Cat in Wolf's Clothing (9781101578889) (13 page)

Judy Mizener walked slowly over to Arcenaux. She seemed to find it difficult to absorb—or believe—what I had told her. She seemed alternately reluctant and then happy to believe it.

“Tell me, John,” she asked gently, “why did you deface these paintings?”

Arcenaux didn't answer. Judy Mizener persisted. “Is what she is saying true? Did it happen that way, John?”

Detective John Arcenaux persisted in his silence. Judy Mizener turned back to me.

“Do you have any hard proof of all this . . . of Arcenaux's complicity? Obliterating wall paintings is not really a crime.”

“Tony will have that evidence for you in a few hours. As soon as he comes back from upstate. As for Arcenaux's motives. Money, no doubt. Over the years he must have collected almost two hundred thousand dollars in annual dues from the cult members. Of course, each year, the contributions were reduced by twenty-five hundred as another member entered paradise. But I think it was more than just the money. There was the perverse challenge. And maybe not a little madness. Who knows? Maybe he just liked being around a very strange group of people. Maybe he's a sort of cult groupie.”

“Those people were lunatics.”

“No, Judy, you have it wrong. Their beliefs were as valid and as authentic as any other belief system. In fact, their faith was quite beautiful. I would like to believe that this life is only a pale, ugly preview of something to come. And I surely would like to spend eternity in the guise of a cat goddess.”

“Do I cuff him?” Bert Turk suddenly asked, staring at Arcenaux with profound distaste.

“Why not?” Judy Mizener replied. “We'll book him on disorderly conduct and defacing park property. At least until we can get a conspiracy indictment on the murders.”

Wearily we filed out of the cave.

Chapter 21

I stared into the white foam of my cappuccino. We were in a coffee shop on Madison Avenue and Thirty-Seventh Street in Manhattan. Tony was seated across from me. He was drinking his. Then he put the cup down with a theatrical gesture . . . as if the beverage was something he had been given for great heroism . . . as if it was a gift.

“I gave everything to Mizener. You were absolutely right, Swede. There was a small trucking company up near Desolate Swamp with Arcenaux listed as one of the partners. No one up there gave me any trouble. Your Retro identification card opened all kinds of doors for me. He also has a bank account upstate, and two CDs.”

“What amounts?”

“They total about a hundred and seventy-three thousand.”

“Not a lot when you consider it represents consultant fees in seventeen murders.”

“Was it the money, Swede? Was that why Arcenaux did it?”

“I don't know. Maybe he doesn't know.”

“And you were right about that kid, Swede—about Billy Shea. He was paid to get the cat out of the Tyres' apartment. Just like that neighborhood kid who grabbed Jill Bonaventura's cat out of her apartment. The trouble is, Billy Shea can't I.D. Arcenaux. He told me the man who dealt with him wore big dark glasses.”

“Well, let Judy Mizener sort it out.”

“Do you know how Arcenaux got involved in the beginning? I mean, he doesn't have a cat. And he doesn't seem like the kind of guy who is obsessed with ancient Egyptian theology.”

“I discovered that Arcenaux's first assignment in the NYPD was as a mounted cop in Central Park. That's where he probably met Jack Tyre. Tyre needed someone who knew weapons.”

Tony sat back and stretched. Then he shook his head slowly from side to side, incredulously.

“Swede,” he said, “tell me about those people. I mean, tell me why they did it.”

“You mean why they believed what they believed?”

“I mean . . . to the point of ending their lives suddenly . . . of their own free will.”

“Many people yearn for immortality. Many people believe this life is worthless. There have been a lot stranger cults.”

“But, Swede . . .”

“Don't get me wrong, Tony. I'm not apologizing for what they did. But it is an elegant concept—to live forever in the bodies of the creatures they love the most.”

“A cat is a cat, Swede.”

“No, Tony. A cat is . . . in a lonely harsh world . . . the repository of what is left of beauty and grace and truth.”

