The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 3

  Outside, the CSI guys gave me the okay to move my car. They were busy now, spreading some kind of film over key areas of the driveway. It took me a minute to realize they must be checking for latent tire tracks. This was a thorough crew!

  As I drove home, I reassured myself that Anita would take good care of George’s cat as long as they both remained in the house. I wondered, though, how long that would be, and what would happen to Harpo in the future.

  I remembered one of the few personal conversations I’d had with DeLeuw, on my last visit. While grooming the fluffy blond Persian, I’d asked lightly if he’d started off with four cats, one for each Marx brother.

  Though I’d meant the question half as a joke, the man’s long face clouded over. “Originally, I also had his brother, Groucho. He was black-and-white, with a spot right under his nose like a little mustache.”

  I smiled at the image, but since Groucho was no longer around, I sensed DeLeuw’s story had a downbeat ending.

  “In my divorce, two years ago, my ex-wife managed to convince the judge that both cats were extremely valuable, which of course was hogwash,” he recalled. “I bought them as pets, they couldn’t even be bred, so they were worth a few hundred dollars at most. But even though Marjorie paid no attention to them while she lived here—except to complain about the fur on the furniture—she insisted one cat should go to her.”

  “Oh, too bad,” I sympathized. “So she’s got Groucho?”

  DeLeuw’s normally pale complexion deepened a shade, and he grasped his remaining cat more tightly. “Not anymore. A few months after the divorce, she e-mailed me to say that Groucho ‘got sick’ and had to be put to sleep.” A snide tone I’d never heard before crept into his voice. “The cat was only five years old. He got checked regularly by a vet while I had him and never had any health issues! Probably, he threw up a hairball in one of her designer shoes.”

  I paused in the middle of untangling one of Harpo’s mats, because his master’s mood—and the atmosphere in the grooming studio—suddenly had turned so dark.

  “If she didn’t want to take care of him, she could have just given him back to me,” DeLeuw almost snarled. “I think she just did it out of spite, and for the satisfaction of letting me know.”

  As I turned back onto Center Street, the memory of this sad story troubled me even more than when I’d first heard it. With George gone, could his cruel ex-wife possibly inherit sweet, beautiful Harpo?

  Maybe I could do one thing to honor DeLeuw’s memory. In my mind, I promised him, Don’t worry. Your cat will go to a good, safe home. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure of that!

  Chapter 3

  The Chadwick Police Station inhabited a former bank building, which gave it a suitably dignified brick façade with steps up to a white-columned entrance. Inside, unfortunately, old-fashioned charm had given way to maximum efficiency, with a Scandinavian-modern front desk, gravel-colored tweed carpeting, and fake-maple paneling. At least it wasn’t gloomy, though, and I didn’t feel as if I were rubbing elbows with too many hardened criminals.

  I checked in at the front desk, which was guarded by a bulletproof window, and was matched up with a serious blond male officer. In another room, he took down my statement and had me read and sign it. I felt a bit proud of myself for doing what I could to bring DeLeuw’s killer to justice.

  Being fingerprinted was another story. Having a female officer roll each and every one of my fingers in ink and press them in their proper places on a card with my name and address made me feel like a criminal. By the time she finished, I’d begun to doubt the wisdom of agreeing to be printed, of giving my statement . . . and of driving to DeLeuw’s house at all that day.

  At least, after that unnerving experience, I finally got to go home.

  Before I’d even unlocked my back door, I could hear the hungry cries of the six boarders. Inside, I quickly dished out their meals, according to what the owners had requested (some even supplied special food). Meanwhile, my own cats on the second floor also figured out that I was back. Mango, probably, started scratching the closed door at the bottom of the stairs. Good thing the distressed-wood look was in these days.

