Fat Cat Spreads Out Read online

  Chase was dismayed to find that her ring was missing. “It must have slipped off. I’ve been planning to get it resized forever.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for it,” Julie said, already bending down to check beneath the table covering.

  The brochure on the fair contests was thick, and Chase leafed through it. Daisy was apparently in charge of all of them. A hamster run was about to begin, from what the schedule said. The pet competitions were held in the large permanent building, beyond the midway with its many booths.

  Chase walked through the open double doors into a large entryway that led to a wide central aisle. A big room on the right held homemade quilts and jars of pickles, fruits, and vegetables. A table near the door held dozens of baked goods. Chase nearly detoured into the space, drawn by the aroma of apple and pecan pies, but held her course for the next one, the animal contest room.

  A long table, surrounded by cheering people, dominated the right side of the room. Chase wormed her way close enough to see a plastic track with five lanes that ran the length of the table, about fifteen feet long. Each lane held a transparent plastic ball, and each ball held a hamster. Most of the balls were whizzing down the track, but one held a sleeping white hamster, curled up in the bottom. A red-faced man screamed at the stationary ball. “Snowball! Wake up! We’re losing!”

  A woman with a stopwatch presided over the finish line made of yellow tape. She was rather short, with frizzy bleached hair and a large, bulbous nose. Her head swiveled from hamster to hamster, ignoring poor Snowball, and her huge silver hoop earrings swung back and forth. After a moment, Chase recognized her as the person who had been at the Bar None booth early in the morning, chatting with Anna.

  Another hamster, a black-and-white one, decided to quit, and its owner started screeching at her pet.

  The frizzy-haired woman clicked her watch and held up her arms as the winner crossed the line. “We have a new champion. Wiggle Piggle wins!”

  After the owners had retrieved their furry contestants, the winner toting along a large bag of hamster pellets, Chase approached the timekeeper.

  “Are you Daisy?”

  She nodded, sending her hoop earrings swinging and her hair dancing on her head.

  “So you’re Jay Wright’s aunt?”

  “And you must be Chase Oliver, Julie’s friend. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  After the greeting, Chase asked her for more information about the Fancy Cat Contest. “The brochure doesn’t say much beyond the time and place.”

  “It’s a fancy-dress contest,” she said with a grin.

  “People dress cats?”

  “It’s not easy. Sometimes the winner is the one who keeps the costume on. We’re so fortunate this year. The Picky Puss Cat Food Company is sponsoring the contest. You’ll have to take a good look at the cat collar they’re using for the winner.”

  Chase wasn’t sure she wanted to enter Quincy in that competition. It sounded like it might be torture.

  “You’ve seen bags of Picky Puss cat food, haven’t you?”

  Chase had seen them in the pet food store and even the grocery store and had often noticed the lovely felines pictured on them.

  “The winner here will be photographed with the collar and will be featured on their bags, all over the nation. They’re even offering a television commercial appearance. We’re so lucky,” she gushed. “The owner of the company grew up in this county and decided to do this for the fair.”

  That would be fun, Chase admitted to herself. If Quincy would cooperate with the photographers. “Can I ask you another question? My business partner and I have a booth out on the midway and I’m bringing my cat with me every day, in his crate. Is there a place I could let him out a bit? Keep him from being so cramped all day?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. No, I don’t know any place you could turn a cat loose. We’ll have a high wire pen for our contest next Sunday, but people just usually bring their pets that day. You might want to check with the veterinarian, though.”

  Chase thanked the woman and left the room as a Frisbee-catching contest for dogs was being set up. She stepped aside to let a woman lead a handsome Weimaraner into the room. A sign at the far end of the hall caught her eye: “Veterinarian.” It had an arrow pointing left. That’s where Mike was!

  She nipped around the corner and into the room. No one was in the small anteroom, but she could hear Mike’s deep voice behind the closed door before her. She sat in a plastic chair and waited for him to finish with his current patient. There was a neat stack of printed cards on the corner of the desk. She tilted her head to read what was on the top one. It was the recipe for Kitty Patties. How nice! Mike had asked for the recipe when she first concocted the treats. He had said he might hand those out, but she thought he meant only in his own clinic, not here at the fair. Mike had told her he had plenty of cat patients that were overweight and could use her recipe.

  The red-faced man who had yelled at Snowball came out in a few minutes, carrying Snowball himself—or herself—in a small cage. Snowball lay curled up at the bottom, much as he—or she—had done during the race. The familiar disinfectant smell of a vet’s office wafted from the room.

  “Chase, what are you doing here?” Mike asked after the man left. “Is Quincy all right?”

  “Yes, he’s fine. How’s Snowball?”

  “You know Snowball?”

  “I just watched him lose the hamster race.”

  “Her. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s pregnant and doesn’t feel like racing today.”

  “I thought I’d stop in and say hi. I came over to ask Daisy about the Fancy Cat Contest, and if she knew where I could let Quince get some exercise.”

  “He’s in his crate, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, his new plastic one. If he hasn’t figured out how to get out of it yet.”