Suddenly my effusive words embarrassed me. I changed the subject abruptly.

“I have to go on a cat-sitting assignment now, just a few blocks from here. How about coming along?”

“Why not? It's better than the Adirondacks.”

We left the coffee shop and walked slowly to Mrs. Salzman's apartment. We held hands as we walked, like children.

On the way, I told him about Abelard. And I told him that since this was my last visit to Mrs. Salzman, I was determined to finally flush Abelard out and see him.

Once inside, I saw that Mrs. Salzman had left me a lovely good-bye note in the kitchen, attached to my pay envelope. I put them both into my purse.

“Where is the beast?” Tony asked.

“Somewhere in the apartment. We have to listen and then corner him. Abelard is very elusive. But sometimes you can hear him under the furniture.”

We walked slowly through the apartment, listening. We heard nothing.

“Are you sure there's a cat in this apartment?” Tony asked.

“Don't be stupid. Of course there is.” I pulled Tony first to the food dish and then to the litter box—both of which showed evidence that a cat lived in the apartment. “Abelard just doesn't like to reveal himself,” I explained.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Suddenly Tony held his finger up to his lips, cautioning silence.

A second later he slammed his hand down on a table! It sounded like an explosion.

Then we clearly heard a scurrying under the furniture. It was Abelard!

Tony walked forward. I followed. He slammed his hand down again on a piece of furniture. We heard Abelard scurrying away from the sound again.

It was obvious what Tony was doing—he was driving poor Abelard into a corner with the loud sounds . . . like a sheepdog yaps at a flock of sheep.

We kept moving down the hallway and finally cornered him in the alcove between the end of the hall and the living room—under a divan.

“We've got him now,” Tony said gleefully. “I'll pick up the divan. You grab your friend.”

How I longed to finally see and hold Abelard! Tony started to lift the divan.

“Wait!” I called out.

He stared at me, confused. “What's the matter, Swede? I thought you wanted to get this cat.”

I turned away. Suddenly it dawned on me that I didn't want to see poor Abelard. I found myself frightened by the bizarre possibility that when the divan was raised, I would not see Abelard—I would see Bast! I would see Bast rising off the floor in her cat-headed glory.

“Leave him!” I said to Tony urgently. My back was wet with perspiration. We walked quickly out of the apartment as if pursued by demons.

Once on the street, Tony said, “I think I got a glimpse of him, Swede. He had two ears, two eyes, one nose, four paws, and a tail. A very handsome cat indeed.”

I wasn't listening to his quip. I wanted to get back to my apartment quickly, where I could avoid all things Egyptian for a while. I was safe there. I mean, even if I was reincarnated in feline form, it wouldn't be as Bushy or Pancho. They were just too difficult.

Chapter 22

The police officer blocked my way. He was burly. He said nastily: “No I.D.—no access! It's as simple as that, lady.”

“I don't have an I.D. card. I don't work for Retro anymore. Judy Mizener told me to come in and pick up some stuff I had forgotten to take.”

I explained the situation to him like he was a child. I was furious at myself for coming to Retro again. But Judy Mizener had called me and said there was a whole batch of stuff in my cubicle that I had forgotten to clear out. She asked me to take it away as quickly as possible.

At the mention of those magic words—Judy Mizener—the officer got on the phone.

Ten seconds later he stepped aside, allowing me to enter the sacred precincts. I walked quickly to the small cubicle.

There was a typed note fastened to the outside panel of the cubicle. It read:

Alice:

We moved your stuff to the north meeting room. Please pick it up there.

Judy Mizener

P.S. Arcenaux wants to plead guilty to obstruction-of-justice and income-tax-evasion charges in return for our dropping the conspiracy/murder charge. No decision yet. Take care of yourself.

I crumpled the note and left it on the empty desk. I walked to the meeting room. There was no desire on my part to meet any Retro staff. Anyway, the halls were empty . . . the staff just wasn't about.

I stepped into the meeting room, closed the door behind me, and reached for the light switch on the wall.

