Claw & Disorder Read online

  “You know I do some work, through my church, with some of the poorer families in the county,” she said. “We’ve got an older couple in our parish, Bernice and Chester Tillman, who are in a bad way. Both have health issues, and their living situation doesn’t help. They’re in a small house that’s pretty run-down, and they’ve been hoarding stuff for years and years. It’s almost as bad as one of those reality TV shows. Along with the piles of newspapers, broken appliances and gadgets, and kids’ toys and games, they’ve got cats. I mean, cats outdoors and indoors!”

  “Oh, dear.” I had a sense of where this was going and tried to tactfully distance myself. “You’d better call the SPCA.”

  “We did, but you know how they are. They’ll take ’em all to the county shelter, and any that don’t get adopted right away will be put to sleep. Bernice and Chester know that and are afraid to let any of them go. She’ll break down in tears just talking about it.”

  I thought of our local no-kill shelter, the Friends of Chadwick Animals. “FOCA might be able to help, but they’re small and can only take so many.”

  “I know, and they usually accept them only from here in town. The Tillmans live over in Dalton. Could you possibly talk to FOCA, though, and see if they’d make an exception?” Sarah’s large dark eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses pleaded with me.

  “Any idea how many cats they’ve got, in all?”

  Sarah shook her head of short salt-and-pepper curls. “Hard to say. Some pretty much stay indoors and others run in and out. There are maybe half a dozen that might be tame enough to go to other homes.” My assistant brightened, because I’m sure she could tell I was weakening. “If you want to see for yourself, I’m going there after church tomorrow. I’ll give you the address and you can meet me there.”

  A visit to the house of two ailing hoarders did not sound like the most cheerful way to spend my scarce time off, but I figured I owed Sarah. She’d become much more than just an extra pair of hands to me over the past two years. She occasionally ran outside errands and pulled extra hours—with pay—on short notice. But mainly she’d been a good friend, listening to my troubles and offering sound advice. She’d even brainstormed with me about the criminal cases involving our customers that I’d sometimes helped to investigate.

  In return, she didn’t ask a lot of favors, so I wouldn’t deny her this one.

  “Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll have a look at the situation. Maybe I’ll think of an angle to pitch their case to FOCA.”

  Sarah patted my arm in thanks. “I wouldn’t ask you to get mixed up in their problems, but you’re an expert; Bernice and Chester might listen to you more than to the rest of us. And though we’re trying to help them to clean up the clutter, I think it’s even more urgent that they part with some of the cats. Bernice has asthma, which all that fur and dander isn’t helping. And Chester’s eyes are bad, so a cat could dash in front of him and trip him.” Half joking, she added, “I’m scared that, one of these days, their pets might be the death of them!”

  Chapter 2

  In theory, I close my shop at noon on Saturdays, and I always let Sarah leave at that time. If things were busy, or someone had to drop off or pick up a cat in the afternoon, I could always stay on and handle things alone. But it was June, and while we had a fairly full house in terms of boarders—their owners on vacation, or traveling to graduations or weddings—no one was coming that day just for grooming. I had the sunny spring afternoon to myself.

  I cleaned up, shook my hair loose from its coated elastic band, and phoned my friend Dawn. She operated a natural-foods store a couple of blocks down from me, Nature’s Way, and usually worked a full shift on Saturday. “Are you busy? Okay if I visit for a few minutes?”

  She wailed, “Please do, it’s dead here today. Everybody must have taken off for the lake or the shore. Have you had any customers?”

  “Just one drop-in.” I told her, briefly, about Gillian Foster. “In fact, I think on my way to your place I’ll stop by Towne Antiques and thank Philip for the referral.”

  “Yeah, that was nice of him. I love his shop and I haven’t been in for a long time. Maybe I’ll play hooky for a little while and meet you there.”

