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

  We pushed on into the trailer where I saw we weren’t alone. Several others garbed in various forms of outdoor wear stood, sat, or perched throughout the small room.

  “That’s right, dearie,” said a white-haired lady seated on the tiny sofa, reaching out to grasp Rhonda’s hand. “But we should get back out again, don’t ya think, now that your friend is here? It’ll be gettin’ dark soon.”

  Courtesy surfaced through the murk of tension as Rhonda began introductions. “Grace, this is Lynley, my dearest friend. She’s wonderful with cats. Now we’ll be able to find Cary, I just know it.”

  “Hello, pet,” said Grace, a slight Irish lilt to her elderly voice. “Glad you’re here. I’m the costume supervisor. And this is my assistant, Dorn.” She gestured to a figure slouched behind her poking at his phone. From what I could see inside the yellow hooded raingear, he was quite young.

  “Nice to meet you, uh, both,” I said, eyeing the preoccupied boy.

  “It’s a bad happening.” Grace shook her head vigorously, sending wisps of gossamer hair haloing around her wrinkled face.

  “Another one,” Dorn grumbled without taking his eyes off the phone.

  “Pay him no mind.” Grace gave the boy a dirty look which he didn’t see, thumbs flying across the tiny keyboard. To me she said, “We’re all so worried about Rhonda’s little moggy. Isn’t that right, Gerrold?”

  A lanky man who was balancing himself nervously on the armrest of a large claw-mangled chair, a sleek tablet clutched in his delicate hand, sniffed notably. “The show will be lost without that cat.”

  “To hell with the show, Gerrold,” hissed a robust black man. “There’s a life at stake.”

  “Of course, of course,” Gerrold fluttered, casting his attention back to the pad. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  The big man turned with a sigh. He muttered a clipped phrase that sounded like the heck you don’t, but may have been something quite different.

  “That’s Gerrold,” Rhonda said aside. “He’s our director, and I for one appreciate his concern for Cary Grant,” she added in a louder voice, throwing a nervous smile toward the slight man who seemed to be the only one in the room not wearing a coat. His concern obviously didn’t extend to joining in the search himself.

  The big man, on the other hand, had definitely been outside. The shoulders of Columbia Sportswear fleece were dark with rain, and droplets still glistened in his ebony hair. With a sigh, he pulled himself together, stepped up, and held out a melon-sized hand.

  “Ray Andersen, or Jonah McCaffrey, as they call me on set. Pleased to meet you. Rhonda says you’re the crazy cat lady.”

  I reddened as I recognized the popular actor but took the warm hand. “I’m not quite crazy yet,” I smiled back, my standard retort for a comment I get more often than I would like to say.

  He laughed. “Okay, not-quite-crazy cat lady, what now? We’ve all been out looking for the kitty since around two this afternoon. No sign. Nothing. Got any thoughts what the next step might be?”

  I glanced at Rhonda but her face was blank. She had probably run out of ideas about the time she called me, and now the bedraggled crew was waiting for some new hope.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot, Rhonda,” I exclaimed. “I saw a guy named Roger on the way in. He said to tell you he’d be right back. He said he had to check on something first. Maybe it was a lead?”

  “He is making arrangements with catering for tomorrow’s lunch,” Gerrold remarked blandly. So much for that.

  I eyed the band of expectant faces. “I really don’t have any secret insight on how to find a lost cat,” I confessed, “beyond the usual, calling and searching.”

  “What about putting up posters and contacting all the animal shelters?” asked a slim woman who stood behind the sofa. The man next to her held a protective arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him comfortably. The couple looked to be in their early twenties. Both had dark bobbed hair with shaved designs running up the sides, hers with hot pink highlights and his with a peacock-like green-blue. In tee shirts and skinny jeans under their denim jackets, they might have been twins.

  “This is Mary,” announced Rhonda, “and Juno. They’re camera operators.”

  The young pair smiled at exactly the same time and with exactly the same little left-sided smirk. “Pleased to meet you,” Mary said.

  “Likewise,” said Juno. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “It’s Lynley. Posters are a good idea, Mary, but since this is a park area, the chances of someone picking him up as a stray might not be so good. It’s probably still too soon to call the shelters.”

