Words With Fiends Page 6

  Before scanning her own letters for a suitable word, Darla checked out her opponent’s latest offering. Twenty-four points . . . decent enough score, courtesy of a “double word” square. As for the word played, she decided with a rueful smile that it was oddly appropriate for the situation at hand. For, glowing up at her from the backlit screen was the word sucker.

  FOUR

  DARLA FROWNED AS SHE REVIEWED HER NOTES FOR hamlet’s appointment with the cat whisperer. Nine thirty, she confirmed, checking her watch to see that it was already a quarter to ten. She’d actually been down in the store since nine, keeping a close eye on Hamlet in case he decided to try his occasional disappearing act. But, as he’d done the past few weeks, the feline had barely budged from the spot where he was lounging, in this case on one of the more inaccessible shelves in the food and cooking section. He was lying on his belly and stretched to full length, paws dangling like small black pompoms from the shelf’s edge.

  Darla had all but given up on the cat whisperer guy when, just a few minutes before ten, she heard a sharp rapping on the front door glass.

  “Finally! Don’t go anywhere, Hammy,” she warned the cat as she hurried to unlock the door. “This visitor is for you, not me.”

  And we want to get our money’s worth, she mentally added, recalling again just how much this little bit of cat psychoanalysis was going to set her back. With what this guy charged, she could keep Hamlet in kibble for a year. But if his techniques worked, she wouldn’t begrudge him a penny.

  Eagerly, she unlocked the door to find a gently smiling young man standing before her on the stoop, fists crammed into his jacket pockets. Her first disappointed thought was that the cat guy had stood her up, since this person didn’t look like someone who charged beaucoup bucks for a consultation. Obviously, her visitor was some homeless man who had wandered to her door wanting to get out of the cold, or else was looking for a handout.

  Darla gave him a sympathetic look-over. The fellow wore a patched denim coat, the sleeves of which rode a good three inches short on his skinny arms and was far too thin for the weather. Though scrupulously clean, his battered jeans suggested not so much fashionable distressing as real-life wear and tear. She was about to send him on his way with a couple of dollars and directions to the nearest shelter, when she noticed the red ball cap with the blue embroidered words, Have You Hugged Your Cat Today?, that he wore over his stringy blond hair.

  So much for first impressions!

  “Hi, I’m Darla Pettistone,” she finally managed, smiling and sticking out her hand. “You must be Brody Raywinkle, the cat whisperer.”

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer the term feline behavioral empath.” Easing one fist from his pocket, he bypassed the handshake to gingerly pass her a creased business card with that same title beneath his name. “That whole cat whisperer thing sounds a little woo-woo, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sorry,” she replied . . . though, to her mind, feline behavioral empath flirted with woo-woo territory, too. Tucking the card away, she added, “Please, come inside.”

  She gestured Brody in and locked the door behind him again, covertly studying him as she did so. He seemed to be something of a germaphobe, given the way he’d avoided her handshake. And obviously, his exorbitant consulting fees went to something other than his wardrobe.

  Hopefully a good sign? she thought. On the bright side, unlike that cat guy on the animal cable channel, he didn’t cart around a blinged-out guitar case filled with cat toys—something told her that Hamlet would not have approved. Though, when it came down to it, she suspected he wasn’t going to think much of Brody, either.

  “So, where’s our client?” he asked with a glance about the store.

  Darla pointed to where Hamlet still reclined on an upper shelf. “There. You probably should know that—”

  “Wait!”

  He raised one shoulder in lieu of raising a hand, stopping her short. “I don’t want to crowd my mind with any preconceived notions. All I need to know is his name, how old he is, how long he has been here, and how long ago his problems started.”

  Gamely, Darla filled in those blanks, earning a nod when she was finished. “Perfect,” he replied. “Now, if you can bring me a chair—preferably wood, no cushions, please—I’ll find out why Hamlet is not functioning at his highest level.”

