Collared For Murder by Annie Knox Page B

T-shirt was getting a lean Russian blue situated to start.
    “In case you were wondering,” Ruth said quietly, subtly pointing her pinkie toward the judging table, “Pamela Rawlins is not a fan of agility. She’s a conformation snob.” Pamela sat at a small table, wedged between Mari Aames and Marsha Denford, her pitch hair glistening in the bright August sunlight. None of the women appeared particularly happy to be there, but Pamela’s face was set in an obvious pout.
    “My gracious,” I said, “how can three women manage to have their backs to one another while still sitting in a straight line?”
    Ruth hooted. “You got that right. Those ladies would literally bend over backward to avoid one another.”
    “Why? They were all clustered together like baby chicks yesterday while the police were processing the crime scene. There was plenty of space in the ballroom, even with the taped-off bit. I assumed they must have wanted to be together.”
    “Oh, sure,” Ruth said. “But I don’t think they were offering one another sympathy. I think they were each keeping an eye on the other two. See, all three of them wanted a piece of Phillip Denford, and there just wasn’t enough of Phillip to go around.”
    “Really?” I prodded.
    “Absolutely. Marsha and Mari have been at it for years. Marsha needs Phillip so she can be Marsha Denford and Mari needs Phillip so she has a job. Each sees the other as a threat. Then, last year, there was a rumor that Denford and Pamela had had a little fling. This, of course, did not make Marsha happy. I don’t know whether she was genuinely hurt by the affair or just embarrassed by it, but either way she’s given Pamela the cold shoulder ever since. And Pamela pushed her way into acting as cocoordinator of this silver-anniversary event, edging Mari farther to the side and threatening her job. I’m not sure what Pamela wantedout of the whole deal—if she was happy playing a bigger role in the M-CFO or if she saw herself as some genuine love interest—but Phillip definitely planned to placate her with the event coordinator title . . . Even then, it was just a title. Mari’s still the one who did all the heavy lifting.”
    “It all sounds so . . . complicated.”
    Ruth laughed again. “This is nothing compared to the old days. The world of cat shows, or at least those sponsored by the Midwest Cat Fanciers’ Organization, has always been a hotbed of intrigue. I have to admit that the murder takes things to a whole new level, but it’s still tame compared to the days of off-the-books kitten swapping and key parties.”
    I tried to imagine mousy-looking diminutive Ruth Kimmey, garbed in a cat sweatshirt, tossing her keys into a bowl, and I just couldn’t get there.
    “Oh, he’s ready to start,” she said. “This should be good. That’s Jeffrey Brockman. Some people call him ‘the cat whisperer,’ because he can get his animals to perform the most amazing feats of agility on courses far more difficult than this.”
    Sure enough, the man with the Russian blue was standing on his tiptoes, a cat dancer toy in one hand. A bell rang, and he started to trot along the side of the course, leading the cat with the wand. The blue ran up a ramp, then down the other side, made its waythrough nylon tunnels that curved in gentle arcs, slithered its way through a slalom of orange cones, and then did a graceful leap over a low hurdle. As he landed, though, his tail caught the crossbar of the hurdle and knocked it off. The whole crowd gasped.
    Ruth moaned softly. “Too bad. Ivan was a favorite for the course. His time was great, but there will be a deduction for knocking off the crossbar. Jeffrey must be crushed.”
    It was true. Even across the tent, I could see the expression on Jeffrey’s face. He was stroking Ivan gently, letting the cat nibble treats from his hand, but he looked distraught.
    For some reason it struck me hard as I took in the sense of longing and loss in