Something grabbed my wrist in an iron lock!

I screamed in the darkness.

Suddenly the room was flooded with light.

I found myself staring at this enormous white face.

It was only inches away.

My legs were trembling. My heart was thumping in my chest. I stepped back.

Then I realized that I was staring at a mouse face.

I was staring at the face and body of a huge white mouse balloon that seemed to fill the entire room.

A second later it vanished with an enormous bang.

There was Judy Mizener, grinning, a shiny hat pin in her hand—the weapon that had punctured the toy.

Suddenly the room filled up with people. There was Bert Turk and Rothwax and virtually the entire staff of Retro, including the computer operators.

They started to clap, and it took me many dazed moments before I realized that they were clapping for me . . . and that the huge white mouse balloon toy had been their gift to me . . . their apology to me . . . and ultimately their tribute to me for a job well done.

“I think we deserve a speech,” Judy Mizener said, holding up her hand for silence and then pulling me toward the center of the room.

There were cans of beer and bottles of whiskey on the table in front of the blackboard, along with small sandwiches and Danish and a host of paper plates and cups. The whole thing was bizarre and touching. It was a surprise party for
me.

I looked around the room. They were all waiting for me to speak. There were no catcalls now.

For the first time in my life, I was speechless. A thousand parts and I couldn't remember one line.

Still, they waited patiently.

Finally I recited the only thing I could remember right then—the Mother Goose nursery rhyme about the crooked man who bought a crooked cat that caught a crooked mouse, and they all lived together in a little crooked house.

Don't miss Alice Nestleton's next mystery adventure

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There were three Siamese kittens. Winken was on my head. Blinken was playing with my right thumb. And the third, Nod, was on the carpet in front of me, staring up at me with her profoundly sad eyes.

A second later they all changed places, and I couldn't tell who was who.

The night was warm. The glass doors of the terrace were open, and I could see out over the East River and the lights of the Queensborough Bridge. Ava Fabrikant's Sutton Place apartment was magnificent; it nestled like a jewel in the ivy-covered building, twenty-three stories above the river.

We had eaten the orange duck, and now we were all waiting for the great moment. There was Ava and her husband, Les. Barbara Roman and her husband, Tim. Sylvia Graff and her gentle alcoholic husband, Pauly. Renee Lupo and myself.

What was the great moment?

The serving of peppermint tea.

Oh, not just any tea! But tea brewed from the first crop to come up in our community herb garden on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Fifteen tiny green peppermint leaves.

Three months before, one of my cat-sitting clients had told me about four women, all cat lovers, who were going to create an herb garden on a tiny parcel of wretched, garbage-strewn land, just off Avenue B. They were, she told me, going to plant basil and coriander and dill and thyme and chamomile and peppermint. And, above all, they were going to plant catnip and catamint. Then, along with school children from the area, they were going to harvest and dry the herbs, package them, and sell them to gourmet food stores—with all the proceeds going to the ASPCA.

It struck me as romantic and quixotic: An herb garden in the city?

But why not? I hadn't dug into the earth since I left my grandmother's dairy farm to go to the big city almost twenty-five years ago. And I needed a change in my life. I needed something different—nontheatrical—basic.

So I called and they welcomed me. The last three months of planning and planting and fertilizing a small desolate patch of urban earth had been glorious.

Barbara Roman sat down on the sofa beside me. Winken, Blinken, and Nod immediately switched their allegiance and overran her. Her laughter came in peals. She picked Blinken up with one hand and held the kitten close to her face.

“I wonder,” she said, “what Swampy would make of you”—Swampy was her grizzled old Tom cat. Then she kissed Blinken on the nose. That was too much and off the kitten flew, the other kittens following. Five seconds later they were out of sight.

The sounds of gentle bickering over the brewing process wafted into the living room from Ava's immense kitchen. “Hell hath no fury like middle-aged herb gardeners,” Barbara noted.

