I couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm as I finished off my pancakes and got ready to go. Charlotte had already gone into Portland, I assumed, since she was always up earlier than the rest of us and I hadn’t seen any sign of her yet.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any sign of Bee this morning, either. Whenever my cat didn’t immediately make her presence known, that was usually a good sign to worry. And after the battle cry that I’d overheard her saying to her kittens the other day, my eyes narrowed. What fresh plot had Bee come up with to do… whatever it was she was trying to do?
I got the answer–or at least part of it–when I got up and went to the bathroom before leaving.
“Bee,” I said in my warning voice when I saw the entire roll of toilet paper had been taken off the holder, spread out across the whole bathroom–and some of the hallway–and then shredded.
“Ah, have my little rascals been up to something naughty again?” I heard my cat say from inside the shower. I pulled the curtain open to find Bee sitting on the middle shelf of the rack I used to keep soap and shampoo. Her tail was flicking slowly from side to side, and I knew she was trying to put on an air of nonchalance.
“Yes, Bee, they have. And you obviously know about it, since you were sitting here waiting for me to find it.”
“Ah, well, I suppose when they’re so badly behaved like that, it will be difficult to find them a new home.”
So this was the plan. Bee was going to get the kittens to terrorize me into keeping all of them. I crossed my arms in front of me.
“This isn’t going to work, Bee. Everyone knows kittens are mischievous. I’ll be sending them all to homes that have experience with cats. And I’m doing it soon. You have a few more weeks with your kittens, I recommend you spend time bonding with them, rather than attempting to wage war with me.”
“Who’s to say those aren’t mutually exclusive?” Bee asked, and I replied by turning on the water in the shower. Of course, Bee managed to easily jump out of the way before even a drop of water hit her, but she still let out a squeal of annoyance. Even the threat of water was an unimaginable horror to Bee.
“This isn’t war, Bee,” I shouted after her. “Tell your kittens to stop tormenting me.”
“Too laaaaaaate,” Bee called out in a sing-song voice, and despite the fact that I rolled my eyes at how ridiculous my cat was being, I had to admit, I was a little bit apprehensive. Toilet paper all over the floor wasn’t too bad, but I had a feeling Bee had other tricks up her sleeve.
I found the next “trick” five minutes later when I went to put one of my shoes on and found that one of the kittens had left me a lovely gift inside of it. “Ugh, gross,” I said, pulling my sock back, which was now lightly covered in cat vomit. One of the kittens–I was pretty sure it was Bilbo–was hiding behind a shoebox on top of the closet, his little ears and eyes poking out over the top of the box. I glared at him and he let out a small meow before scampering off as fast as possible. I supposed he must have thought he was better hidden than that.
Of course, being a vet, while I was sure the kittens had the worst intentions at heart, this was very, very far from the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen. In fact, it probably wouldn’t even rank in the top 5 for the past week. I simply took off the sock, threw it (and the shoe) in the washing machine and went to get a new sock from the bedroom.
“You’re not going to win this fight, Bee,” I called throughout the house, not knowing exactly where my crazy cat was right now. She didn’t reply until I had opened the front door.
“Yes, I will!” came the cry, and I sighed as I closed the door behind me. Sophie was already in my car, the engine started, waiting for me. We were going to do some investigating!
Tony Fanchini’s office was a lot more impressive than I’d been expecting. To be honest, I had kind of expected him to be running a hundred businesses out of some cramped little office with unfiled stacks of paper everywhere. But no, Fanchini Enterprises Inc., which was the parent company of Peacock Hills Investments, the company suing Matt Smith, was actually run out of the 7th floor of a building with a great view over the Portland skyline.
To be totally honest, I was a little bit intimidated as Sophie and I made our way up to the smart looking receptionist, with straight black hair and perfect make-up, her manicured nails clacking across the keyboard at a speed that made my eyes water. She looked up at us with that professional expression that screamed ‘I’m only looking at you because I’m being paid to, you’re far less important than anything that happens here.’
“Yes?” she asked in an even tone.
“Hi, we’d like to speak with Tony Fanchini,” I told her, trying to sound equally professional myself.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Don’t tell me we were going to have driven all this way just to be held off by a gatekeeper.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you then.”
“It’s about Matt Smith,” I blurted out, and the receptionist’s eyebrows rose, the first real indication I had that she was a real person and not a robot.
“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?” she asked.
“No, nothing like that,” I said, pulling a business card from my wallet and handing it to her. “I had a bunch of business difficulties with Smith. He tried to buy the building and land that my clinic was on. I know one of Tony’s companies was suing Matt Smith, I wanted to chat with him. You never know, maybe something I know could help him, especially now that Smith is dead.”
The receptionist looked at my business card for a second, as though deciding what to do. I had my fingers crossed behind my back; I really hoped this wasn’t a wasted trip. Finally, she spoke. “Sit down in one of those chairs there. I’ll see if it’s possible to make room in Mr. Fanchini’s schedule today.”
I did a fist pump in my mind as Sophie and I headed toward the chairs. About ten minutes later the receptionist looked up at us. “Follow me please, I’ll take you to Mr. Fanchini.”
We were led into a gorgeous office with floor-to-ceiling windows behind a fancy mahogany desk. The man behind the desk was dressed in an expensive suit, though no amount of money could hide the fact that he was grossly overweight. Looking to be in his mid-fifties, with greying hair and a bald patch, Tony Fanchini rose when we entered the room and motioned for us to sit down in the two plush leather chairs in front of his desk.
“Ladies, it’s nice to meet you,” he said, shaking our hands. He was polite, but I couldn’t help but get a little bit of a creepy vibe off him. “I’m Tony Fanchini, owner here at Fanchini Enterprises. I hear we have–or should I say had–a mutual acquaintance.”
“Yes, Matt Smith,” I replied. “I’m Angela Wilson.”
“Sophie Hashimori,” Sophie added, as we both shook his hand and then sat down.
“So I suppose you’ve heard the news he’s been killed,” I said.
“Yes, my lawyer called me yesterday to let me know. He said it’s going to complicate our case tremendously. How were you involved with Smith?”
“My vet clinic was on a property which Smith attempted to purchase. When I resisted him, Smith attacked my property, although it could never be proven, and after I convinced my landlord to sell the property to me instead, he set the vet clinic on fire.” I figured honesty was the best policy to get Fanchini to talk. He let out a low whistle.
“Yes, that man certainly had ideas as to how to do business that had more to do with what he saw on television than reality. I’m going to assume you don’t know much about the property development business?”