“That means yes?”
Quincy twitched the very tip of his ginger tail.
“We have to come up with a costume. Honestly, I don’t know if you would tolerate being filmed for a commercial, but it would be excellent to get your picture on a cat food bag.” She stroked him and he lowered his head, arched his back, and purred his appreciation.
“I wish you could tell me exactly what you saw in that butter sculpture building.”
Quincy raised his head. Did he know the word butter?
“If only you could testify that Mike didn’t kill anyone. I’m sure you’d do that if you could, right?”
He leaned into Chase’s hand as she caressed the side of his head. She fingered his silky ear, the one with the notch missing from a fight.
Quincy closed his eyes and continued to purr.
EIGHT
There wasn’t much letup in attendance, even though it was Monday, a regular workday for most people. The schools were having their fall break to coincide with the weeklong fair, which helped immensely.
There was a lull in the action at midmorning, however, and Chase took advantage of it to stroll out of the booth. She stopped to chat with the travel agents. The short redhead was gone, but the tall blonde stepped forward and, with a brilliant smile, handed her their promotional pamphlet.
“I don’t think I’ve heard your name yet,” Chase said. “I’m Chase Oliver.”
“And I’m Sally Ritten.”
“You were talking about the missing diamond collar yesterday,” Chase said, leafing through it and admiring the pictures of exotic islands and European cathedrals. “Where is it supposed to be? In an exhibit?”
“It was the central exhibit.”
Chase said. “Is that in the main building?”
“Oh yes!” the woman gushed. “You must go see the exhibit. Absolutely charming. Even without the diamonds. There’s plenty more there to see.”
Chase noticed that the woman wore rings on almost every finger and a wide choker studded with what must have been faux diamonds. If they were real, the necklace would be priceless.
“You like jewelry?” Chase asked.
“Of course.” She smiled and waggled her gem-studded fingers. “But these are just . . . you know. The exhibit, though . . . You have to go see it.”
She decided she would. There was no better time than right now. Chase nipped back to the Bar None and told Anna she was going to be gone for fifteen minutes.
“Take your time. If we get swamped, the customers will have to wait in line. It’ll make us look good to have a line out the door.”
That had already happened a few times over the weekend, even with two, sometimes four, of them there and working as fast as they could.
Chase made her way to the big exhibition hall. An easel inside the door listed the exhibits and their room numbers. She hadn’t noticed it before but now saw that the Picky Puss exhibit was in room 3A, down the hallway to her left.
The room was smaller than the animal contest arena across the hall but roomy enough for the three dozen or so people inside to comfortably browse and meander.
Several tables held glass cases full of feline-themed items. The first was filled with cat toys, according to the sign, including some replicas of famous old ones. These were not toys for cats, though, they were toy cats. There were modern cat dolls and stuffed toys. Also darling old metal windup cats, a vintage rubber cat, some cloth ones, some with fur. One metal toy was a striped cat, like Quincy, that held a ball between its two front paws. The original ears, which had been made of leather, were missing, but the sign next to it said that it still worked. If you pushed its blue metal tail down, it would scoot across the floor.
She passed by the next case, which held cat sculptures. Some of them were ceramic and some metal. A few pieces even purported to be Egyptian, but they didn’t look old enough to be ancient treasures to her untutored eye.
The next exhibit she came to was the one she had been seeking, the cat food company’s main table. It held cat food bags and boxes featuring large photos of various pretty kitties. Some of them were from years ago, since the local company had been around for at least twenty years. The bags surrounded an empty blue velvet cushion. The card next to the cushion read, “DIAMOND CAT COLLAR,” in large letters. A woman came up from behind, stood next to her, and huffed loudly.
“It’s a shame it’s missing, isn’t it?” Chase said to her.
The woman was overdressed for the occasion, in a dark blue power suit, white blouse with a large billowy bow, and low heels.
“I am Cassandra Sharp, representing Picky Puss. It is not a shame. It is a travesty.” She spit out her words as she waved a wrist bearing a flashy watch. Chase wondered if the diamonds on it were real.
“How terrible for you, Ms. Sharp,” Chase said, trying to be nice to the rather rude and abrupt woman. “I hope it can be recovered.”
“It does not seem to be a priority for the police, now that that man was murdered.”
“I’m sure you can understand that. Murder is more important than—”
“This is my job on the line. The company will hold me responsible. Our insurers will have my head. I never dreamed I would need ironclad security at this Podunk fair. When our insurance company hears about this . . .” She clamped her thin lips shut.
“Don’t you think the two events are tied together? Maybe solving the murder might find you the collar?”
“Do not make me laugh.” The aptly named Ms. Sharp sneered at Chase, then stalked off and out the door of the exhibition room.
But they were related, the murder and the theft—they had to be. The wheels in her head started spinning. She ticked off the facts that she knew, or had overheard and assumed were true.
The Picky Puss company, in the person of the rude sourpuss in the blue suit, had put the valuable item on display in a glass case without a visible lock. Chase assumed she could lift the lid to get at the contents. Not a wise move, even in a “Podunk” fair. People were people everywhere.
Patrice was sticky-fingered. She had probably filched the collar from the exhibit. An even sillier move.
Where was the cat collar now?
“I still cannot believe it,” said a man behind her. “Do you see this?” He had a heavy accent—Russian?—and his words dripped with sorrow.
“Papa, keep your voice down,” said a whispering man.
The man continued in a softer tone of voice, but with the same intensity. “For you, Peter. I want only best for you. Some day you understand that.” His last words came through his sobs.
“Papa, let’s go. There’s no reason they shouldn’t do publicity.”
“Peter, the money should go to you.”
“No, it should not, Papa. It never should have. Stop saying things like that.”
Not wanting to be rude and stare, Chase cocked her head, as if studying all the pieces in the case, one by one, until they moved on. Then she turned her head the slightest bit to catch the speakers in her peripheral vision.
They were the same height and looked almost like brothers, but must be father and son. From the back, the two were unremarkable, both wearing jeans and nylon jackets, both with short brunet haircuts. The younger one was pulling the other by his upper arm. She didn’t know if she would even recognize them again if she saw them. She knew for sure that one of them was quite emotional.
Was the man with the accent affected by the display? Was he even referring to it? They were standing facing it, but she had no idea what they’d been talking about. They may have just stopped there to have their discussion.
“Ahead we plow, into the darkening night,” she sang under her breath. She continued singing “Autumn” from Titanic as she exited the building.
Chase returned to their booth to find Anna deep in serious conversation with a woman who had a stylish short hairdo. Chase recognized her as the weeping woman who had been denied a ride in the ambulance with the dead man. What on earth was she doing back at the fair? Chase thought that if her own husband, which she didn’t have now, but might someday, had been murdered here, she would stay far away. Maybe never visit another fair again.