Джанет Кантрелл - Fat Cat Spreads Out

Chase took the costume out of the carryall to admire it. “Inger, you’re a genius. This is wonderful. You’ll be a whiz at making baby clothes.”

That must have been the wrong thing to say, because Inger’s face crumpled and she burst into sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Inger wailed between blubbers.

Chase ran to get a tissue. “Oh no, don’t you be sorry. I’m sorry I brought up the baby.”

“It’s not that.” She wiped her face and blew her nose, the storm past as rapidly as it had sprung up. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All of a sudden, for no reason at all, I’ll burst out crying. I’ve even done it in the shop with customers there.”

“I guess your hormones are wacky, aren’t they? Doesn’t pregnancy do that?”

“How would I know?” She looked on the verge of crying again.

“Look, we’ll get you to a doctor and find a book that will tell you what’s normal and what’s not. There’s no need to worry about something that’s normal for mommies-to-be.”

“I guess.” Inger looked doubtful. New sobs shook her small shoulders.

“If this continues, I think you should see someone about depression, too. You’re under a lot of stress.”

Chase put her arms around Inger’s delicate frame and they sat on the couch together until Inger’s occasional quaking sobs had stopped. Even though Inger had said, “It’s not that,” about the baby, Chase knew she should be thinking about what she was going to do to take care of it. This, however, wasn’t the right time to bring that up.

Quincy jumped up beside them and butted Inger’s side, purring through her remaining sniffles.

“Oh, Quincy,” Inger said, gathering him onto her lap. She gave Chase a shy look. “Can I give him something?”

Chase hesitated. He didn’t need more treats. “I’m not sure. What do you want to give him?”

Inger set Quincy in Chase’s lap and jumped up. “I’ll show you. I’ve been working on it in the kitchen this week when the shop was closed, before and after hours.”

She ran out the door and down the stairs. Quincy raced after her and Chase decided she’d better go, too.

Inger was reaching into the refrigerator. She brought out a plastic bag full of small round balls.

“I’ve been experimenting. I think he’ll like these.”

“What are they?” To Chase, they looked like tiny meatballs.

“I don’t know what to call them. I mashed together some tuna fish and cream cheese, then added some catnip.”

Chase relented, confronted with Inger’s eager, happy face. “Sounds like he’ll like them. Give it a go.”

“Here, Quincy.” Inger put one of the balls on the floor and Quincy approached it cautiously. He sniffed it, then batted the sphere a few inches. A couple more bats, then he pounced and devoured it.

Both women were laughing at his antics.

“One more?” Inger asked Chase.

“Sure. I think you have a hit. Go, Quincy, go!”

He rolled on the floor where the treat had been.

“I don’t have a name for them.”

As Quincy chased the next one around, Chase said, “I know. Those are Go-Go Balls.”

“Yes! I like that. I’m so glad he likes them.” Inger slid Chase a sideways glance. “Thank you, Ms. Oliver, for turning the heat up in the apartment.”

“You’re welcome. You can call me Chase, you know.”

After Inger had gone to bed, Chase and Quincy curled up together on the couch. Quincy was tired from chasing his Go-Go Balls around the kitchen downstairs. He purred with his eyes tightly closed. Chase felt the pain in her head ease up just a tad. The tension melted out of her neck and shoulders. The headache receded further. Cats were such good therapists.

The ox costume was on the arm of the couch, where she had dropped it to comfort Inger. Chase fingered it and spoke to her little guy. “You’ll win the contest, won’t you, Quincy Wincy? We’ll come home victorious. Without an extra houseguest, I hope. Maybe by Sunday night we’ll be in our own bed. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

The Fancy Cat Contest was going to be held in the afternoon on Sunday. She and Anna had decided to close the booth for it so Anna could watch. They had heard other merchants saying they would close up, too. It would be the last day of the fair. Chase panicked a bit at that. She wouldn’t have a chance to observe all the suspects together in one place again after the fair closed. It would be a relief not to be on the lookout for a killer, though.

Her mind wanted to dwell on possible suspects a bit longer. Reluctantly, she decided to cross Elsa off the list. It was a shame. She had such an obvious motive, with her husband about to leave her high and dry, taking all their cash to open a butter-carving studio in Costa Rica. But she claimed to have that straw allergy. It occurred to her that it would probably be easy enough to check.

Who else was still on her list?

Karl Minsky. That was a given. Should she consider his daughter Mara? True, they alibied each other. But if they were both in on it, or even if one knew the other had done the deed, they would surely provide alibis for each other. Had their excuses been verified? Detective Olson was being closemouthed about all this.

Maybe she would have to return Winn Cardiman to her list. He had left, so everyone said, but he wasn’t gone. She rubbed her finger, still sore from being pricked by his carving tool. He wasn’t any less angry at Oake now than he had been.

There were other butter sculptors, too. Was it too late to check out all of them? She kicked herself for concentrating only on those two. She should have considered all of them.

Patrice Youngren was Mike’s cousin. Did that mean she was a good person? Mike said she was flaky. That didn’t mean crazy or sinister, but it could. Since the collar seemed to be involved with the murder, she should be kept on the list, even if she had an alibi. She was definitely wrapped up in this mess somehow.

Then there were the two Aronoff men. The father, Ivan, who was sort of bonkers. He went on and on about that diamond cat collar. Where could it be? Peter, Ivan’s very sane son, as far as Chase could tell, was worried that he didn’t have an alibi. Maybe the fact that he was worried about that meant he was guilty. Maybe not.

Chase would have to do her best to get to the truth. Somehow. “Use What You Got” from The Life popped into her head.

* * *

Saturday dawned asan almost exact twin of Friday, cold and blustery. Almost done, she told herself. Tomorrow would be over before she knew it and life would return to normal. Then she kicked herself for thinking that. Life would never be normal again for anyone associated with the dead man. Or for his killer.

Before she got out of the car at the fair, Chase pulled on her wool gloves and looped her scarf around her neck several times, watching leaves and papers leap into the air and dance, whipped by the same wind that whistled through the door gaskets. She took a deep breath and hauled Quincy’s carrier out of the car. A gust immediately sent it sideways and up several inches. Quincy howled.

“I know, little guy. This isn’t pleasant, is it? Wouldn’t a person have to be crazy to want to stroll around a fair on a day like this?” However, it was Saturday, the penultimate day, and she knew hordes of people would flock to the venue. “One good thing,” she told Quincy, “we’ve done good business this week. Julie was right in telling us we needed to be here.” Quincy didn’t seem to care about the income. “We would never have made this money in the shop this week. And Inger says business isn’t bad back there either.” Neither she nor Anna had reconciled the books since the fair had started. The books would be there when it was over.