suites on the second floor.
I attempted to steer the conversation in a more positive direction. “Are you and your husband taking another vacation?”
“No, but we’re renovating our house. Well, we’ve been renovating it for the past two years, but next week the designer is putting the final touches on the décor. While it was just construction work, I usually could shut Leya up in a room somewhere out of the way. But next week will be complete chaos, with furniture getting moved around in all the spaces. I can’t risk her slipping out through an open door.”
“Very smart.” I was a firm believer in keeping cats inside, especially pampered pets who lived in suburban neighborhoods. “Are you near a busy street?”
“We’re on Cooper’s Mill Road. The Ramsford-Cooper house.” My blank expression seemed to shock her. “I’m so surprised that you haven’t heard of it! John Ramsford was one of this town’s most prominent citizens, going back to Revolutionary times. He owned one of the most productive iron mines in the area. Some people think Chadwick really should have been named after him, instead of that milquetoast of a general.”
I felt ill-equipped to argue local history with her. “I’ve only lived here two years, so I guess I’m not up on all of the town’s lore. Is your house a historic site?”
“Yes, although it’s not on the register . . . yet. The main part dates back to the early 1800s. The last owners had no taste at all, so we’ve had to do a lot of work on the place.”
“To modernize it?”
Gillian recoiled at the idea. “No, to restore it! We modernized the utilities, of course. But the living spaces have been taken back, as far as possible, to what they might have been like in Ramsford’s day. That’s why I’ve gotten so many things lately from Philip—he carries a good assortment of Early American redware, fireplace tools and even primitive art.”
I nodded. On my visits to Towne Antiques, I mostly had to window-shop. I could afford some fun, retro items, but those treasures from the 1800s were priced far beyond my budget. Good thing they really weren’t my taste, anyway.
“The town historical society is very interested,” Gillian went on. “At the end of next week, when everything’s perfect, I’m holding a reception so they can see what we’ve done.”
“Sounds very exciting,” I said.
As we traveled back through the playroom, Gillian took a final glance around and sighed. “Well, I suppose this will do for Leya. I am in a bind, and Philip did say he’s heard good things about your services.”
I made a mental note to thank him. Philip had done me a favor, whether or not Ms. Foster turned out to be a difficult client.
We passed back through the door in the screened wall to the front sales area. Sarah watched us return with a questioning look.
Stepping to the customers’ side of the counter, Gillian whipped a business card out of her small bag. “Here’s my address. I’ll need you to pick Leya up on Tuesday. Eight a.m., or even earlier if possible—that’s when the design crew will be starting work. I’ll give you a week’s worth of her food and a list of her play and grooming needs. Plan on keeping her until Friday morning. If anything changes before then, I’ll let you know.”
While I bristled at the sense that she was barking orders at me, Sarah calmly opened our appointment book and jotted down the information. “Your cat’s name is Leia?” She smiled at Gillian. “Like the princess in Star Wars?”
Our new client rolled those hazel eyes, though still the corners never drooped. “No, L-E-Y-A. It’s Hindi. It means ‘lioness.’”
I set my jaw. Disrespect me and I can shrug it off. But disrespect my assistant—a former high school math teacher who toiled for decades in inner-city schools before retiring to take on our fractious feline customers—and you’re treading on dangerous ground.
Sarah herself remained unflappable. “Oh, that’s nice, too. And she’s a Himalayan? I guess Hindi is close enough to Nepali, eh?”
She spoke in a gentle, joking tone, but a flush crept up Gillian’s cheek.
Nice burn, Sarah. She’s thinks she’s so sophisticated!
I handed Gillian the standard form I required all owners to fil
l out for their boarding pets. I expected more complaints, but she dutifully entered all of the cat’s known medical history. The bottom of the form listed our rates per day and per service, and she checked boxes for two groomings and one claw clipping during her pet’s stay. The cost for all of this plus board amounted to a tidy sum, but I guessed it was still cheaper than the posh cat hotel in upstate New York.
Gillian was about to pass the sheet back to me, when I quoted her an additional cost for the pick-up and drop-off service. She accepted that, too, with merely a nod.
“Thanks,” I told her. “See you at eight on Tuesday.”
After our self-important customer left, Sarah grinned at me. “You charged her five dollars more each way for the pick-up and drop-off than you do for our other customers. How come?”
“So far, no other customer has asked me to pick up before standard work hours. Anyhow, I have a feeling I’m going to earn that extra ten dollars with this lady.”
“We probably shouldn’t discourage clients with deep pockets, even if they are a little demanding.” Sarah read the form that Gillian had filled out. “At least in the space that asks if her cat has any ‘temperamental issues,’ she marked ‘no.’”
“That’s good. Guess Leya doesn’t take after her owner.”
Not expecting any more customers that morning, Sarah and I rounded up the playroom’s three cats, put them back in their condos, and turned out Mia, a sleek Siamese who came in to board a couple of times a year. Meanwhile, my assistant rather hesitantly requested a favor.