Cat Call (Crazy Cat Lady Cozy Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  CAT CALL

  a Crazy Cat Lady mystery

  by Mollie Hunt

  Cat Call, the 4th Crazy Cat Lady mystery

  by Mollie Hunt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written consent of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9912949-5-4

  ISBN-10: 0-9912949-5-5

  Copyright 2017 © Mollie Hunt

  Editing and Design by Rosalyn Newhouse

  Published in the United States of America

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: “Did you leave the copier running?“ by Leslie Cobb

  © 2008 Leslie Cobb

  www.lesliecobb.com

  E1

  Other Books by Mollie Hunt

  Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries

  Cats’ Eyes (2013)

  Copy Cats (2015)

  Cat’s Paw (2016)

  Short Stories

  Cat’s Cradle

  Other Mysteries

  Placid River Runs Deep (2016)

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Phil Hunt, mentor, inspiration, and my father-in-law until his death on February 6, 2017. Whenever I visited him, the first thing he would ask was, “How’s the book coming?” I don’t think it mattered whether he knew which book it was or not. Since my own parents, Mary Elizabeth and Ernest Rubin, passed away before my work had been published, Phil made himself the perfect stand-in. Phil, a writer and journalist himself, didn’t so much care what I wrote as long as I kept on writing.

  Acknowledgements

  Profound thanks to Charles G. Daniels for his assistance and expertise on the ins and outs of a television production. Suffice it to say there is a lot more to it than meets the eye when we view the finished product. To Jenny Martin, my steadfast and unflappable beta reader. To Rosalyn Newhouse who has always and still does believe in me. To Sisters in Crime, the Cat Writers’ Association, the Oregon Writers Colony, and all the writers and readers who drive and inspire me. And as always, to my muses, the cats themselves. Any mistakes or misrepresentations in this story are solely my own.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  The Fox and the Cat

  Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, 1819

  It happened that the cat met Mr. Fox in the woods. She thought, "He is intelligent and well experienced, and is highly regarded in the world," so she spoke to him in a friendly manner, "Good-day, my dear Mr. Fox. How is it going? How are you? How are you getting by in these hard times?"

  The fox, filled with arrogance, examined the cat from head to feet, and for a long time did not know whether he should give an answer. At last he said, "Oh, you poor beard-licker, you speckled fool, you hungry mouse hunter, what are you thinking? Have you the nerve to ask how I am doing? What do you know? How many tricks do you understand?"

  "I understand but one," answered the cat, modestly.

  "What kind of a trick is it?" asked the fox.

  "When the dogs are chasing me, I can jump into a tree and save myself."

  "Is that all?" said the fox. "I am master of a hundred tricks, and in addition to that I have a sackful of cunning. I feel sorry for you. Come with me, and I will teach you how one escapes from the dogs."

  Just then a hunter came by with four dogs. The cat jumped nimbly up a tree, and sat down at its top, where the branches and foliage completely hid her.

  "Untie your sack, Mr. Fox, untie your sack," the cat shouted to him, but the dogs had already seized him, and were holding him fast.

  "Oh, Mr. Fox," shouted the cat. "You and your hundred tricks are left in the lurch. If you been able to climb like I can, you would not have lost your life."

  Chapter 1

  In a study conducted by the ASPCA, fifteen percent of pet guardians have reported a lost cat in the past five years. Seventy-four percent were returned safely, fifty-nine percent of which returned home on their own.

  The message contained only three intelligible words: Call... Cat... Help! Interspersed was a garbled squawking that I recognized as the voice of my friend, Rhonda Kane. She sounded drunk, terrified, or both, blithering away like the Simpson’s crazy cat lady, which was ironic because usually I’m the lady considered crazy for cats. I have eight cats; Rhonda has only two, though hers happen to be movie stars.

  My name is Lynley Cannon, and I’ll be the first to admit, eight is a lot of cats, but they are all well cared for and healthy. I have to take out a second mortgage on my Old Portland home when it’s time for their dentals, but that’s part of the deal. I love them dearly and they love me, each in his or her own catly way.

  It began innocently enough with Dirty Harry. After life as a street stray, Harry was territorial, and I just assumed he wouldn’t tolerate a second cat encroaching on his space. As a shelter volunteer, I’d often heard statements like Missy won’t stand for another cat in the house, or Tom doesn’t get along with other kitties, or I’d love to have a kitten but Spot would throw a hissy-fit—‌he needs to be the only one, you know. I believed it for the longest time; then I got my little sweetheart, Little.

  Granted, it took a while for Harry to get off his high horse and accept he could still be king, but I’ll never forget the first moment I saw them playing together. There was such joy in their antics. It took time but they became friends and now that Harry has hit his senior years, Little warms and grooms him like a sister. I don’t know what he would do without her.

