Джанет Кантрелл - Fat Cat Spreads Out

“Do the police still suspect Patrice for Oake’s murder?” Chase asked.

“I think not. Vik finally told them that he and Patrice were having pizza at a picnic table at the food court during the critical time.”

“Why did it take so long for her grandfather to tell the police? To clear his granddaughter?”

“For some reason, they never questioned him. Patrice hadn’t told him she was a suspect. Didn’t want him to have one more thing to worry about. She slipped up and let him know, then he went right to the police station and told them.”

“I’m glad she’s off the hook.”

“She’s only off the hook for the murder because she stole the collar. After she admitted stealing it, he was bawling her out for that and kept her there for an hour.” Mike gave an ironic smile.

“Whew. She knows how to get into trouble. What was that about, with the sheep?” Chase asked, unlocking Quincy’s cage and picking him up.

“The young lad left a package of gum where the sheep could get it. She ate it, package and all, and he thought he might have injured her.”

She was glad he’d gotten over the patient confidentiality thing with her. “They’re here for the sheep jumping contest?” When Chase had walked past the exhibition room, low jumps were being set up. The idea was to make it look like the standard cartoon pictures of counting sheep to get to sleep, except in this case, the judges would count how many jumps each sheep made successfully before losing interest, according to the description that had been in the brochure about the contests. “Did you fix up his sheep?”

“No need. Sheep can eat almost anything. They don’t even chew their food until it’s been swallowed, broken down, and digested.”

“Like cows chewing their cud?”

“Exactly like that. Gum is not an ideal diet, but it won’t hurt the sheep at all.”

Mike busied himself with updating his notes and Chase stroked Quincy, enjoying his enthusiastic purr. It was still bothering Chase that she hadn’t told Detective Olson about her latest encounter with Karl Minsky. Mike’s examining room was so nice and private, it gave her an idea.

“Do you mind if I make a phone call here? It’s not something I want to do in our booth on the midway.”

“Sure. Do you need me to leave the room?”

Mike was so sweet. “No, but I need to speak with the policeman. If I can get him.”

She set Quincy down on the floor and dialed the detective, expecting to leave a message but hoping to talk to him. She was pleased when he answered.

“Olson here.”

“This is Chase. I have something to tell you that may help your case.” Quincy prowled the area beneath the bird cage, looking up with his ears pricked forward.

She glanced at Mike. He was trailing a string for Quincy. Sometimes Quincy decided to play along and chase a string. Other times, he made it clear, by following the string with his eyes up to the human’s hand, that he knew exactly what was going on and that this wasn’t a huge mouse tail. Today, he was pouncing with delight.

Chase continued. “Karl Minsky threatened me on Thursday.”

“How did he do that? What did he say?”

“He said, um, that I’d better watch my mouth and that . . .” What else had he said? “He was warning me.”

“Okay. First of all, what did you say that prompted him to tell you to watch your mouth?”

“I was talking to Anna and I said I thought he may have killed Mr. Oake.”

“If I were an innocent suspect—not saying he is or isn’t—I wouldn’t appreciate that. Second, did he threaten to do anything?”

“It was the way he said it. He was acting like a bully.”

“I’ll note that in my file, Ms. Oliver. Thanks for the information.”

He ended the call. That hadn’t gone at all like she thought it would. She almost wished Karl Minsky had threatened her with something specific. Vague, intimidating warnings weren’t much good, it seemed.

Following the string was fun for the cat for a while. But humans never got the movement quite right, never exactly like a mouse, or a wounded bird. The cat sat on his haunches while the man hoisted himself onto the stainless steel table, waiting for his mistress to finish her phone call. As she put the phone away and the man started to speak, the door opened. Maybe there was something more interesting than a piece of string out there. He had to look.

Once again, Chase was at it, running after her cat, who had not only gotten out of the clinic when Betsy opened the door, but had managed to scoot all the way out of the building and was scampering down the midway.

He headed straight for the butter sculpture building. Horrified that he might get inside again and ruin one of the masterpieces, Chase picked up her pace. Mike, who had been pounding along behind her, seemed to sense the same fear and bolted past her on his much longer legs.

As Quincy reached the door, it swung open and he slipped through. Mike dashed inside. Chase, thirty feet behind, gave it all she had in a final burst. And ran full tilt into Winn Cardiman.

They both crashed to the ground and landed on their bottoms. To her amazement, the man started laughing. The tote bag he had been carrying had spilled most of its contents.

“I’m so sorry.” Chase jumped up. “Let me help you.” She started gathering his things. “Ouch!” Something stuck her finger, and she drew her hand back.

“Leave it. I’ll get the stuff.” He started laughing again. His wrinkly, freckled face scrunched up in his glee.

“Am I funny?”

“No, it’s just that your cat got into the building again. He’s a crazy animal. I hope he eats Minsky’s mess. Not that anyone could tell if he did.” He got to his feet and dusted off his jeans.

Chase had to agree that the abstract the man was working on wouldn’t suffer from a few chunks missing. “Yes, Quincy is a handful.”

“Good at getting away, is he?”

Chase sighed. “That’s a huge understatement. That cat is an escape artist.”

Cardiman scooped his tools into his bag.

“Those are your sculpting tools?” she asked.

“They are. I got so mad at everyone that I stormed out and left them here. Then I got to thinking, some of these are my favorites. They’re not expensive, but I’ve had them for years. I work well with this wooden spatula and this metal dowel.” He reached into his bag and held them up. “So I came back to get them.”

The metal dowel looked almost like a surgical scalpel. It was probably what had pricked Chase’s finger.

“You’ve been in there a long time.”

“Yes, I got to chatting with some of the other sculptors. The exhibit will be good. There’s some good work in there.”

“Besides Minsky’s, you mean.”

“Yeah, that son of a gun. Why he let his idiot daughter design their piece, I’ll never know.” His pale face flushed bright red with anger for a brief moment. He looked at the finger Chase was unconsciously rubbing. “Is your finger okay?”

Chase looked at the place where Cardiman’s sculpting tool had poked her. A small drop of blood oozed from the tip of her finger. “It’ll be fine.” That tool was so sharp that the hole was small. The murder weapon was also a pointed dowel. Did the fact that Cardiman still had a pointed dowel mean he wasn’t the killer? Or did sculptors normally have more than one of those? If he only had one, he wasn’t the culprit.

“Did I hurt your tool?”

Cardiman shook his bag. “I’m sure you didn’t. Those dowels are sturdy. Anyway, I have half a dozen.”

That theory was shot. He could still be the killer. Unlikely but possible.

She hurried into the butter building. If the weather got any colder, they would be able to leave the door open.