  “Come on back here.” He motioned her into the next room. Besides an examining table, a small metal desk, and two shelves full of equipment, eight large cages were stacked against the wall to the left. Several even larger ones sat against the back wall. They were all empty. “Do you want to keep him here for part of the day? It would give him more room.”

  “What are the cages for?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mike smiled, crinkling his brown eyes. “They came with the space. Maybe if an animal gets hurt, I could put it here until it’s transported somewhere.”

  “This might be good. He could move around a lot more.”

  “If I should get a noisy dog, it might not work, but I don’t anticipate that. I can give him a big cage and some cat toys.”

  Chase left to get her cat. As she opened the door from the reception room to the hallway, she nearly collided with a woman coming in. Chase apologized for nearly knocking her over—the woman was quite short—then blinked, trying to remember where she had recently met her. The other woman responded first.

  “Nice to see you again. Chase Oliver, right?” She alleviated Chase’s embarrassment at not remembering her right away. “I’m Mike’s aunt Betsy.” She set her purse on the desk and moved behind it.

  Oh yes, she had been talking with Mike and Patrice. “So you’re working in Dr. Ramos’s office?”

  Aunt Betsy smiled. “Dr. Ramos? I call him Mike, since I used to change his diapers, but yes, he asked me to help out this week.”

  Mike came out of the examining room. “Glad you’re here, Aunt Betsy. People are already starting to bring pets in.”

  “I’ll get to work, then.” She slipped her purse under the desk and seated herself, ready to assume her duties as the receptionist.

  The striped cat stepped cautiously from the familiar crate, the place where he’d been for hours and hours, into the strange new cage. He tested the floor with one paw, then stepped inside. He raised his head and sniffed. Detecting no objectionable odors,
he shifted his attention to the jingle bell, the ball, and the Kitty Patty that had been left inside the door just before it shut. As the latch was hooked, he paid close attention to how it worked.

  SIX

  After Chase left Quincy with Dr. Ramos, she strolled back to her booth, wanting to look at some of the other vendors’ wares. People were coming in and out of the butter sculpture structure, which was next to the main building, keeping the door closed as they entered and left.

  The crime scene people must have worked all night. She’d noticed them taking the yellow tape from the door first thing in the morning. It was nice they had hurried with their work, cooperating with the fair people and making it easier for them to carry on. That also made it so she was free to see inside the place.

  She pushed the door open. It was on a strong spring, so she had to give it a good shove. They were serious about keeping it cold inside, and it worked. The day was fair for October, but Chase wasn’t dressed warmly enough for this deep freeze with her light sweater.

  A half-dozen sculptors were at work, with stations for several more. Spectators milled about, watching them practice their art. One artist was building a framework out of metal wire mesh, but the others were further along. If there was mesh in their sculptures, it was hidden beneath the thick layers of slathered butter.

  Each sculptor had a station consisting of a wooden table for the creation, about five feet square, and another smaller table that held tools. A name tag stuck onto the corner of the larger table identified each artist.

  Chase wondered why the floor was strewn with straw. Maybe to absorb dropped butter.

  In spite of the chilly temperature, the heavy odor of butter was detectable. Working in the soft substance was a silent task, but the sculptors threw down and picked up their wooden and metal implements in the heat of their creativity, creating a light clatter against the background of the murmuring observers.

  A watchful policeman stood inside the door, his eyes constantly scanning the room. Chase wondered if Larry Oake had been murdered by a militant, crazed vegan, protesting the existence of butter. Or by someone in this room.

  Some images were recognizable, some were not yet. One man was nearly finished with a gopher statue. The brochure had said the contest was open to carvings of things that symbolized Minnesota. The most familiar moniker was “Land of 10,000 Lakes” (although Chase knew there were more like 12,000 of them). That would be difficult to depict in sculpture, though. Minnesota was also called the Gopher State, so that statue was apt.

  Another sculptor, the lone woman in the group, was carving what looked to be a five-foot star. The state motto was actually “The Star of the North.” Another good idea.

  One tall, hulking man was assisted by a teenage girl. Chase couldn’t tell what his carving was yet. The girl smiled at Chase. “Isn’t this fun to watch?”

  “Fascinating,” Chase said. “I’ve never seen a butter sculpture being created before. I had no idea it was such an art form.” Every one of this group could properly be called an artist, as far as she was concerned. Even though the medium was temporary, they were taking great care and creating intricate and, in some cases, beautiful things.

  The man turned to Chase, setting down the wooden dowel he was using to make random holes in his butter. “Very much an art form,” he said. “And Mara is one of the best designers I’ve ever run across. Wait until this is finished. You’ll see.”

  “Oh, Daddy,” the young woman said, lowering her head. The man’s tag said he was Karl Minsky. Karl looked like he was built with larger bones than ordinary humans. He was huge. Next to him, his small, delicate daughter looked even more petite than she was.

  “It’s true,” her father insisted. “Mara has been accepted to North Star Art School. They came to her even before she applied.”

  “You know I’m not going there, Daddy.”

  “You will if I can win this competition.”

  “Is the prize that big?” asked Chase.

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars.” Mara’s father stressed each word. “It’s the difference between her going to art school or junior college. And yes, Mara, you’re going there.”