  I opened the door carefully, nudging all three back as I went. They escorted me up the stairs, tails straight up and twitching with anticipation. In addition to Mango, I had Cole, solid black, and Matisse, a dilute calico. All were shorthairs—why bring more work home with me?—and rescues of one kind or another. Mango had been living out of a Dumpster behind a restaurant in my old Morristown neighborhood. I’d gotten Cole from a shelter during a Halloween Black Cat Special adoption event. A friend offered me Matisse, three years back, when his cat had an unexpected litter. (In exchange for the kitten, I’d given him a stern lecture on the importance of spaying and neutering.)

  After feeding my three roommates, I found that my answering machine had a message from Dawn. Possibly she’d left one on my cell phone also, and I’d just been too busy with the crisis at DeLeuw’s place to notice.

  “We still on for tonight?” her recording asked.

  Oh crap. We were supposed to try that new Thai restaurant. I am so not up for that anymore!

  Dawn would still be at her own shop, but probably ready to close. I called her back, apologized for forgetting, and told her very briefly what had happened.

  “Ohmigod, are you serious? The guy was murdered? Are you okay?”

  “Physically fine, just pretty shaken up. I don’t really feel like going out, though. Plus, I’m a total mess. Stumbling upon a dead body has a way of making a girl’s eyes bulge out and her hair stand on end.”

  Dawn scoffed. “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re hideous. But if you want some company, I can bring dinner to you.”

  Though that sounded wonderful, I started to protest. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. . . .”

  “I sell food, remember? I have some things we can heat up, fast but good.”

  And they’d also be good for me, I thought, which probably wasn’t a bad idea. “Thanks, that might be best. I’ll pull myself together—in every sense—before you get here.”

  Hanging up, I reflected that at least I probably didn’t get close enough to DeLeuw to pick up any bloodstains. Even so, I might just burn my CAT HERDER sweatshirt.

  * * *

  Dinner at least was a bloodless affair, for which I was grateful. Dawn’s vegetarian quinoa-and-black-bean burritos were delicious and filling, and went reasonably well with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc left over from my New Year’s shop-warming party. I drank an extra glass, hoping to wash from my memory that vision of DeLeuw splayed facedown on the study floor. It seemed like a humiliating end for someone I’d considered a dignified gentleman.

  I remembered reading in a mystery novel that a blow to the nape of the neck, just below the back of the skull, is one of the few head injuries that can kill almost instantly, by severing the spinal cord from the brain. I wondered if the killer had known that.

  “The creepiest part,” I told Dawn, “is that it happened in the middle of the day, with other people around. And supposedly no one heard a thing!”

  She faced me across my 1950s yellow kitchen table, which I’d covered with a vintage fruit-patterned tablecloth for the evening, and took another slow, thoughtful sip of her wine. “Not even that maid you mentioned, or the landscaper?”

  “She was vacuuming upstairs, and he was wacking weeds out back with ear protection on. They might have heard a gunshot, but not someone being hit on the head.”

  “Convenient.” Even while cutting another forkful from her burrito, Dawn reminded me of a heroine from a Rossetti painting. She had the same slightly long sharp nose, ivory complexion, and masses of wavy of auburn hair, which she controlled with assorted clips and braids. Her penchant for flowing tunics and ankle-length skirts enhanced that romantic impression, even if the overtones were more 1960s hippie than turn-of-the-century.

  “So either one of them is lying, or it was a crime of opportunity
.” I slipped into cop jargon again. “Somebody George let into the house just saw a chance to whack him. I wonder if the police have any idea yet what the weapon was. I mean, if the killer planned it, he could have brought a gun, right?”

  “Yeah, that does make it sound as if the murder wasn’t really premeditated,” Dawn said. “Could be, somebody just got into an argument with him and lost control. Or he surprised somebody who was trying to steal something.”

  I shuddered. If I’d gotten to my appointment earlier, and maybe gone up to the studio alone to groom Harpo, I might have been in the house when DeLeuw was attacked. If the killer had no idea I was there, I might have been the only one to hear the scuffle. I might even have come down the hall to check it out....

  And I might not be sitting in my apartment tonight, safely talking to my friend.

  “You feeling all right?” she asked. “You just turned a little green.”

