Literally Murder (A Black Cat Bookshop Mystery) (7 page)

Darla had noticed a stack of paper towels piled on one corner of the judging table. Now, Ms. Greene spritzed down the white laminate surface with a spray bottle of disinfectant, wiped it clean with a couple of paper towels, and then did the same with her hands.

The judge spent a few moments afterward making notes in a three-ring binder; then she repeated the process with the next kitten. Throughout the handling of each small cat, she took time to share with the spectators her murmured thoughts on each entrant. While none of the other kittens in the ring scaled the scratching post like the first feisty boy had done, most of them played with the proffered feathered wand or dangling mouse on a string. Only one shy cream-colored female turned up her flat nose at all the toys. Ms. Greene waited until she’d put the little girl back in her cage to try the feathers again. This time, the kitten responded with a polite bat of one paw through the bars, drawing a genuine smile from the woman.

When the final kitten had been judged, the judge made one last walk past the cages, using her feathered wand to play with each as she walked past. Then, after making final notes in her book and filling out a three-part form, she swiftly hung a series of colored ribbons—blue for first, red for second, and yellow for third—on various cages. In addition were two more ribbons: Best of Color and Second Best of Color. Since the kittens were divided by color as well as gender, that meant that by the time the judge finished, a regatta’s worth of ribbons flew in the judging area. Darla was glad to see that both Feisty Boy and Shy Girl, as she’d mentally dubbed them, had taken first place in their respective color classes.

The exhibitors removed their kittens from the judging cages, which were then spritzed and dried by a small crew of teenaged volunteers. Darla moved on to another ring, where the judge was evaluating the Household Pets. Since this was the category Mildred had mentioned Hamlet could qualify for, Darla eagerly grabbed an open seat in front of the judging table.

The first thing she noted was that all colors and breeds were represented in a single judging category, from orange tabbies to white longhairs to calicos—even two sleek black cats that resembled miniature versions of Hamlet. The male judge had a flamboyant if genial air about him. Tall and almost painfully thin, with hair that had been bleached to an unnaturally pale yellow, he was dressed in a smart, powder blue suit. Paul something . . . or maybe he was something Paul, Darla thought, flipping through the handout she’d picked up at the door. She found his name finally: Mitchell Paul.

While Mr. Paul’s judging procedure was almost identical to Ms. Greene’s, he kept up a running spiel with the spectators that was worthy of a seminar presenter as he efficiently made the rounds of the pets.

He addressed the spectators as he picked up the first entrant, a male tuxedo cat. “Now, I always like to know if it’s their first time.” Then, with a mock look of shock at a few answering snickers, he stuck one hand on his hip and clarified. “No, not that, you naughty people. I mean, is this our young fellow’s first cat show? Who’s his mom or dad?”

A black-haired young man, whose bulk spilled over onto the folding chair beside him, raised a tentative hand. Paul smiled. “Now, tell me his name and his story.”

The banter went on in a similar vein with all the owners, most of whom were new to the show ring. His comments were kind as well as constructive, Darla decided, pleased to see that Mr. Paul found at least one positive characteristic for each cat that he claimed set it above the others. Only when he reached the tiny calico girl, who was hunched up in the back of her cage, did the patter change. He paused, frowned, and said, “Now, I see a little crazy in those eyes. Owner, come take this cat out for me, just in case.”

An old woman who looked remarkably like Nattie—except twice her size—hobbled her way to the cage. The cat cooperated, and the woman carried her to the judging table, where she—cat, not old woman—behaved quite nicely. Praising both cat and owner, Mr. Paul let the old woman return the calico to her spot; then, after a quick cleanup of hands and platform, he opened the final judging cage.

“Oh my. My, my, my,” he mused in obvious interest as he carried the cat over to the table.

Oh my
,
was right
.
Darla studied the unusual feline with its batlike ears and fawn-colored fur that seemed almost painted on. And where was its tail? This was no basic domestic shorthair, à la Hamlet.

“Owner, tell me about this unusual little fellow,” the judge went on. He indicated the tailless hind quarters, which were raised a bit higher than the front legs, giving the cat a rabbitty look. “He appears to have a bit of Manx in him. Was he a stray? Do you know anything about his parentage?”

“Actually, I bred him myself,” the owner spoke up, standing.