  * * *

  Philip Russell worked Wednesday through Sunday, because the weekend was his prime time to attract the well-heeled tourists who’d started to discover Chadwick over the past few years. Dawn had come to know him fairly well, thanks to her Bohemian style of dressing and decorating. At Towne Antiques, she could find clothing and other textiles that actually came from the 1970s, for better prices than modern knockoffs. I dressed in a sportier, more conventional style, though when I’d first moved into the second floor of my building I’d also picked up a few “shabby chic” furniture pieces from Philip.

  Today, as Dawn and I stepped beneath the shop’s overhanging roof, a middle-aged man in a T-shirt and jeans blustered out the front door. He carried a tote bag and, with eyes cast down, didn’t even appear to see us. The doorway of Philip’s shop was flanked by a pair of decorative columns, and the stranger almost pushed me into one of them.

  “Rude!” Dawn called him, under her breath, but by then he was too far down the sidewalk to hear.

  Inside, we found Philip standing at attention behind his solid mahogany sales desk. Tall and slim, with wavy silver hair, he’d dressed today in a checked, button-front shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark-washed jeans. Though long and narrow, his face usually wore a good-natured expression, and he greeted me and Dawn with a smile.

  When I wondered aloud about the man with the tote bag who had almost knocked me off the curb, Philip apologized.

  “He was annoyed because I wasn’t interested in buying some 1980s video games. People often come in here trying to sell me things that they think must be extremely valuable,” he said. “When I have to burst that bubble, sometimes they don’t take it so well!”

  The shop consisted of several rooms, with furniture and artwork from different eras dispersed throughout. The front rooms tended to display higher-quality pieces such as McCoy and Roseville pottery, good midcentury furniture, and art deco light fixtures. The paintings on the walls ranged from decent oils of still lifes and landscapes to kitschy, heavily textured abstracts. I knew that one space farther back held older toys and electronics, and another offered vintage clothes and accessories.

  Dawn gravitated toward the last area, as usual. Soon she spotted a long, rayon hippie skirt, black with a sinuous pattern of coral daylilies, that she had to try on. You need to understand, my best friend stands about five-ten, slim below and statuesque above, with a strong profile and long, wavy auburn hair. She can carry off dramatic looks that would swallow me whole. Philip pointed her to an alcove with a folding screen, where she could step out of her fringed bell-bottoms in privacy.

  While we waited for her to return, I thanked him for referring Gillian Foster to me. “She stopped by this morning and arranged to board her cat next week.”

  “Did she? Oh, I’m so glad. She was going on about how she couldn’t find anyone she could trust with Leya, and I told her she couldn’t do better than you. I said you always go the extra mile for any cat in your care, and have a great reputation around town.” He leaned toward me with an air of conspiracy and whispered, “I didn’t mention any of that business with the police over the years, of course. If she hasn’t read about it in the papers, no need to call her attention to it.”

  “No need at all. I appreciate both what you did and didn’t say to her. She told me she bought some Early American pieces from you.”

  He nodded. “Some redware pottery, some hand-painted boxes, and a couple of American primitive oils. You might have noticed, I don’t keep many things from that period here in the shop—no large pieces of furniture, for example. For security reasons, I sell most of that through my website.”

  That made sense to me. “I guess the older something is, the more valuable it is, right?”

  Philip chuckled. “Of
course, that depends on the condition and the rarity of the piece. Some older items are pretty commonplace, and some newer things are worth more than you’d think—certain types of costume jewelry, toys, or ephemera. There’s a particular edition of the Beatles’ White Album that’s worth a fortune. Some early comic books, too. Collectors will pay a lot for baseball cards from the early 1900s and other kinds of sports memorabilia.”

  He broke off when Dawn returned from the back of the shop with the flowered skirt over her arm. I could tell from her satisfied smile that it was going home with her.

  “Gee, you aren’t going to model it for us?” Philip teased.

  “Not now, I should get back to my shop. But I’ll drop by some other time when I have it on.” While Philip folded the long garment and tucked it into one of the store’s branded bags, Dawn counted out the payment in cash. She never used credit cards for small, everyday purchases, she’d once told me, because cash kept her more conscious of how much she was spending.