  I managed a smile. “Maybe overdid the wine. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  “With what you’ve been through, I’d recommend herbal tea,” she countered. “I brought just the thing. . . .”

  In the past, Dawn had provided a few herbs that helped calm down fractious cats, so I was willing to let her prescribe for me.

  We drank the sweet, musky brew while lounging at opposite ends of my sofa, a hand-me-down piece slipcovered in beige cotton. You could call my decorating style Tabby Chic. The furniture covers were washable and livened up with a few pastel fleece throws. The beige-tweed area rugs were a synthetic indoor/outdoor material for easy cleaning. The room’s main window faced southeast toward the street, so I grew a few plants on the deep sill that were nontoxic to cats and didn’t much appeal to them. I used pull-down shades instead of long draperies that would tempt climbers. Since I would never declaw, I kept a couple of tall, sturdy, sisal-covered scratching posts near the sofa and the upholstered chair.

  In case you’ve wondered, cats aren’t my only obsession. Before I turned my design talents toward animals, I’d dabbled in art, and my walls displayed a few of my best originals, which tended toward Pop and surrealism. I’d also hung up framed reproductions of some artworks by Klee and Magritte, and one vintage poster advertising the old PBS Mystery! series. A wide bookcase below held not only volumes on cat breeds, behavior, and care, but hardcover and paperback mystery novels and psychology texts from my college days.

  After graduation, I’d soon realized that my mother and my career counselors were right, when they’d warned that a psych major with an art minor would not set me up for great career success. I was still searching in vain for a job when, a year later, I volunteered for a summer at an animal shelter. I’d always loved animals and had a knack for handling them, so I rethought my goals and looked for more training in that field.

  On top of the bookcase, I kept a framed photo of my mom and dad, dressed up for some real estate dinner when his office had won a big award. Dad had been a “people person,” more upbeat and easygoing than Mom, and had acted as a kind of buffer between us. Since the shock of his death three years ago, she and I had been awkwardly rebuilding our relationship.

  The bookcase also served as a launching pad for my pets to access another series of stepped wall shelves built by Nick. Right now Matisse gazed down at us from the top level, her eyes contented slits. Cole had curled up on the sofa next to Dawn, while Mango, in a more sociable mood than earlier, perched on the arm next to me.

  I scratched the side of his face until he closed his eyes, leaned into my hand, and purred. That made me think again of DeLeuw’s poor frightened cat. I shared with Dawn my worries about what would become of Harpo.

  “From what George told you, he probably wouldn’t leave another cat to his ex-wife,” Dawn pointed out. “Of course, he might not have made a will at all.”

  I hadn’t considered that. I didn’t have a will, but I was only twenty-seven and unmarried, with no kids and very little savings. “He must have—he was worth millions!”

  “It’s not unheard-of. Some rich celebrities have died without leaving wills, and then it all had to be hashed out in court. Cases like that can get very messy.”

  “But you’re talking about actors and rock stars, right? DeLeuw was a money guy, and from what I saw, he was very methodical about his whole lifestyle. Anyhow, assuming he does have a will, how soon do you think the . . . heirs will know what it says?”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “You only groomed his cat three times, Cassie. I don’t think you’re in for a big windfall.”

  Again, I mustered a half smile. “I very much doubt that too. Though it would be nice, since without George, I’m losing a big part of my income! But I just hope he provided for Harpo. Suppose he never updated the will since his divorce? If the ex-wife has anything to say about it, that gorgeous cat could go to a shelter, or even . . .” I didn’t want to consider the worst alternative.

  Dawn waved one hand, a bracelet of small crystal nuggets dancing on her wrist. “If you want legal advice, you’re asking the wrong person. Why don’t you call your mother?”

  That made good sense. Mom worked as a paralegal in a law office in Morristown. She must have handled some cases involving wills, maybe even those of murder victims. “Only one problem. I’d have to tell her about discovering the body today, and that will freak her out. You know how overprotective she is.”

