The Persian Always Meows Twice Page 4

  “The owner of the two Siamese is picking them up at ten,” I told Sarah. “We’ll wait until after he leaves to start letting the others out of their cages.”

  My new assistant had been throwing me occasional sideways looks, and when we took a break, she finally asked, “Cassie, did you know you were in this morning’s paper?”

  Uh-oh. There could be only one reason for that, but I played dumb. “I was?”

  “Well, just your name. That appointment you went to yesterday. . . Was it some man named George DeLeuw?”

  The taste of coffee rose again in my mouth. “Oh Lord, they mentioned me? What did it say?” Bad enough losing my best customer, but being named as a murder suspect could torpedo my business before it ever got off the ground.

  “Just that you showed up to work on his cat and found him dead inside the house. Is that true? It must have been awful!”

  “Yeah, it was.” Relieved that the paper hadn’t exaggerated my involvement, I briefly told Sarah the story. “I liked the guy okay, and he seemed to have a pretty quiet lifestyle, so I can’t imagine who’d want to kill him. On the other hand, I really didn’t know much about him.”

  “From the story, it sounds as if the police are looking into his business dealings, so maybe that’s the explanation.” My assistant shook her head, reflecting. “If he lived alone, who’s looking after his cat?”

  I smiled and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Sarah, you’re my kind of people. That’s exactly what I’ve been worried about ever since I came home from his place. I left my number with the housekeeper, and I just hope she’ll call me if there’s any problem.”

  Freddy, the elderly owner of Simone and Samantha—the two Siamese—showed up just after ten to claim them. He and his longtime partner had enjoyed their week in Key West, he said, but would be happy to be reunited with their “girls.” Sarah expertly settled up the bill so that Freddy left us two cats poorer and a few hundred dollars richer.

  In the brief lull that followed, I used my phone to check whether DeLeuw’s death had made the Internet. But when I saw I’d missed a call from my mother, that told me all I needed to know.

  Mom never had understood why I couldn’t use my degree in psychology to analyze human beings, a career that at least involved some prestige and real money. “Four years of college,” she liked to remind me, “and you brush other people’s animals for a living!”

  Now I asked Sarah, “Can you handle things for a few minutes? I need to explain to my mom how I ended up in a house where a guy got murdered.”

  She winced in sympathy. “Good luck!”

  I perched on a stool behind the sales counter to make the call. Mom sounded about as wound up as I’d expected, and thought I was keeping secrets from her because I hadn’t told her immediately about the incident. My attempts to explain that I got home exhausted and depressed, and had been busy all morning with a new hire, only seemed to make things worse. I’d never figured out how to handle Mom when she got like this—even if I acted calm, she just thought I wasn’t taking the situation seriously enough.

  “I don’t know why you had to move out to the sticks all by yourself,” she fretted.

  “Mom, this didn’t happen at my store.”

  “No, but it happened when you went out to someone’s house for your job. What if you’d walked in while the killer was still there?”

  I had no real answer for that—I’d wondered the same thing, myself. “Well, I didn’t. Two other people were on the property, and the killer avoided them, too. It had to be somebody with a personal grudge against DeLeuw.”

  “Maybe he was involved in something criminal. You don’t know anything about these people you go out to work for!”

  “He was the only customer who asked me to come to his home. So from now on, I’ll insist they all bring their cats to me. Will that make you feel better? I’ll tell them my mother worries too much when I make house calls.”

  “Don’t be smart.” Mom sniffed—just indignation or actual tears? She’d gotten even worse since starting her current job, as if reading about all of these lawsuits made her always imagine disasters. “Now that your name is in the paper, this person might think you know something and come after you. I wish you didn’t live alone!”

  I would not let our conversation veer onto the old subject of why I’d stopped seeing Andy. From my seat behind the sales counter, I could just glimpse the four-inch canister of pepper spray I kept hidden on the shelf underneath. I’d told my mother that Andy and I argued all the time over little things, but she’d rationalized that I was “too independent” and all couples had problems to work out. I’d never revealed that during our last argument, in his apartment, Andy shoved me backward against a metal bookcase. The gigantic multicolored bruise on my left shoulder blade took more than a week to heal.