  Mary looked downcast. “I just thought...”

  “It’s okay, Mare,” Juno consoled. “We’ll find him long before we need to put up signs. Right, Lynley?” The young man looked at me with sad gray eyes.

  “We’ll certainly give it our best try.” I considered for a minute. “I brought some special cat food. It’s very... pungent. Maybe if we put that out, he’ll come to get it.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Rhonda. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

  She slipped by a slim blonde girl in a khaki utility vest and black leggings leaning against the curved trailer wall and retrieved a china bowl from a tiny cupboard. I recovered the tin from my bag and stepped up to the small Formica counter. Flipping off the pop top, I looked around for a spoon, found one, and in a waft of fishy smell, served it up. “Where should we put it?” I asked, noting as I raised the porcelain bowl with its design of blooming violets that it was Royal Doulton.

  Rhonda shrugged. “They never go outside so I’m not sure. On the steps?”

  I cracked the door. The rain was still going strong, big drops splattering down from the overhanging trees. “How about under the trailer? A lost cat is more likely to be on the ground, and that way the rain won’t dilute it. We really want him to catch the scent and come home.”

  Rhonda nodded.

  The girl at the wall sprang to life and gave me a look with the bluest—‌no, it was more of an azure—‌eyes I’d ever seen. There was an innocence about them, and in fact, about her whole demeanor. Maybe it was her lithe, fairy-like figure or maybe the Madonna smile that played on her pink un-painted lips, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if she still believed in Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, and world peace.

  “I’ll take it out for you,” she offered with sudden enthusiasm. Not waiting for an answer, she flipped up the hood of her vest, slipped the bowl from my hands, and sprung down the steps. Looking back at me with a smile that brought out the sunshine, even on a day like today, she said, “Glad you’re here, Lynley. I know Cary Grant will come home now.”

  “That’s our Victoria,” Rhonda explained. “She holds this show together. She and her husband, Roger, the man you met on the road.”

  Gerrold huffed conspicuously, and Rhonda swung around to face him. “Well, they do. Whenever there’s a dirty job or an unexpected need, Victoria and Roger are right there.” In a softer tone, she added, “I know you appreciate that.”

  Looking pained, the man gave a grunt that could be construed as agreement if one stretched the imagination.

  “Where’s Clark Gable?” I asked to shift the subject.

  “In the bedroom. I didn’t want him any more worried than he already was. He picks up on things, you know.”

  “Cats do,” I replied. “Why don’t you go check on him, Rhonda? Give him some reassurance while these folks and I come up with a plan?”

  Rhonda nodded, ready to take any positive advice, and ducked into the back. Suddenly the room was plunged into complete hold-your-breath silence, the only sound the rain rattling like machine gun fire on the trailer roof.

  Chapter 3

  When an indoor cat escapes outdoors, he suddenly finds himself in an alien environment. Instinctively he will mutely hide so as to avoid unwanted attention from predators.

  I glanced around at the room: Gerrold, the director,
concerned about his deadlines; Ray Anderson, the star, his concern, to his credit, for the cat himself; Grace, seemingly old as the hills yet ready to hobble into action; Dorn, her assistant, still busy with his phone—‌maybe he was looking up “how to find a lost cat” on Google; Mary and Juno, bright and attentive; Victoria, who had disbursed the lure and somehow made it soundlessly back against the wall without my noticing. All were looking to me for a quick fix. How was I to tell them I didn’t have one?

  “Okay, I think I know the story. Correct me if I’m wrong. Earlier this afternoon, Rhonda stepped out. When she returned, the door was open and Cary Grant had got away. Does anyone have anything to add?”

  Faces, edgy yet impassive, stared back at me.

  “Anything at all? Even the smallest detail might prove meaningful.” I knew I sounded like a television cop show, but I was winging it here.

  “Well, the trailer door was open,” Victoria offered. “No way would Rhonda have left it like that.”

  “Good point. And a great place to start. Someone else must have come in when Rhonda was gone.”

  “Someone or something,” Dorn mumbled.

  “What do you mean, Dorn?”

