Collared For Murder by Annie Knox

the arm.
    “I remember you.” I turned to find I had just passed the outspoken woman from yesterday’s crime scene, the woman with the wire-rimmed glasses and the cribbage board. “You were the one who found Phillip’s body.”
    “How do you—?”
    “Know so much about what happened?” she finished for me. “Well, my table is right there.” She pointed to a table at the end of the row, just one in from the aislewhere we’d set up the Trendy Tails booth. “And I pay attention.”
    Hmmm. I wondered whether other people might refer to her “paying attention” as “meddling.”
    I extended my hand, happy to welcome a kindred spirit. “Izzy—”
    “McHale. Yes, I know. You design the cat clothes.”
    “And dog clothes.”
    She blinked at me like I’d suddenly started speaking another language.
    Finally, she took my hand. A bracelet hung from her birdlike wrist, tinkling with charms shaped like hearts and cats. “Ruth Kimmey.”
    “It’s nice to meet you, Ruth. Which of these beautiful babies is yours?”
    I followed Ruth the handful of steps to her station. Her kennel was made of black wire and draped with faux leopard fur. Inside, an oval cat bed exploded with fur the color and texture of dandelion fluff. As I bent down to examine more closely, the fluff rippled gently and one baleful blue eye popped open and latched onto me.
    “Gorgeous,” I said.
    “He is, isn’t he? This is Cataclysm Ranger.”
    “Cataclysm?”
    Ruth cocked her head and studied me curiously. “Do you know much about cat shows, Izzy?”
    I shrugged one shoulder. “Not much,” I conceded.“I’m sure some of my customers show their animals, but it’s not something that comes up in our conversations over fashion.”
    “Well, let me bring you up to speed. I love to share my love of cats with others. Show animals are known by their mother’s cattery—in Ranger’s case, his mama was from a cattery in Iowa called Cataclysm. He’s a peke-faced sterling Persian.”
    “A what-what?”
    “Peke-faced means his profile is vertical, without a muzzle sticking out to ruin the line. Sterling means his fur is white with just the very tips shaded in gray. That’s what makes him sparkle like that.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Ranger is a grand premier. He’s actually racked up enough wins that he’d be a grand champion if my son-of-a-gun ex-husband hadn’t had him neutered. He’s nearly flawless. Just a hint of tarnishing around his nose.”
    One thing I’d learned during my days of planning for the cat show is that unaltered cats competed for champion and grand-champion status while neutered males could only achieve the status of grand premier.
    As the cat lifted its head and opened both eyes I could see just the faintest hint of yellowing in the fur between Ranger’s nose and upper lip. If Ruth hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed.
    “You can barely see that,” I said.
    Ruth shrugged. “The judges are paid to see that. Even when I use Ducky White on his muzzle, the judges seem to spot it.”
    “Ducky White?”
    “It’s a coat chalk. My personal favorite. It’s used to whiten the coat and absorb any stray oil on the cat. Like I said, it hides Ranger’s tarnish well, but not quite well enough. He more than makes up for that coat flaw with his straight back and perfect little cobby body. He also shows well. His temperament is perfect. When he’s in the judging ring, being handled by the judge, he’s alert but still. And when the judge brings out a toy, he sits up on his back legs, showing off his body structure, and reaches up and out to bat at the toy so he doesn’t block his beautiful face. He nails it every time.”
    “Wow.” I studied the giant fluff ball in the crate. Jinx was a long-haired breed, and her fur was winter-ready plush, but it was nowhere near as full and dense as Ranger’s. I thought about how much time I spent combing out Jinxie’s lovely locks. “What does it take to keep Ranger’s fur