  “Good luck, then.” Chase started to move away. The man’s intensity bothered her. He was large and strong-looking, but she had to admit that he had a delicate touch with the butter.

  “We have a chance now,” the man said, picking up his dowel and making more holes. Maybe his sculpture was a land with ten thousand lakes, after all, Chase thought. It looked abstract and was one of the few she didn’t completely admire.

  As she walked away, she thought the man added, “With Oake out of the way.”

  An empty station on the other side of the room must have been Larry Oake’s, though his name tag was missing. A few wooden and metal tools lay scattered in front of his sculpture, which was still there. His work looked like the bottom third of a bull. A hole gaped in the flank of the animal, as if someone had decided to make a shallow cave there.

  The man next to him was obviously doing Babe the Blue Ox. Maybe Larry’s sculpture was going to be of the same creature. Babe was Paul Bunyan’s famous sidekick. Both Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox were favorite Minnesota folklore characters. Large statues of those two resided at a roadside attraction in Bemidji, near the headwaters of the Mississippi.

  Minnesota children grew up on the tall tales about Paul Bunyan, the huge, legendary lumberjack, and his pet ox. In one of the tales, Paul dug Lake Michigan as a drinking hole for Babe. Another said that it took five storks to deliver Paul when he was born. As for Babe, it took a crow a whole day to fly from one horn to the other. Babe had also straightened out some of the logging roads when Paul hitched him up to them.

  The ox carver, who had been smoothing a flank, set his sculpting tool, an instrument that resembled a small serrated spatula, on the table and wiped his hands. He turned away from his sculpture, obviously to take a break, so Chase thought it might not be intrusive to talk to him.

  “Excuse me. Is that Babe the Blue Ox?”

  The man smiled. “Sure is.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “Winn Cardiman, state champ of Iowa two years in a row.” He had a wrinkled, flat face, pale as milk. His ears stuck out of his wiry red hair the same way a chimp’s does. His smile took up nearly his whole freckled face.

  “Congratulations,” Chase said, taking his rather soft hand. She looked over at the empty table. “Is that where Mr. Oake was carving?”

  Cardiman’s face dropped. His scowl was more like a sad orangutan’s. “That’s it, yes.”

  “His place doesn’t have straw on the floor.”

  “I’m sure the police took it away. You know, to analyze it or something. Look for the killer’s DNA, maybe.”

  “It looks like he was working on something similar,” she said. “Was Mr. Oake carving Babe, too?”

  Now Winn Cardiman’s wizened face reddened and scrunched up. “He stole my idea.” He spoke through clenched teeth, anger sparking from his large brown eyes. “I started first and he copied me.”

  Cardiman looked angry enough to kill Oake. Chase wondered if he had.

  The orange cat prowled the large cage. He had eaten the treats and even played with the toys for a few minutes. The man in the white lab coat looked in on him occasionally and talked baby talk to him. But he was bored. He studied the latch. It was a simple one. It was, in fact, easy to open from the outside. The cat tried to reach the lever from inside but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “This is looking more and more like it was a good idea,” Anna said, beginning to pack up. “What I mean is that I’m glad we decided to come to the fair this week. When Julie mentioned it—”

  “Mentioned it?” Chase said, slipping on her jacket in the evening coolness. “She twisted our arms.”

  “You’re right. When she twisted our arms, I resisted. I’m glad I’m here
, but I am dressing more warmly tomorrow.” She gestured at the mostly empty table. “Look how many we sold.”

  “I didn’t think we’d do this well in one day,” agreed Chase. There were very few unsold dessert bars to pack up. “I hope we have enough in the freezer to last the week.”

  “I can always bake more in the evening.”

  “Night, you mean. The fair is open until after dark.” The fair closed at nine and the sun had already set at about seven.

  “Semantics.” Anna grinned. “Whatever. I can bake more. Why don’t you go collect Quincy while I finish here? It’ll only take a few more minutes.”

  A woman was leading a pet pig in a harness out of Dr. Ramos’s office when Chase got there. Maybe there’s some sort of pig contest, she surmised. There seemed to be animal competitions every day. Betsy was gone already.

  “Is her pig sick?” she asked Mike, after the door closed.

  “You know I’m not supposed to talk about my patients, but no, the pig is fine. You here to get Quincy?” He stood close and she could smell his clean shirt.

  “Time to take him home.” She tilted her head up at him, looking deep into those chocolate eyes. She wasn’t seeing nearly enough of him.

  “How are you and Anna doing?” Mike reached out and touched her arm.

  He was so sweet to check on them. “We’re selling up a storm. But how are you doing?”

  “With the police, you mean?” Chase nodded. “I had to answer the same questions again today for Detective Olson.” Chase hadn’t seen the homicide detective at the fair today, but there was no reason for him to drop in at her booth. “I think I’m still the number one suspect.” She saw his jaw working as he clenched his teeth.

  “That’s not fair. I’ve just talked to two people who at least have motives.” This time she put her hand on his arm. “You were only retrieving Quincy, weren’t you?”

  He hesitated for two or three seconds. “Yes, I was getting Quincy.”