  “You weren’t going to tell her? It might even get into the papers or online.”

  “Crap, that’s true. If she reads about it first, she’ll be even more upset.” I glanced at the cell phone on my coffee table but couldn’t make myself pick it up. At only ten o’clock, I was too emotionally drained for any more drama tonight.

  Dawn read my mind and shrugged. “You can at least put it off till the morning.”

  I sighed. “And then I also have to figure out how I’m going to replace the steady income I was getting from those visits to DeLeuw’s place.”

  “You should have signed up for the chamber of commerce small business expo next Sunday. Maybe there’s still time.”

  In the recesses of my brain, I remembered seeing that advertised and Dawn mentioning it. I’d been busy, though, and didn’t think I needed to bother. When I started Cassie’s Comfy Cats, I had visited other businesses in town to introduce myself, and persuaded many of them to display my advertising brochures. I also took out ads regularly in the town weekly and the county daily newspaper. But with this loss of a major customer—even though it left me in anything but an upbeat frame of mind—I might have to get back to more aggressive marketing.

  “I’ll give it a thought,” I said.

  “You can at least take a table with your brochures. Keith will be there, and he doesn’t bring much more than his portfolio. Of course, he also draws people on the spot.”

  Keith was Dawn’s longtime boyfriend, who somehow made a good living doing caricatures at parties and more elaborate illustrations and videos for corporate clients.

  “Easy enough for him,” I said with a laugh, “but I am not going to try to groom strangers’ cats in the middle of a busy trade show!”

  “No,” she agreed, “probably not the best idea.”

  The herbal tea had its intended effect on me, and a few minutes later even Dawn could see I was fading fast. As she left by the back door, she advised, “Get some rest, and things will look better tomorrow.”

  I was so tired, I forget to warn her about the loose right banister. Luckily, the motion-sensor light came on as she started down the short flight of steps, because when she leaned on the wooden rail, it wobbled dangerously.

  “Sorry!” I told her. “I have got to get Nick out here to fix that.”

  Another call to make tomorrow, I thought as I left the cats food for the night and shambled off to bed.

  That herbal tea was strong stuff, and despite everything I’d been through, I slept soundly. You might say, like the dead.

  Chapter 4

  People often act surprised when I tell them I d
on’t let my cats sleep with me at night. Even when I lived at home with my parents, and different cats, I never did.

  I acquired most of my pets when they were less than two years old, and to a young cat, nighttime is for hunting. They’ll stalk feet and hands that move beneath the bedcovers, then pounce with great ferocity. They’ll jump on top of your headboard, stare at the ceiling, and wail for the mother ship to come take them back to Alpha Centauri. Or they’ll help de-clutter the top of the dresser by knocking off your watch, your keys, and your lipstick. If those don’t get your attention, that nice bottle of perfume ought to roll real good....

  Crash!

  Sure, it scares them a little when you finally lurch out of bed, half-blind with sleep, wave your arms, and scream very bad words. But at least it relieves the boredom.

  Some people can’t bear to listen to yowls outside the closed bedroom door, and claim their pets sleep quietly on their beds after, oh, a couple of years. Well, if I don’t let mine in, they stop yowling a lot sooner than that, and in the meantime, I can wear earplugs. I make exceptions only during winter power outages, when we all need the extra body heat.

  So it surprised me to hear them meowing loudly on Tuesday morning, until I checked my cell phone and realized I’d overslept. Almost eight! I’d have to scramble to feed them and myself, shower, and be ready at nine to open the door for my new assistant.

  Two strong cups of coffee had perked me up by the time Sarah arrived. Her teal-green knit pants and a coordinating print tunic showed she was thinking ahead; they looked nice enough for the sales desk, but casual enough to let her handle the animals.

  As Sarah mounted the back steps, I warned her about the shaky railing. I took a minute, while she was getting settled for the day, to leave Nick a phone message about fixing the rail when he could. Then Sarah and I fed the boarders, scooped out their litter, and gave them each a little TLC.