While most of the spectators and exhibitors wore T-shirts or polos over jeans or shorts, this man looked like he’d come from an executive meeting: beige dress slacks, long-sleeved pale yellow shirt, and a striped tie that picked up both colors. In his late fifties, he had the tanned, self-assured look of a man who spent as much time cutting deals on the golf course as he did in the boardroom.

“He’s a cross between a Manx and a Sphynx,” the owner went on. “I call him a Minx.”

Better than calling him a Spanx
, Darla thought with a smile.

“I’ve been perfecting the breed for more than five years now,” the man went on in a self-important tone. “You can see that the fur is like velvet, and far shorter than the usual feline coat. People who might have been turned off by the Sphynx’s hairlessness but can’t keep a regular cat because of allergy issues do quite well with these fellows. And with the Manx hindquarters, they tend to want to leap rather than run, so they’re easier to keep in an apartment or condo. I’m going to present the Minx for inclusion in the FSA later this year.”

“Really,” the judge replied, his tone approving as he ran his hands over the odd cat. “I must say, it’s a fetching little thing. And you’re right—the coat feels just like velvet.”

He flicked the feathered wand in front of the Minx, smiling as the cat gave the toy a swipe. Then he returned the Minx to his cage and spritzed the platform and his hands before making his final notations in his book. Handing the clerk his filled-out form, Mr. Paul reached for a handful of ribbons, saying, “All of you should be proud. You groom and put these guys together as well as any pro. Every one of these cats deserves a merit ribbon.”

Swiftly, he hung a bicolored ribbon on each cage and then returned to the judging table. “Now comes the hard part. I must choose Best through Fifth Best.”

Starting with Fifth Best, the judge began hanging colored ribbons on the cages. First went to a white longhair belonging to a freckled, twentysomething girl who had brushed her pet into snowy perfection. The tuxedo, the calico, and a Siamese that Darla had admired also placed. The Minx came in third . . . much to the apparent displeasure of its owner. When the call came to remove the cats from the judging cages, he stalked over and, tucking the cat beneath his arm, strode off without another word.

“There’s always one,” Mr. Paul observed with a disapproving moue as Darla went up to thank him for sharing his thoughts with the spectators. “There’s more to a win than just coming up with a clever mix of breeds.”

She gave a commiserating nod. “Well, I thought you made the right choice. That white longhair was beautiful.”

“To be truthful, underneath all that fur it had stubby legs and a head too big for its body,” Mr. Paul said with a shrug, “but the owner obviously takes excellent care of it. Seven years old, and not a spot of tartar on those teeth. And, of course, she had him brushed to perfection. It had to have taken her hours. I prefer to recognize the true pets, and the true amateurs.”

Darla thanked him again; then, glancing at her watch, she headed to check in with Nattie about the copy shop.

A few minutes later, Darla informed Jake, “Your mom said there’s a copy place a couple of doors from the bakery I told you about. If you think you can hold out a bit longer without me, I’ll pick up some pastries to tide us over until lunch.”

“We’re good here,” Jake assured her. “The first wave of excited kiddies has passed, thank goodness. And Hamlet is on his second nap,” she added, indicating the sleeping cat, who’d stretched out between stacks of books on one of the back shelves.

Darla nodded. “Well, if he wakes up by the time I’m back, we’ll make another round of the exhibition hall. Don’t want him getting fat from lack of exercise.”

Leaving Jake and Hamlet to their own devices, Darla went out the main door. She’d forgotten about the animal rights protesters lurking on the broad concrete stairs, however, until she was accosted a second time.

The pink-sequined girl was apparently on break, for Darla didn’t see her; however, her sisters-in-thong were there to fill the gap. A chunky brunette with an unfortunate farmer’s tan and a tiny African American girl with an armful of colorful bangles rushed up as Darla made her way down the steps.

“Cat shows are cruel!” the latter cried, waving her sign in Darla’s direction.

Don’t engage the crazy
, Darla reminded herself. Still, she couldn’t help asking, “Uh, why are they cruel?”

“Because they put them in cages,” the Farmer Tan Girl declared.

The bangle girl vigorously nodded. “And it’s not right to put the cats on stage to, you know, perform.”

She suspected the girls were confusing the show exhibitors with backyard breeders, but as far as she had seen, the greatest number of the exhibitors didn’t fall into that category. And since Hamlet had done the whole performing thing on his own—hence, his YouTube appearance—Darla wasn’t buying that one. That, or she was guilty of cat cruelty. But she politely replied, “Oh, then I agree with all that. Now, can you tell me where the copy shop on Las Olas is?”