  “You and Mark have any plans for the evening?” she asked me as we headed back toward Nature’s Way.

  “Only dinner at his place . . . that I know of,” I said.

  “That sounds intriguing. Just what are you expecting?” I had been dating Mark Coccia, the local veterinarian, for more than a year now, so Dawn knew that our spending the night together would not be a novel occurrence.

  “He said he has a surprise in store for me. It’s not my birthday or any other special occasion, so I really don’t know what to expect. He sounded a bit nervous about it, too.”

  Dawn halted abruptly on the sidewalk, her amber-brown eyes widening. “Oh, my gosh. You don’t think he’s going to—”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t think so. I hope he wouldn’t spring something like that on me!”

  She giggled. “He’d better not, if that’s your attitude.”

  “I don’t mean it like that, but he and I have had The Discussion. If and when we decide to get married, we’ll make the decision together. I wouldn’t want to be blindsided or pressured, and he knows that. At least, I hope he does.”

  Dawn shifted her approach to calming me down. “It’s probably nothing so major. Maybe he got a dog. Brought one home from the clinic that was abandoned by its owner.”

  I relaxed. “That, I could almost imagine. Though I don’t know why he’d be nervous—he knows I like all kinds of animals.”

  “Maybe it’s a big, ugly dog that sniffs crotches, and jumps up on you, and bays like the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “Small chance. Mark lives in a condo, remember? His HOA board would come down on him like a ton of bricks.”

  We reached Nature’s Way, also in a converted, turn-of-the-century structure. Unlike my shop, though, it had started life as a feed store patronized by local farmers; now it stocked organic fodder for humans. Dawn had the exterior painted in two coordinating shades of soft green, to play up the architectural details and emphasize the wholesomeness of her merchandise.

  As usual, her adolescent tabby cat, Tigger, romped up to us when we entered. I scooped him into my arms as I followed Dawn across the scarred wooden floors toward the showpiece of her store, an antique carved-oak display counter. She set the bag containing her “new” skirt on the glass top.

  “Mark’s been acting strange lately, in general,” I admitted. “Last week I dropped by the clinic around closing time, hoping to catch him on his way out, but the receptionist said he’d left early. I mean, he’s so dedicated, he hardly ever does that.”

  Dawn shrugged. “Maybe he had an important errand to run.”

  “That’s what I figured. But I texted him and he didn’t reply until about an hour later. Then he was really vague about what he’d been doing, totally skirted the issue.”

  “Buying the ring!” she suggested with a sly grin.

  I swatted her arm. “It’s happened a couple more times, that I tried to make plans with him on a weeknight and he made some kind of excuse, then practically contradicted himself the next time I talked to him.”

  “Well, he’s a smart guy. If he was seeing somebody else, he’d probably put more effort into his alibis.”

  “And he probably wouldn’t give me all this buildup about having a ‘surprise’ for me tonight. At least that doesn’t sound like he wants to break up!”

  “Though that would be a surprise.” When I looked daggers at her, Dawn laughed. “Is he very religious? Maybe he’s decided to become a priest.”

  “You are not helping!”

  * * *

  Mark was a better cook than I was, and specialized in Italian dishes he’d learned from his father. About six feet and slim, he reflected his Mediterranean heritage in his dark hair and great bone structure, everything except possibly his deep blue eyes. On the drive across town to his condo building, I hoped maybe he just planned to try out a new dish on me that evening.

  When he opened the door and kissed me hello, from the kitchen I caught a whiff of garlic . . . but mixed with ginger. Chinese food? Granted, Mark could have decided to branch out, but as soon as I stepped inside his small kitchen I saw takeout bags on the counter from a new highway place, Hunan House.

  He noticed my glance and must have thought I was disappointed. “Sorry—I’ve been super busy lately, as you know. Anyway, when we tried this place last month we both liked it, so I got Szechuan shrimp for me and lo mein for you. Okay?”