  Darla hurried to find an appropriate seat. By the time she had wrestled a vintage ladder-back chair from its spot in the social sciences section, Brody had made his way over to the shelf where Hamlet lay. Now, the pair eyed each other, Hamlet’s green eyes suspicious emerald slits, and Brody’s wide brown eyes reflecting calm watchfulness. Darla quizzically studied them both as she set the chair next to the man.

  “I’ll be opening the store in another minute,” she reminded him. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take Hamlet upstairs to the lounge where you won’t be disturbed?”

  “We’re fine here. Give us half an hour or so.”

  He took the chair Darla had brought for him and arranged it a couple of feet from the shelf, sitting with his elbows propped on his knees, and his chin propped on his fists. At this intrusion into his personal space, Hamlet opened his eyes wider and pulled his paws under him, as if preparing to haul tail. Then, apparently deciding flight was too much effort, he relaxed and settled in a similar position to Brody, chin on paws and cool green eyes unblinking.

  The first influx of Saturday morning customers did not disturb them. In fact, the two were still staring down each other thirty minutes later when Jake came strolling in, her black leather duster billowing from a gust of cold air before she shut the door behind her. A faint whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied her as well, and Darla wrinkled her nose. Apparently, Jake’s attempts to ditch the smoking habit still hadn’t fully taken, though she was proud of her friend for having cut down to just a couple of cigarettes a day.

  “Hey, kid, my printer just croaked,” the PI said by way of greeting. “Mind if I borrow yours? I’ve got a photo here I really need to get printed,” she explained, waving a shiny silver flash drive which Darla assumed held said files.

  “No problem,” she agreed. “Any special kind of paper?”

  “No, I . . .”

  Jake trailed off, having caught sight of the man-feline stare-down the next aisle over. Joining Darla at the counter, she lowered her voice and asked, “What the heck is going on between that guy and Hamlet?”

  “Remember I told you the other day that he seems to have some kind of PTSD thing going on? Well, Brody’s here to figure out how to help him. He’s Hamlet’s feline behavioral empath,” Darla softly told her, proud that she’d managed the unwieldy title without stumbling over her words.

  Jake opened her eyes wide. “Feline behavioral who? No, never mind. So, is he doing a Vulcan mind meld or something?”

  “I guess,” was Darla’s doubtful reply as she glanced at her watch. “Whatever it is, I don’t think either one of them has blinked for a half hour. I just hope I’m not paying overtime here. Now, what about your document?”.

  Jake handed over the thumb drive. “It’s the one tagged Putin101. Give me five . . . no, ten copies, and that should be enough.”

  Nodding, Darla booted up her computer and turned on the printer; then, casually, she said, “I guess this has something to do with your case for our gangster friend?”

  “If you mean Alex, then yes.” The older woman hesitated, and then added, “I guess it doesn’t hurt to tell you, since I’m going to be showing her photo around town. His mother has gone missing, and I’m trying to track her down.”

  “Oh, no, how awful.”

  Regretting her previous flip attitude, Darla tried not to feel guilty now as she pictured some tiny old lady in a babushka wandering the streets of Brooklyn. Gangster or not, surely the man was frantic with worry.

  “Shouldn’t he call the police, too?” Darla asked
as she plugged the tiny drive in a free USB slot. “I mean, it’s a good thing he has you on the case, but if poor old Mrs. Putin is suffering from Alzheimer’s or something, then maybe the authorities should be notified.”

  “Believe me, this isn’t a case for the cops.”

  Something in Jake’s dry tone made Darla glance up from the computer. The PI was shaking her head, while a smile played about her generous mouth. “Go ahead, look at her picture, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Puzzled, Darla quickly opened the file. An image popped up on screen, and she blinked. After a moment of stunned silence, she said, “Wow. Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Jake replied “Yeah, kid, that’s poor old Mrs. Putin . . . aka the Russian Bombshell, as I like to call her.”