  No bones broken, but I wasn’t giving him an opportunity to do worse. Safer to live in Chadwick by myself than back in Morristown, near him.

  I steered the subject and tone of the conversation in a new direction. “Actually, Mom, on the subject of people living alone, I could use your professional expertise.” She’ll stop worrying, I thought, if I give her a puzzle to figure out. I explained DeLeuw’s home situation and asked what she thought might happen with his cat.

  My approach worked, and the more rational side of her brain kicked in. “If it looks like murder, they’ll do an autopsy. That will hold everything up for a while, but at least it might narrow down their range of suspects. His killer won’t be allowed to benefit from any inheritance . . . assuming the police can figure out who it is, which could also take a while. Even under less complicated circumstances, probating a will can drag on for a long time.”

  When my father had died, Mom handled all the interactions with their lawyer regarding his will, so I knew nothing about the process. “What exactly does ‘probating’ mean, anyway?”

  She prefaced her answer with a little sigh of impatience; she’d never quite accepted the idea that I didn’t inherit her analytical, methodical type of mind. I suppose I took after my father, a periodontist who painted watercolor landscapes in his spare time.

  “Probate is the whole process of settling an estate,” she explained. “The deceased person’s property has to be inventoried, his debts have to be paid off, and whatever is left is divided among his heirs.”

  “This all happens even if he left a will?”

  “Very often. In your Mr. DeLeuw’s case, just the fact that he owns an expensive house and property and an art collection means his estate will be probated. But the fact that he was murdered complicates things too. . . .” I could almost hear Mom’s shrug over the line. “It could take a year or more to settle everything.”

  I pictured all of this stretching out over time while poor, confused Harpo languished without his owner, and possibly without even the basics like food and water. “Would they let his housekeeper onto the property to keep it up? Somebody would have to pay her. . . .”

  “His lawyer will take charge of all that, at least until they can find his nearest relative.” With a warning in her voice, Mom added, “It’s not your problem, Cassie. Don’t get any more mixed up in this than you already are.”

  “I hear you, Mom.” When call waiting beeped and my handyman’s number showed up, I saw my chance to cut things short. “Oops, somebody’s trying to reach me. Gotta go. Love ya!”

  I caught my breath, then dialed Nick back, expecting a nice, boring conversation about the porch repair. But normally easygoing Mr. Janos sounded even more agitated than my mother.

  “Cassie, I’m sorry I missed your call. I honestly don’t know when I can get over there. There’s another guy who covers for me sometimes.... I can give you his number. . . .”

  Nick once mentioned that he’d been to the doctor for a heart problem, and from his tone now I expected the worst. “Don’t worry about it. Are you okay?”

  “It’s my boy, Dion.” I heard Nick swallow hard. “The cops are questionin
g him. . . .”

  That quiet, nerdy guy who spent all his time tinkering with computers? What did he do? I wondered. Knock over an electronics store? “Oh no. What for?”

  “It’s just so crazy.” Nick drew a long, shuddery breath. “They think he killed that rich fella, George DeLeuw!”

  Chapter 5

  I waved Sarah over, gave her my seat behind the sales counter, and took my phone to the rear condo area for privacy. “Nick, why would the police think your son was involved?”

  “Because he was mad. He thought DeLeuw stole one of his ideas for some kind of invention.” The handyman, normally upbeat and easygoing, sounded totally unraveled today.

  “Did the cops hold Dion?” I asked.

  “No, thank God. They got no proof, ’cause he didn’t do it!” Nick sighed deeply. “Cassie, I can’t go into it all now. I’m headed out to a job I put off from this morning. But I’ll get over to your place later this afternoon, okay? Long as nothing else goes wrong . . .”

  “I sure hope nothing else does.” Thinking of his heart trouble, I added, “Take it easy, okay?”

