He accelerated and shoved her with his left arm. The man was strong, but Chase clung to the door and started screaming. The cotton candy vendor, loading a pickup truck with boxes, raised his head.
“Help! He’s a kidnapper!” she screamed. Maybe that wasn’t the best tactic, since she was obviously not being kidnapped. “Help!” she continued to yell, hanging on tight. Hardin let go of the handle and pounded on her knuckles with his fist. She gulped down a scream, but still didn’t let go.
The cotton candy vendor ran toward them, followed by two others in the lot.
The van sped up, heading toward the exit of the parking lot. Chase kept screaming. Hardin kept pushing her, trying to get her off his vehicle. Her knuckles slipped on the handle. If she gripped the edge of the door, she was afraid he would slam it on her hands.
They reached the gate. The brakes squealed. Chase grinned in relief, trying not to fall off as the van screeched toward the heavy metal gate that barred the way.
It was a solid metal affair, and if the van hit it, Hardin probably wouldn’t be able to drive away. The vendors were inspected as they left the fair every day and today, the last day, was no exception. The gawky kid in the blue uniform came out of the small white guardhouse waving his arms.
“Slow down, sir. You were going too fast.”
Chase jumped off as the van rolled to a stop. “There’s a man in the back.” She was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “He’s a kidnapper.”
“The man in the back is a kidnapper?” the kid asked.
She pointed at Hardin. “He’s a kidnapper. You have to get Dr. Ramos out of there.”
“Hands on your head, don’t move.” Detective Olson was behind her, pointing a gun at Hardin.
Chase collapsed, hard, onto her knees. Olson didn’t catch her this time.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Chase finally staggered into the arena. The Fancy Cat Contest was well under way. Anna flapped her hand, urging Chase to hurry to their stand.
When Chase got there, she looked her over. “You look . . . well, you’ve looked better.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
She and Mike had been questioned and checked over by medics in the parking lot. They had bandaged her knees where she had hit the pavement and her hand where Hardin had banged it with his fist.
Mike had sat on the ground beside her. He was rumpled and his knuckles were raw from pounding on the inside of the van, but he didn’t look too awful from his ordeal when he emerged from the back. He related some details to her. Hardin had gone to the clinic after packing up and told Mike he had something he needed to see and that it was in his van. Mike had thought he was going to show him the collar. But, when Mike stuck his head in the back door, Hardin had shoved Mike all the way in and slammed the door.
As they watched, Hardin was stuffed into the back of a squad car in handcuffs, yelling that he hadn’t done anything and didn’t know anything. Detective Olson climbed into the front seat to question him. Chase thought Hardin wouldn’t tell Olson anything about who he had seen run out of the butter sculpture building.
One thing puzzled Chase. The patrolman who had read Hardin his rights had said he was under arrest for murder. He had killed Larry Oake? That didn’t make a bit of sense. Then it dawned on her. He must have strangled poor Sally Ritten. But why?
When Chase ducked her head inside the squad car window and said she was showing Quincy any minute now in the Fancy Cat Contest, Detective Olson, showing his softer side, told Chase to go ahead and he’d get her official statement later. She had waved to Mike and limped off.
“Most of the cats are finished,” Anna said, keeping her voice low. “It’s almost our turn. Where have you been?” She sniffed. “I can’t decide if you hair smells more like a locker room or a bar.”
“I’ll fill you in, I promise,” Chase said. “I feel much better than I look . . . and smell. Although I’m still completely confused. At least I found Mike and he’s all right. He should be here any minute.” Quincy crouched on the stand where Anna had been steadying him with one hand while he watched everything that was going on, his whiskers twitching and his ears swiveling.
Since he was in full costume, Chase snapped his picture, then scooped him up. She laughed when he got a good whiff of her and drew his head back, his eyes narrowed and his ears flattened against his furry skull. He worked his nostrils in and out. It felt good to laugh.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mike walk into the arena. He took a seat in the front row of the bleachers and gave Chase a wink. Her heart fluttered a bit.
The owner of the Maine Coon, outfitted improbably as a ballerina, complete with sequined lavender tutu and four satin ballet slippers, was returning the cat to his oversize cage.
Inger caught Chase’s eye and waved from the bleachers. Chase held a hand out to her and pointed to their stand, asking if she wanted to join them. After all, she had designed the costume. But Inger shook her head. She pointed to Peter Aronoff and surprised Chase by making her way out of the bleachers to stand next to him and his father.
Patrice had shed her gauzy Madame Divine garments and wore blue jeans and a pink fluffy sweater. It very much matched the tutu Princess Puffball wore. The chubby cat also bore a cardboard tiara, covered with silver glitter, on her pretty head. From the nonchalant look in the cat’s blue eyes, it was obvious she already considered herself the winner, if not the queen.
Daisy spoke into the microphone at her stand. “And now, Quincy, owned by Charity Oliver.”
Quincy was fully dressed, thanks to Anna, little blue jacket snug on his round body, ox horns tied firmly, if lopsidedly, on his head.
“Do you want to take him?” Chase asked Anna, since she looked so ragged.
“No, he’s your cat. You do it.” Anna nudged the small of her back. “You don’t look that bad.”
Chase carried Quincy to the center of the semicircle formed by the contestants and put him on the judge’s carpeted stand.
There were three judges. Chase figured there had to be an odd number to avoid tied votes. A stern woman and two men, one old with a crew cut, and one younger bald and jolly man, stared at Quincy, assessing. The stern woman tilted her head to the left, then to the right. The older skinny man bent over and squinted at the horns. The jovial one leaned back and smiled, clasping his hands over his substantial belly. He was the only one to give Chase’s injuries a look.
Chase held her breath and kept her expression neutral, trying not to read anything into their faces or actions. The jolly man certainly looked pleased, but she couldn’t tell about the other two. The jolly man would be the one she would want to play poker against.
After a few moments, the stern woman, still frowning, nodded at Chase. She took that to mean she should return to their station, so she picked Quincy up and cuddled him, scratching behind his ears, as she walked back to their stand. His horns fell off and she stooped to scoop them up and stick them back on his head.
Peter and Ivan’s handsome black cat wore a slick black cape and a black hood with extra large pointy ears. He made an adorable Batkitty. Or maybe, since he was owned by a man, he really should be called Batcat.
Other cats were outfitted as ballet dancers in tutus (two of them, one being the Maine Coon), firecats (three), and one had on a mermaid outfit, complete with wrapped back legs. That cat, a sassy Siamese, yowled over and over and looked miserable. The other Siamese seemed to be Neptune, in similar blue-green colors with a trident fastened to its back. The cat was trying hard to bite it off.
There were five orange tabbies dressed as Puss in Boots. That made her smile. She was right not to have picked that for Quincy’s costume.