  Russian Bombshell.

  That pretty well nailed it, Darla thought as she stared at the exotic beauty whose image filled her screen. The woman looked Jake’s age, maybe a couple of years older. Her hair had been cropped into a fashionably short do and hennaed to the blazing shade of red favored by Eastern European women of a certain age. Her gray eyes had an exotic Slavic tilt to them that was exaggerated by the heavy black liner she wore. Her full lips had no need of any artificial plumper and appeared even larger with the application of red lipstick a shade darker than her spiky tresses. Staring at the screen, Darla was seized by a momentary urge to rush to the salon down the street and demand that her own auburn hair be chopped off into something that chic.

  “But I was expecting . . . I mean, she’s so—”

  “Young? Hot?” Jake supplied, the smile broadening into a grin.

  While Darla began printing the photos, her friend continued, “I have to admit, I was pretty shocked myself when Alex showed me the picture. Seems she married his father back in Russia when she was sixteen, so that only puts her in her mid-fifties now. Old Mr. Putin—and he really was old, almost thirty years older than his wife—died last year. Apparently Mrs. Putin is making up for lost time and lost youth. Alex thinks she’s run off with a younger man.”

  “Well, good for her,” Darla replied with an approving nod, handing over the finished prints and unplugging the thumb drive. “Can you imagine being sixteen and married to someone middle-aged like that?”

  Jake snorted. “Even worse, can you imagine being forty and stuck with some guy who probably is too old to—”

  She broke off as Darla gave a frantic wave and gestured in the direction of Brody, who was well within earshot.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” she finished with a wink. “Anyway, Mama Putin took off one day last week while Alex was at work. Packed up all her clothes, all the tchotchkes. All she left behind was a note that pretty well translated to See you later, Sonny.”

  “But what’s wrong with that?” Darla wanted to know. “She’s over twenty-one. If she wants to run away with some totally inappropriate guy, he can’t stop her.”

  “I know, but Alex insists that this particular inappropriate guy”—she gave the phrase finger quotes—“is only interested in her money. She doesn’t speak much English, and he’s worried the guy might coerce her into getting married and signing over all her assets. But don’t worry, Alex understands that all I’m going to do is find her and let her know that he’s worried and wants to be sure she’s okay.”

  Privately, Darla suspected that the man’s true motivation was finding his mother’s supposed boyfriend and kneecapping him, but all she said was, “Sounds like a straightforward enough case. Feel free to stop back by if you need to print up any more pictures.”

  “I will. Say, why don’t we grab a bite tonight over at the Thai place after you get off work? I’m dying to know what Mr. Cat Whisperer has to say about Hamlet.”

  “Uh, feline behavioral empath, if you don’t mind,” a gentle voice behind them corrected.

  They both turned to see that Brody had left his chair and had wandered up to the register. A glance at the bookshelf showed that Hamlet had vacated his post and was nowhere in sight. Darla wondered if he had finally tired of the stare-down and stalked off, or if the two had parted by mutual agreement.

  “Oops, sorry,” Jake said, not sounding terribly sorry at all. Turning to Darla, she added, “Okay, gotta fly. I’ve got pictures of Russian bombshells to show around town.”

  The PI departed in a swirl of leather, leaving Darla alone with Brody. Her earlier anxiety returning, she asked, “So, what’s the diagnosis? Did you figure out why Hamlet’s so depressed?”

  “He suffered a terrible trauma a few months ago,” the man began, his expression dismayed. “Not only was he hurt physically, but he was damaged spiritually. He faced the biggest challenge of his many lives, and he fell short. Now, his body has since healed, but his psyche has not. And I believe there was something more recent that distressed him, too.”

  Darla nodded, first recapping the original incident that had traumatized them both, and then relating the closet scare.

  “I think being locked in like that brought back all the bad memories, kind of like a flashback,” she told Brody. “He’s definitely been moping ever since.”