I laughed. I was beginning to pick up a faint odor of peppermint. I turned to Barbara to tell her, but she had already picked it up and was nodding happily. We were very much in synch.

Barbara was the first good friend I had made in twenty years. We spent hours on the phone together. She was interested in me: in my acting, in my cat sitting, in my crime solving, in the men who had shared my life. Barbara was literate and witty—but above all she had the gift of compassion. I was not the only person who thought that. Everyone who knew this small brown-haired woman with a penchant for smocks loved her. Even if they didn't, they listened to her because she made sense. Maybe she was, in the old-fashioned sense, wise.

She leaned over toward me. “Look at poor Renee.” I looked across the room where Sylvia Graff's husband, Pauly, was telling her some kind of disjointed story. Barbara speculated, “Renee is making believe she's listening, but her mind is on the peppermint tea.”

Then a shout of triumph came from the kitchen, and Ava appeared, holding a tray. On the tray were eight tiny Japanese tea cups.

“Drum roll, please!” she shouted at her husband, Les, who did his best by slamming a fork against a piece of furniture.

Walking gingerly, as if she were carrying a priceless treasure, Ava approached the French Provincial dining table and carefully put the tray down.

We all rushed to the table. Each of us picked up a cup and held it high.

“Wait!” Les called out, “What about sugar?” He was greeted with such looks of withering scorn that he seemed to crunch down into the carpet.

“A toast is definitely in order,” Sylvia said.

“To the plant we plucked the leaves from,” Renee offered.

It was a lovely toast. We drank the tea. (There were only two fingers' worth in each cup.) After the great moment was over we placed the cups back onto the tray. No one knew what to say.

“Well,” Ava finally said, “mine tasted like peppermint tea.” We all burst out laughing. There are few things as ludicrous as searching for superlatives when they just don't apply.

After the tea we had a delicious lemon mousse, strong French Roast coffee, and brandy.

The hours flew by. No one made any move to leave. At around eleven thirty I found myself listening to Renee Lupo. Barbara stood next to me, sipping brandy. Behind her was Ava, holding a coffee cup.

“I read this fascinating article about trap gardening,” Renee said.

“What is trap gardening?” Ava asked, adding, “It sounds almost cruel.”

Barbara handed me her brandy glass to hold. “I'll be right back. I want to get some air.”

“Well,” Renee continued, “imagine that you are growing potatoes. But each year you've tried to grow them in the past, they've been decimated by potato beetles. What do you do if you're an organic gardener and refuse to use pesticides?”

“Pray?” asked Ava.

“No, you plant eggplant.”

“Instead of the potatoes?” I asked, confused.

“No, in addition to the potatoes. You see, there is only one crop potato beetles like better than potatoes—and that is eggplant. So, the beetles will decimate the eggplant and leave the potatoes alone.” Renee's dark eyes flashed. She was a writer and very intense. She saw cosmic significance in the most mundane of things. . . .

“What is that noise?” Ava asked. There was a noise now, a growing sound of horns.

Les called out from the far side of the room. “There must be a backup on the East River Drive. Take a look out, Ava.”

Ava handed me her coffee cup. I now had Barbara's brandy glass in one hand and Ava's coffee cup in the other. She walked out onto the terrace. I looked for a place to put the glass and the cup. . . .

A horrible scream shattered the air around us! It seemed to suck the air from the room.

It came from the terrace.

We ran out and saw Ava standing by the terrace ledge. Her hands were cupping her face. The scream lingered on, gurgling in her throat.

I stared down, out over the railing. The cars were backed up as far as the eye could see in both directions. Their headlights glowed like circular fireflies.

On the highway, far below, lay a small black object.

It was a body.

We all looked around, furtively at first, then with increasing desperation.

Barbara Roman was not among us.

I looked at my hand. It was trembling. It still held the brandy glass. I walked slowly to the terrace wall and leaned against the brick so I wouldn't fall.

Barbara had handed me her brandy glass, walked out to the terrace, and leaped to her death.

***

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