  The adoption of Little opened the gate to multiple cats. Next came Big Red, the orange tabby male who moved in on my side porch, then Solo, ghost-white, deaf, and totally reclusive, from a needy friend. Violet arrived sometime later, all twenty-two pounds of her, and then sweet Tinkerbelle. I rescued Mab, the Siamese kitten, from a disreputable breeder, and picked up Emilio when I was on an art retreat at the famous—‌and infamous—‌Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary. So far, all good.

  As a retiree in my sixtieth year, I have time for the cats. I have time for anything I please and manage to fill the hours with love and good works, volunteering, family, and friends. I was born for retirement and thank God every day I didn’t wait until I was sixty five—‌or seventy!—‌to take it.

  But back to the voicemail message. I hadn’t seen Rhonda Kane for quite some time. We’d met at a feline behavior lecture series, and though she was nearly a decade younger than me, we immediately bonded. Ours was one of those friendships that just picks up where it left off, whether it’s been a week or a year. This time it was closer to the year.

  Rhonda had continued the
behavior training and become one of Portland’s only working cat handlers. With the Northwest’s budding film and television industry, it was turning out to be a rewarding if not lucrative pursuit. Her highly trained pair of actor-cats had starred in a few commercials, held a small but reoccurring role in the IFC production, Portlandia, and had even hit the big time once in an episode of Grimm. Since Clark Gable and Cary Grant were identical neutered males, they often played one part interchangeably.

  Cat handling was meticulous work and Rhonda was the best, which was why the crazy communication was such a surprise and, yes, a shock. I recognize the sound of panic when I hear it. Something was very wrong with Rhonda Kane.

  I’d just finished a shift at Friends of Felines cat shelter where I spent a big chunk of my time playing with cats and helping to keep them happy during their scary interim between homes. Without thought, I sank down on the bench in the volunteer locker room and hit redial. I held my breath as I waited for her to answer. One ring, three, seven. Just when I was sure it was going to cut off and give me the generic computer-generated click-Rhonda-click is not available at this time, she picked up.

  “Lynley!” she gasped. “Thank goodness you called back.”

  “Rhonda, what’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  “Oh, Lynley!” She was crying now. “It’s so awful! You’ve got to help. You’ve got to... I don’t know. Come, quick as you can...” The voice wavered and threatened to devolve into crazy-cat-lady-speak again.

  “Rhonda, hold on,” I commanded. “Just take your time and tell me what’s going on. Of course I’ll help, but first I have to know what’s up. Are you hurt? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Worse!” she hissed in a harsh whisper. “It’s Cary Grant!” Through the phone I heard her gulp. “He’s gone!”

  * * *

  I’d had a tough couple of years, been kidnaped and threatened with death, had acquaintances who were murdered, so my first thought when Rhonda finally revealed her terrible plight was, Big deal! That lasted only a millisecond, however, as my empathy clicked in and I grasped how crazed I would be if one of my clowder went missing. Still, cats do get lost; cats hide or get out and run away. I couldn’t believe Rhonda would take any chances with her valuable pair and assumed they were collared and microchipped. I also knew she had them trained to answer to their names. Chances were good that a concentrated search would turn up Cary Grant in a nearby cubby, golden eyes blinking innocently as if to say, What’s your problem? I know exactly where I am.

  “Rhonda, tell me how it happened. From the beginning.”

  On the other end of the line I heard her blow her nose. She sounded slightly more collected when next she spoke.

  “Okay, Lynley. I really don’t know. We’re on a shoot in Oaks Bottom. Clark Gable and Cary Grant were in the trailer, waiting for their call. I only stepped out for a minute. When I came back, the trailer door was ajar and Cary Grant was gone. We’ve looked everywhere. The entire lot, but no sign of him. What if he got lost in the wetlands or made it out onto the streets? What if I never see him again?”

  “Hold on. You need to be strong. Cary Grant needs you to be strong.”

  A big sigh. “You’re right, of course. Everybody’s searching, but it’s been over an hour. It will be dark soon, and the rain is relentless. Oh, Lynley, what should I do?”

  “It sounds like you’re doing all the right things. I know it’s hard, but have faith. How is Clark Gable?”

  “He’s fine but anxious. He’s here on my lap being sweet, but he knows something’s wrong.”

  “Okay,” I charged, sensing she needed a plan. “Hang on. Take care of Clark. Tell me where you are and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She gave me her location and a set of instructions how to find her in the park; I grabbed a raincoat and hat, my bag, and a bottle of drinking water. I considered what else I might need on a cat hunt and decided to throw in a can of Trader Joe’s Tuna-For-Cats, a particularly stinky concoction of fish that cats seem to love. With a quick goodbye to my own little crew, I set out for the Sellwood district.