  As I hung up, I heard Sarah’s voice at the front of the shop overlapping with Dawn’s. The two huddled over something on the sales counter that turned out to be a bedraggled-looking brown tabby kitten, all legs, eyes, and ears.

  “Cassie, isn’t he the sweetest thing?” Sarah cooed.

  “I found him hiding in my storeroom,” Dawn said. “He’s got no collar or license, but he doesn’t seem awfully wild. When I called to him, he came right up to me.”

  “He does seem very tame,” Sarah agreed as the kitten head-butted her arm, eyes blissfully squeezed shut.

  “Could be he ran away from a home and got lost.” I picked up the little guy, who introduced himself with a polite mew, and looked him over. Probably four or five months old, the age when mother cats usually wean their young. He might have been born feral, but if so, he had no fear of people.

  “I’m usually more of a dog person,” Dawn admitted, “but just look at dat pwecious widdle face! I’d keep him at my store, but I guess that wouldn’t be fair if his owner is out looking for him. Or maybe you can hang on to him while I post signs around town and see if anybody claims him?”

  “Before either of us takes him in, even temporarily, he should see a vet who can make sure he hasn’t got any health problems,” I warned her. “I can’t endanger any of my boarders. Just at first glance, I can see he’s got fleas and ear mites.”

  Both of the other women backed off from fondling the kitten after hearing this news, and my friend brushed off her silky sea-green tunic.

  “Can we treat him for those things?” Sarah suggested. “I saw some flea medicine back in the grooming area.”

  “Yes, but if he’s been neglected, he could have more serious issues that we can’t see.” I told Dawn, “I can lend you a carrier if you want to run him over to the clinic.”

  My friend responded with a sly grin. “Gee, I think you should do the honors. After all, you know much more about cats than I do!” She stage-whispered to Sarah, “Cassie’s got a thing for the vet, Dr. Coccia.”

  Anticipating the bills for vaccinations and other treatment, I tried to pass the little tabby back to Dawn. “You know what they say—finders keepers.”

  She read my mind. “I’ll gladly pay for whatever care he needs, but right now I’ve really got to get back to my store. And as you know, Cassie, I’m perfectly happy with Keith. However, I think you should seize this opportunity!”

  I glanced to Sarah for support, but she abetted Dawn. “The clinic’s just a few blocks away, right? I can handle things here, Cassie, until you get back.”

  “Mew!” added the kitten.

  They were all ganging up on me. Who could resist that kind of pressure?

  * * *

  I called first to make sure Dr. Coccia could spare a few minutes to check out the little stray, which we temporarily named Tigger. Then I ran up to my apartment long enough to change into a clean T-shirt in a flattering coral shade, put on a touch of makeup, and quickly trim my bangs over the bathroom sink. (Grooming animals for a living does give a person some useful life skills.)

  Back in the shop, I left Sarah instructions just in case anyone came by to pick up or drop off a cat. Then I packed Tigger into a spare carrier, shrugged into my short brown pleather jacket, and headed out on foot.

  I always enjoyed strolling through downtown Chadwick. Alongside the trendier shops selling handmade jewelry, fine art, and high-end crafts, you still could find several mom-and-pop businesses that probably went back several generations. On the sidewalk outside a new clothing boutique, I dodged around a headless mannequin dressed in a flashy retro-inspired outfit; a few steps later I passed a homey hardware store with rakes and bags of fertilizer stacked out front. Delicious sugary smells wafted out of Cottone’s Bakery, another longtime fixture on Center Street. A quick peek through the front window of Towne Antiques also made me drool, since I generally pick up my “antiques” at the Salvation Army and refresh them with a coat of paint.

  A few people who passed me in the opposite direction glanced at the pet carrier and smiled at either me or Tigger. We animal lovers share an unspoken bond.

  Like my shop, the Chadwick Veterinary Clinic occupied what once had been a private home, but in this case a sizeable white ranch house with colonial overtones. A sign with the names of the two staff veterinarians, Mark Coccia and Elizabeth Reed, hung from a post near the front walk. The property included a good-sized rear parking lot, which so far I’d never needed to use.