  “And with good cause. Hamlet feels like a failure and unworthy to remain here as mascot.”

  “What? He told you all that?” Darla asked in wary disbelief, trying to recall just how much detail she had given the man’s assistant when she’d made the appointment. As best she could remember, all she had mentioned was the vet’s recommendation. But maybe Dr. Birmingham had given him Hamlet’s medical history . . . no breach of confidentiality there, since HIPAA didn’t apply to pets.

  If Dr. B hadn’t said anything, however, then that whole man-cat mind-meld thing must actually have worked!

  Brody, meanwhile, was nodding. “He’s most upset over the fact he failed you, since you are his human family. He’s been trying to atone for it ever since.”

  “But I don’t understand. Hamlet was a hero. He risked his life for me!”

  “From your point of view, perhaps. But from his, things are far murkier. Cats have their own code of honor, you know.”

  Darla hesitated. The situation was rapidly leaving woo-woo land and careening straight into Crazyville. But if Brody knew a way to snap Hamlet out of his funk, then off to Crazyville she’d go with him. “So, how do I help Hamlet, uh, atone?”

  “I’m not sure, and he wasn’t able—or willing—to tell me. That’s something you and Hamlet will have to figure out for yourselves. And if that doesn’t work . . . well, I’ve found that the Universe has a way of shaking things up for you when you need shaking up.”

  Then, when Darla stared at him, he added, “I always include a free follow-up visit on any consultation, so I’ll pop back in sometime in the next week or so to see if there’s any progress. And you have my card, so feel free to call me if you need to chat before then.”

  With another guileless smile, he made his way to the door, his hand carefully wrapped in his coat as he turned the knob and wandered out into the crisp morning air.

  “Well, that was special,” Darla announced to the empty store, unable to contain her disappointment. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected to happen from this visit, but what she did know was that she could have left Hamlet to his own devices without benefit of Brody’s consultation and accompanying exorbitant fee!

  On the other hand, maybe Mr. Feline Behavioral Empath had communicated something of value that would put Hamlet’s cat brain in motion and jog him from his apathy.

  She repeated the same sentiment to James and Robert a couple of hours later when they arrived for their shifts.

  “My main worry,” she finished, while both Robert and James listened intently, “is that he’s not eating like he should, and he’s not getting any exercise.”

  “I hardly think he is going to shrivel up from hunger,” James replied. “Cats do have a strong sense of self-preservation. But perhaps there
is something to Mr. Raywinkle’s theory about allowing him to perform a service. Suppose that we stage an event that would require Hamlet’s intervention?”

  “I could, like, pretend to hurt myself so he could run get help,” Robert suggested, and promptly performed a dramatic pratfall worthy of a professional comedian.

  Impressed, Darla reached a hand to help him up again. “That would make a great YouTube video,” she conceded, “but Hamlet is too smart to be taken in by something that obvious.”

  “Okay, then, what about a shoplifter?” the youth countered with equal enthusiasm as he dusted himself off. “I can get a friend to, you know, pretend to steal a book in front of him. Hamlet can pounce on him and save the day.”

  “Not altruistic enough,” Darla declared, while James nodded his agreement. “I hate to say it, but if Brody is right, the only way Hamlet will recover is if he overcomes a situation similar to the one that sent him into this tailspin in the first place.”

  Which meant that the doughty cat would have to face down another killer. And not only was that something that Darla would never allow, it wasn’t like she had any desire to conjure up a murderer strictly for therapeutic purposes!

  Discouraged now, she exchanged looks with Robert and James, who both appeared equally discouraged. Then the latter shook his head.

  “I am certain we will find some way to perk him up again. Maybe Jake will have a suggestion.”

  But Jake, too, proved of little help when they met that evening at Thai Me Up. After they’d settled in their favorite window spot at the restaurant, Darla gave her friend a blow-by-blow account of her conversation with Brody.