  It was nearly six-thirty; the April night would be on us soon. Rush-hour traffic should have been thinning out but wasn’t, and as I cursed and inched my way across town, I had time to think about what I was getting myself into. I certainly didn’t resent my friend calling me out of my nice warm home for a lost kitty. I knew what she must be going through, the fear and anxiety when one of our furred family is beyond our safety net. But it wasn’t the end of the world. I had no doubt Cary Grant would be found, half-expected my cell phone to ring at any moment with Rhonda saying thanks but never mind—‌he’s home safe. There would be a happy ending, there had to be. Then we would celebrate, maybe go to dinner, talk over old times and catch up on what’s new. Or maybe we’d order takeout to her trailer, a sumptuously furnished and catified vintage Airstream that she and her celebrity pair used for their gigs.

  I had it all figured out, right down to what kind of pita sandwich I would order, when I arrived at the park. Little did I know that the missing cat was a mere forewarning of tragedies to come.

  Chapter 2

  If you are feeling stressed, so is your cat. Cats are sensitive by nature and can pick up on tension, sometimes before we are aware of it ourselves.

  It took only a few dead ends and wrong turns before I saw a yellow sign tacked to a phone pole, McCaffrey & Jack, the name of the television production on which Rhonda and her cats were working. The McCaffrey & Jack paranormal mysteries by Angela T. Moore had risen in popularity through twenty-three books until one of the cable networks finally decided to put it on film. The cozy but complex series involved a slightly flawed ex-police detective and his quasi-mystical long-haired red tabby. Together they solved the quirkiest of crimes. Rhonda had called me when she was trying out for the part but I’d not heard from her since. Apparently she got it.

  The street ended at a tall gate that opened into a gravel parking lot enclosed with a high chain-link fence. The gate stood open so I drove on in. Among a smattering of cars and high vans were production vehicles, a brightly painted craft truck, and a sprawling white tent. In the distance I could just make out Rhonda’s trailer parked under a stand of low trees. Lumbering at a slow crawl over the gravel, I headed for it. If Cary Grant had been found, that’s where she would be; if he hadn’t, someone would surely be waiting there in case he returned home.

  I squinted through the rain that had decided to let loose in buckets, my windshield wipers on full. Suddenly from out of nowhere, a shape loomed up in the dim, arms waving wildly. It yelled something unintelligible as I crunched to a jerky stop. I rolled down my window, the rain spattering prisms across the lenses of my glasses. Once again cursing the fact that I needed to wear them all the time now, I slipped them off and gazed up at the out-of-focus outline of a man.

  “I’m looking for Rhonda Kane,” I said.

  “You must be Lynley,” he replied with a distinctly Southern accent. “She said to expect you. She’s yonder in her trailer—‌they all are. You better go on down there too. Tell her I’ll join up with y’all in a few minutes.”

  He tugged his rain hat lower on his forehead and turned to go.

  “Tell her who?” I asked after him.

  He glanced back at me. “Oh, it’s Roger. Tell her Roger’ll be right over. There’s something I need to check on first.” He shrugged up the collar of his old-fashioned raincoat and made to leave. I put the car in gear and began to roll up the window when there he was again. “Drive slow, Lynley. And watch out. There’s a cat at large.”

  I nodded and he was gone, this time for good. Forging on at a cautious five miles per hour, looking to both sides for anything that might be little Cary Grant, I pulled up in front of the trailer and stopped. Before I could get out of the car, the door flew open and a be-slickered Rhonda rushed out to meet me.

  “Oh, Lynley! Finally, thank the stars! Come in, come in. We’re all here, trying to regro
up.”

  Rhonda was a large, square-set woman who concealed her chunkiness with layers of natural fabric clothing. I’d never seen her wear slacks; it was always skirts or dresses, mostly on the longish side. She preferred the burgundies, taupes, and browns of fall colors, no matter what time of the year. In summer, she merely shed the sweater and switched from Kalsos to sandals. Though her hair was prematurely gray, her striking amber eyes flecked with gold made her anything but drab. I once asked her if she wore colored contacts, to which she collapsed laughing.

  “Me?” she had said. “I don’t even wear lipstick.”

  At the moment, her amber eyes were rimmed with red. She was still crazy anxious, so I assumed they’d had no luck finding the wayward boy. As she beckoned and turned, I grabbed my bag and followed. She chattered nonstop which wasn’t like her, but I figured it was nerves and let her rattle on.

  “What about this rain?” she began. “Spring showers my foot! This is more like the second coming of the great flood. You’d think it would stop or at least slow up but it just seems to be coming down harder all the time. Of course that’s what they wanted for this scene, the rain. To create the mood. It’s moody alright, wouldn’t you say?” She nodded toward the graying sky. “And poor Cary Grant, out somewhere in it. Lost—‌or worse.”

  “Don’t think that, Rhonda,” I broke in as we cleared the little metal steps.

  She turned to me, eyes pleading. Her face was contorted with worry, making her look far older than her fifty-three years. The drowned rat effect from her search in the downpour didn’t help. On impulse, I gave her a plasticy hug, awkwardly in our rain gear.

  “It’s going to be alright. We’ll find him. We will!” I added, as much to convince myself as her.