  “Just fine.” I actually felt a bit relieved. If he was going to “pop the question,” wouldn’t he have cooked something fancy?

  On the other hand, the big surprise obviously would be something besides dinner.

  Mark poured us both glasses of wine and scooped the food onto everyday-nice ceramic dishes. We ate in the dining alcove right off his kitchen. No candles or anything super romantic, though. He used chopsticks fairly well; I’d never gotten the knack and still opted for a knife and fork.

  I told him about the visit from Gillian Foster. Unlike me, he at least had heard of the Ramsford-Cooper house, but didn’t know much about its history, either. He agreed that Gillian sounded like she might be a witch to deal with, though I’d survived worse.

  The elderly hoarders in Dalton rang more of a bell with him. “Yeah, I know a vet over there, Ronnie Martin, who’s had some dealings with them. He spayed a couple of their cats pro bono, because the neighbors were complaining. That kind of situation always is rough to deal with. The people tend to really love their animals, but when the number gets out of control they aren’t doing them any favors.”

  “Guess I’ll see just how bad it is when I go there tomorrow.” My suspense had been building all through our dinner, but when I finally asked, I tried to sound casual. “So, what’s this big surprise you have in store for me tonight?”

  Mark’s chuckle sounded edgy. “Oh, it’s coming. Let’s just . . . open our fortune cookies first.”

  That didn’t reassure me too much, but I played along. We both cracked the thin cookies open at the same time. I unfolded my tiny strip of paper and swallowed hard.

  No vinegar tastes so bitter as love turned to hate.

  Well, that was a cheerful sentiment! I looked across the table at Mark. Even if he could possibly have arranged to have a particular message put in my cookie, I certainly hoped he wouldn’t have picked this one.

  It probably was random, though, because he seemed a bit distressed by his fortune, too. “Gee, thanks a lot!” he muttered to the crisp shards left on his plate.

  That made me laugh. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  We swapped slips of paper and he whooped over my dire warning. “Yikes! Whatever this means, I promise it has nothing to do with me.”

  His read:

  Life is like grass—don’t spread yourself too thin.

  “That isn’t so bad,” I said. “You have been putting in pretty long hours at the clinic lately.” And at whatever else has been occupying your time on weeknights.

  “Yeah, that’s probabl
y what it means.” He popped the bits of cookie into his mouth and crunched in defiance. Then he stood up rather sharply, avoiding my eyes, and took his plate to the sink. “Coffee?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Or would another glass of wine better prepare me for whatever was coming?

  I brought my coffee into the living room and settled on the navy-blue sectional sofa. So far, Mark had resisted the urge to take in any roommates who might sully that dark chenille surface with shed fur. Maybe, in his line of work, he’d become all too aware of the ailments and injuries that could afflict even a well-cared-for pet, and of the heartbreak involved in losing one.

  Still, he must have been tempted, now and then, to do as Dawn had suggested and rescue a stray. Did Mark’s pet-free life show a fear of commitment? I didn’t dare accuse him of such a thing, though. I had three cats, but still remained a little wary about sharing my home full-time with another human being.

  I knew that Mark’s last girlfriend, someone named Diane, had helped him decorate this room. It might be sexist, but I assumed she had chosen the sofa’s collection of throw pillows; their assorted geometric patterns of navy, tan and red coordinated perfectly with the Cubist-style print of a jazz combo that hung just above. At first it had bothered me a bit that Mark didn’t toss out the pillows along with Diane, after she cheated on him with a mutual friend.

  But now, as I listened to him scraping the leftover Chinese food back into the cartons, to refrigerate for another time, I understood. He did not keep the décor as it was out of any lingering feelings for his ex, just out of frugal good sense. He liked the way it looked, so why change? Even a successful veterinarian—and Mark’s clinic was pretty busy these days—did not usually rake in big bucks. Plus, he did a fair amount of work cut-rate or free, for emergency cases and the local shelter.