  “Nothing,” he said in that sulky tone that teens adopt when they don’t want to—‌or can’t—‌explain.

  My gaze turned to Grace. Her face had reddened but she merely shook her head, as enigmatic as the sullen boy.

  “Who else is around,” I persevered, “besides the people in this room?”

  Again the pressed silence.

  “Gerrold, you’re the director. You must know who was here when Cary Grant went missing.”

  He gave a little squirm and swept his ash-blonde hair back from his face. He had a chic asymmetrical cut that went from shoulder length to nearly sheered, and the long part fell right back into his eyes.

  “There are over one hundred cast and crew. Do you want me to name them all?”

  My heart fell. That was a huge suspect list, way bigger than I could manage. “Can you think of anyone who might have been hanging around in the parking lot for some reason? The sooner we find the cat, the sooner you can get back to your movie,” I added.

  “It’s a television production, Laurie...”

  “That’s Lynley,” I gently but firmly corrected.

  “Whatever,” he slurred, then acquiesced. “There’s Aaron Ortiz, the script supervisor. He would have been in my trailer working on the script. The sound person, Sam something—‌he had trouble with the equipment and came back to get replacement parts. Brit and Sunny—‌they’re grips. Some of the utility people probably. Carpenters, painters, construction people, PAs.”

  “Production assistants,” Rhonda explained.

  “The gaffer was here for a while. The art director ditto. Oh, and Donna Dee, the Arts and Entertainment writer for The Oregonian. She’s working on a feature for OregonLive, the online news publication. Need I go on?”

  I ignored his remark. “And where are they now?”

  “Gone home mostly. Since there wasn’t going to be any more shooting today with the cat gone, I sent everyone home early.”

  “Didn’t want to pay them for the full day,” Grace muttered.

  “I didn’t think they needed to be paid overtime for searching out a cat that should never have been lost in the first place,” Gerrold huffed.

  Rhonda reappeared from the back of the trailer just in time to catch the director’s disdain. Instantly she broke into tears.

  “I’m sorry, Gerrold,” she sputtered. “I know this is a terrible imposition. I’m usually so careful. I can’t imagine how it could have happened.”

  Grace stood, pulling herself up to her full five-foot-three. “Now look what you did, you big brute.”

  Gerrold rolled his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes!

  There was a rap at the door, and before Rhonda could answer, a burly figure let himself in. Under a dripping fedora, the man had a rugged face that might have been handsome had it not been set in such a miserable scowl. Dark eyes behind gray, thick-rimmed glasses were just a little too ireful, giving him a dour look. Though of medium height, he had the build of a wrestler. Covered by a tan raincoat, his clothing was hidden, but his shoes, brown cap-toe oxfords, were conspicuously inappropriate for the rain.

  He scanned the room, brightening when his eyes fell on Victoria. She smiled and he gave her a little wink. Quickly she looked away, color rising in her pale cheeks.

  The man’s gaze soured and moved on. “Oh, there you are, Gerrold,” he said. “You didn’t answer your page.”

  Gerrold met the newcomer with a weary sigh. “I’ve been busy.”

  “We’re all busy, Gerrold. We had a conference set for four o’clock. I waited. You’re wasting my time, again.”

  “I apologize, Jason. It was an unplanned and unavoidable emergency. Unwelcome as well, I might add.”

  “I know the cat’s missing, but we still need to consult. That scene with McCaffrey and the villain is nothing like Moore wrote it. It’s going to require a rewrite. Aaron is waiting.”

  “Do we really need the script guy in on this?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Gerrold uncurled from his perch. “I’ll be in my trailer if anyone needs me.”

  He slipped on his designer slicker and headed for the door. Without looking back, he said, “I assume someone will let me know when the cat is found.”

  “If it’s found,” the new man added, invoking another rush of tears from the distraught Rhonda.

  I moved to her side and put an arm around her. She melted into my shoulder in another flurry of murmured apologies.

  “That was Mr. Prince,” Grace growled when the two men were gone.

  “Jason Prince, he’s the associate producer and technical advisor,” Juno filled in. “Grace doesn’t like him.”

  “It’s not that I don’t care for him,” Grace countered. “I just don’t think much of the wee man, always complaining that were not doing this or that the way Ms. Moore would have fancied it. What does he know of Ms. Moore’s desires?”