“Oh, sure,” the brunette agreed. She trotted back down the steps and, tucking her sign under her arm, pointed down the street. “It’s over there by Jennie’s Bakery. She has the best Cuban pastries.”

“So I’ve heard. Good luck with the demonstration.”

Leaving the bathing-suited girls to their protest, Darla made her way to the copy store and paid for another hundred fliers. While they were being printed, she slipped into the bakery. A young Hispanic woman about Darla’s age was at the far end of the counter arranging pink coconut cupcakes on a tiered glass plate. Her black hair was pulled back in twin ponytails and covered by a striped green bandana that matched her striped apron.

“Hi, are you Jennie?” Darla asked. “Your brother, Tino, said I should stop by.”

“He did, did he?”

The woman gave a tiny smile, tweaking the final cupcake and then sliding shut the glass case door. Leaning with folded arms atop the case, she said in lightly accented tones, “My brother, he’s my best advertising. The only problem is that he comes by and eats as much inventory as he helps sell. Don’t tell me you were brave enough to ride with him!”

Darla smiled with her. “Actually, we met at the airport when my ride almost rear-ended his cab. And then I saw him last night while I was taking a walk. I hear you have great Cuban pastries.”

“The best in town! Tino’s not the only one who thinks so, either.”

Jennie pointed to a large framed photograph prominently displayed on the far wall. It was taken on what appeared to be a reality television stage set, and it showed Jennie exchanging hugs with a celebrity chef whom Darla recognized from one of the cable food channels.

“I was a finalist last year on
Pastry Battle
,” Jennie explained, the smile proud now. “I would have won, but the cupcake girl sabotaged my oven, and my temperature was off.”

“
Pastry Battle
!” Darla echoed in appreciation. “I’ve watched that show. You must be great just to get on at all. So what are Cuban pastries? I’ve never tried them before.”

“Here.” Jennie moved to the center of the case Darla was standing before and pointed to what looked like fluffy turnovers. “I make a few different flavors. There’s cheese, kind of like a cheese Danish. And if you want more of a meal, there’s spicy meat. But my favorites are the guava”—she pronounced it
wah-vah
—“and a special strawberry jam pastry for the kids. Here, I have some samples.”

She pulled out a plate that held turnovers sliced into bite-sized pieces. Darla took a sample of each, proclaiming all of them tasty. “It’s hard to decide,” she said, wiping crumbs from her lips, “so let’s go with a meat, a cheese, a jam, and a guava . . . not all for me, of course. I’m bringing back some for my friends.”

“Sure, no problem.” Jennie pulled out silver tongs and quickly bagged them up; then, with another smile, she added a fat macadamia nut cookie to the bag, and said, “A little something extra on the house, since Tino recommended you.”

Darla pulled out her wallet to pay; then, glancing down the pastry case again, she impulsively said, “How about a dozen of those fancy donut holes in a separate bag, too?”

She paid Jennie and, promising to return the next day, picked up her fliers at the printers and then headed back to the exhibition hall. As Darla started up the steps, she was once again accosted by Farmer Tan Girl and her buddy, Bangles. Before the pair could begin their spiel, however, Darla smiled and held out the bag of donut holes.

“You’ve already indoctrinated me, remember? Now, how about a little something from Jennie’s? You know, to help keep your strength up.”

And to keep you off my back the rest of the show
, she silently added.

Farmer Tan Girl gave her a suspicious look as she gingerly accepted the white bakery sack. As she peered inside, however, suspicion morphed into delight. “Look, Talina, donut holes . . . the fancy kind,” she breathed in awe. To Darla, she added, “Wow, like, thanks!”

“Bon appétit,” Darla replied, and trotted up the steps.

Once inside, she stopped at the check-in desk, where Nattie was presiding. The woman was on the opposite end and busy speaking with a man Darla belatedly recognized as the Minx breeder. Their tones were low, and it was difficult to hear them over the cat chorus and the occasional PA announcement, but something in their huddled stance made her think the conversation was not a friendly one. She didn’t have long to wonder over it, however, for the man abruptly straightened and stalked off toward the exhibitor area. Nattie muttered something after him, her accompanying hand gesture one Darla recognized from some of the rougher Brooklyn neighborhoods.