  The waiting room had a central modern reception desk in polished oak, and matching benches ran along two walls. I checked in and sat down, the carrier on my lap, as far away as I could manage from a lively Great Dane. The huge brindled dog kept straining at the end of his leash to get a better look at Tigger, which his owner found amusing. I turned the wire mesh front of the carrier toward my body.

  A white-haired man stood at the desk, settling up a bill, his shoulders hunched and a small red collar poking out of his pocket. The receptionist spoke so softly to him that I couldn’t overhear, but no doubt he’d just had to put some beloved pet to sleep. I ached for him, having been in that situation many times—not only with animals of my own, but during my brief stint as a vet tech. It never got easier.

  I just hoped Tigger wouldn’t turn out to have any dire, hidden ailment that was beyond treating. He seemed too bright-eyed and energetic, though, for that to be the case.

  A tech called us into one of the examining rooms, where I set the carrier on a steel table similar to the type I used for grooming. A couple of minutes later Dr. Mark strode through the door, obviously in the middle of a busy schedule. It could have been just my imagination, but I thought his eyebrows did a little jump and his smile stretched extra wide when he recognized me.

  “Ms. McGlone! Good to see you again. You were in here last month, right? With the stray kitten that had ringworm?” When I nodded confirmation, he asked, “How’s she doing?”

  I was flattered that he remembered my visit, even down to the gender of the kitten. “Great, as far as I know. The shelter put her up for adoption, and I think they already found her a home.”

  “That’s terrific. Always glad to hear about a happy ending.”

  Mark himself was the type to inspire fantasies of happy endings. A little taller than me and a little older—perfect, right? Typical dark Italian good looks except for startling deep-blue eyes fringed by black lashes. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but I warned myself the guy had to be taken. His type never stayed on the loose for very long.

  He glanced at the carrier and asked, “What’ve we got today? Another orphan of the storm?”

  “You guessed it.” I lifted Tigger out onto the table. “My friend Dawn—she owns the health-food store Nature’s Way?—said this little guy sneaked into her storeroom somehow. She’s thinking of keeping him, but I insisted you have a look at him first.”

/>   Mark noticed the same superficial health problems as I had, then checked Tigger’s teeth, felt his belly, and drew some blood. “If he’s been on his own for a while, he could have picked up some parasites. With any luck, he won’t have caught any more serious diseases.”

  “Dawn was wondering if he might have belonged to someone, since he seems so friendly.”

  The vet took out a device resembling a supermarket scanner and passed it above the kitten’s shoulder area. It didn’t beep, which told both of us Tigger lacked a microchip that, in place of a license tag, would identify him as someone’s pet. “If he did come from a home, it seems like the people didn’t take very good care of him. Whether your friend keeps him or she finds the owner, this guy should be vaccinated against distemper, rhinotracheitis, calicivirus, and rabies.”

  I nodded. “Maybe I should leave him here today and let him get the works?”

  Mark stroked the tiny striped head with just his fingertips, in a way that melted my heart. “Sounds good. We’ll give him a bath this afternoon to get rid of the fleas, and test him for FIV, feline leukemia, and worms. You should be able to pick him up around this time tomorrow.”

  Much as I’d have liked the excuse to see Mark again, I knew I’d probably have things to tend to at my shop. “Dawn may be the one picking him up. In fact, maybe I should give her an idea of the cost.”

  Mark tallied it off the top of his head, and I texted my friend. “Okay, she’s fine with that.”

  “The first visit is a little steep, I know,” he sympathized. “Especially for a stray who might have been exposed to all kinds of problems.”

  “You’ll be fine, Tigger,” I told the little tabby as a tech took him away in his carrier.

  It occurred to me then that Mark might be able to answer a nagging question for me, though I’d have to ask discreetly. “By the way, would you know what happens to a pet when the owner dies suddenly and didn’t provide for it in his will?”

  Understandably, he needed a minute to consider this. “I haven’t run into too many situations like that, but . . . I guess any of the heirs would be free to claim the animal.”