  “He and Angela T. Moore used to be some sort of colleagues,” said Mary. “Back in the day.”

  “Sure enough, Mary,” Grace acquiesced. “I suppose it’s not so much what he says but how he says it, as if he’s better than the rest of us. Him, who’s not even got one production under his belt!”

  “Might be time to get out there again,” Ray Anderson intervened. “Come on, folks. Let’s take another run at finding that poor cat.”

  Ray rose, making for the door, and everyone else began rousing themselves to follow.

  “Good plan,” I said. “Rhonda and I will be with you in a minute.” The big actor was turning out to be my hero of the hour, and I made a mental note to look him up on IMDb later on and check out his body of work.

  “Any instructions?” he asked. “I know I play a cat-guy on TV, but I’m more of a dog person in real life.”

  “Be low-key—‌Cary Grant is probably scared to death. Frightened cats hide, so check anywhere that might hold an animal that size. He will look for quiet, dark, and dry. Call him by name, but also try kitty-kitty. It’s amazingly universal. If you find him, don’t approach. Just let Rhonda know to come get him. Everyone have cell phones?”

  “Yup, we got that coordinated when we were out the last time,” said Ray.

  “How about flashlights? Cat’s eyes are very reflective so you can cast the beam around the shadows and pick up details you might not notice otherwise.”

  “Oh, good idea. Here,” said Rhonda with a few final sniffs. “I have a whole box of them.”

  She crossed to a set of built-in drawers, shuffled Victoria to one side, and retrieved an old cigar box. Flipping the lid, she revealed a dozen or so mini-flashlights resting in its cedar depths. She picked out a red one and clicked the switch, producing nothing.

  “It’s out,” she grumbled and tried another. That one lit, but only barely.

  “Anyone
have batteries?” Ray asked. “Double-A, by the looks of it.”

  “There are some in the supply cart,” Victoria said, already heading for the door. “I’ll get them.”

  As she left, she bumped into Roger coming up the steps. “Batteries, sweetie,” she said by way of apology for nearly running him down. His gaze followed her as she receded into the gloom, then he shut the door and turned to us.

  “How goes the hunt?”

  No one spoke.

  “That good?” He tried to smile, and failed.

  There was a soft metallic knock. Rhonda looked at me, then moved the two strides across the small space to answer. As she pulled the door open, I heard her gasp.

  Rhonda wasn’t the only one: both Ray and Roger, who were near enough to see, gaped in amazement. Mary and Juno began to hug each other. Grace broke into a grin, her face wrinkling into a labyrinth of fine lines.

  I stepped forward to catch what they were looking at.

  Framed in the doorway against a near-dark sky stood Victoria, her rain-streaked face radiant. In her arms hunkered a huge bedraggled Cary Grant.

  Chapter 4

  The Maine Coon is one of the largest and oldest cat breeds in North America. Known as “gentle giants” because of their sweet personalities, they possess above-average intelligence which makes them relatively easy to train.

  Rhonda was a romantic, her tastes unshakably hooked into the nostalgic past, so when she adopted her two movie star cats, she thought it only fitting that she give them big movie star names. Cary Grant, classic Hollywood’s “definitive leading man,” and Clark Gable, the “King of Hollywood” from the previous era, suited perfectly.

  Cary and Clark were not breed cats but long-haired red tabby rescues with some definite Maine Coon heritage in their blood, indicated by their size, coat, and luxuriously tufted ears. Though unrelated, the two were nearly identical. Rhonda found them at Friends of Felines, and I’m proud to say I helped with their adoptions.

  When she first told me she had decided to get a pair of show cats, I naturally thought she meant ones with a pedigree. FOF, like most shelters, receives a smattering of purebreds but I have to admit I am a bit biased against people who prefer a selectively bred cat to a mutt; though purebreds can be lovely and I even have one of my own—‌little Mab, the lilac point Siamese—‌there is an abundance of cats already in the world and many are euthanized for lack of a home. Then Rhonda asked to meet with a black female and a gray tuxedo with a crook in his tail, and I realized I had misunderstood.