international shows,” she said. “But if you think it’s important, you should investigate it. Will Helen help you?”
“No,” Nancie said. “Time is limited. Justine is a show cat. Helen needs to get a job in that world. Trish, you’re wired into the local scene. Is Dee, the show cat breeder and exhibitor, hiring anyone at Chatwood’s Champions?”
“She’s always hiring,” Trish said. “Dee’s a difficult woman and her staff rarely lasts longer than a month. Jan’s managed to hang in there six months, which is a record. I’m sure Helen could get a job at her cattery. Persians require lots of brushing and bathing. I’ll give her a reference and say you worked with Justine. You have a cat, right, Helen?”
She nodded, too discouraged to speak. Phil would be answering the phone and she’d be up to her elbows in cat hair.
Nancie passed Trish a sheet of expensive plain cream stationery. “Write the reference now,” she said. “Helen can look for a job first thing tomorrow.”
“You’ll have no problem getting hired,” Trish said. “Dee goes through employees like cats go through litter.”
Terrific, Helen thought. We all know what happens in a litter box.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday
D ee Chatwood’s door belonged on a fortress. Helen lifted the snarling lion’s-head door knocker carefully—it looked like it might bite her. A uniformed Latina maid answered.
“I have a job interview with Ms. Chatwood,” Helen said.
The maid nodded. “Ms. Chatwood is taking her morning swim,” she said. “I’ll take you to the pool.”
Helen felt like she’d been swallowed by a leopard. The walls of the vast entrance hall and living room were a dizzying display of animal-print paper, reflected in the shiny black marble floor. Palms lurked in the corners. On a sleek black couch, a Persian cat with ebony fur and gleaming copper eyes looked down its short nose at Helen.
“Beautiful cat,” Helen said.
“His name is Midnight,” the maid said. “He’s a stud.”
A stud? Oh, right, Helen reminded herself. Dee runs a cattery. Stud is Midnight’s job. She was glad she didn’t say anything dumb.
She followed the maid past a wall of oil paintings, all Persians with flat, haughty faces. The cats seemed to disapprove of Helen and her bloodlines. The portrait of a silver-haired Persian, labeled CHATWOOD’S SILVER SHADOW—CAT OF THE YEAR, 2008 , hung over a case crammed with huge blue ribbons, the coveted cat-show rosettes. The shelves held dizzying numbers of framed photos of longhaired cats, plaques and trophies. They weren’t bowling trophies, either. Each had a figure of a cat, and some could have been sculptures.
The hall led to a screened-in pool the size of a lake, with a view of the Intracoastal Waterway. The house shouted money. The mustard mansion was built around a swimming pool with a bell tower. Yeah, a bell tower, a phallic object that thrust up from the edge of the deep end, where a diving board would be. The tower was taller than the house. The morning sun shining on the bell blinded Helen.
Then she saw a big-boned blonde in a leopard-print retro bikini doing the backstroke near the bell-tower end. Dee Chatwood.
When she reached the edge of the pool, Dee climbed out, toweled off her short platinum hair, and asked, “You’re Helen Hawthorne?”
“I’m here for the job at your cattery,” Helen said. “Trish Barrymore recommended me.”
Up close in the bright light, Helen could see that Dee was fifty, fighting to look forty. Her waist had thickened, but the swimming kept her fit. She had skin like fine brown leather and long red claws. Her Botoxed forehead was frighteningly smooth and her collagened lips were overripe, but the effect was curiously attractive.
Dee slid into a black caftan with feline grace and settled herself at a wicker patio table. Helen half expected her to lick the stray water droplets off her arms.
The maid came back carrying a tray with two silver pitchers and
“No,” Nancie said. “Time is limited. Justine is a show cat. Helen needs to get a job in that world. Trish, you’re wired into the local scene. Is Dee, the show cat breeder and exhibitor, hiring anyone at Chatwood’s Champions?”
“She’s always hiring,” Trish said. “Dee’s a difficult woman and her staff rarely lasts longer than a month. Jan’s managed to hang in there six months, which is a record. I’m sure Helen could get a job at her cattery. Persians require lots of brushing and bathing. I’ll give her a reference and say you worked with Justine. You have a cat, right, Helen?”
She nodded, too discouraged to speak. Phil would be answering the phone and she’d be up to her elbows in cat hair.
Nancie passed Trish a sheet of expensive plain cream stationery. “Write the reference now,” she said. “Helen can look for a job first thing tomorrow.”
“You’ll have no problem getting hired,” Trish said. “Dee goes through employees like cats go through litter.”
Terrific, Helen thought. We all know what happens in a litter box.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday
D ee Chatwood’s door belonged on a fortress. Helen lifted the snarling lion’s-head door knocker carefully—it looked like it might bite her. A uniformed Latina maid answered.
“I have a job interview with Ms. Chatwood,” Helen said.
The maid nodded. “Ms. Chatwood is taking her morning swim,” she said. “I’ll take you to the pool.”
Helen felt like she’d been swallowed by a leopard. The walls of the vast entrance hall and living room were a dizzying display of animal-print paper, reflected in the shiny black marble floor. Palms lurked in the corners. On a sleek black couch, a Persian cat with ebony fur and gleaming copper eyes looked down its short nose at Helen.
“Beautiful cat,” Helen said.
“His name is Midnight,” the maid said. “He’s a stud.”
A stud? Oh, right, Helen reminded herself. Dee runs a cattery. Stud is Midnight’s job. She was glad she didn’t say anything dumb.
She followed the maid past a wall of oil paintings, all Persians with flat, haughty faces. The cats seemed to disapprove of Helen and her bloodlines. The portrait of a silver-haired Persian, labeled CHATWOOD’S SILVER SHADOW—CAT OF THE YEAR, 2008 , hung over a case crammed with huge blue ribbons, the coveted cat-show rosettes. The shelves held dizzying numbers of framed photos of longhaired cats, plaques and trophies. They weren’t bowling trophies, either. Each had a figure of a cat, and some could have been sculptures.
The hall led to a screened-in pool the size of a lake, with a view of the Intracoastal Waterway. The house shouted money. The mustard mansion was built around a swimming pool with a bell tower. Yeah, a bell tower, a phallic object that thrust up from the edge of the deep end, where a diving board would be. The tower was taller than the house. The morning sun shining on the bell blinded Helen.
Then she saw a big-boned blonde in a leopard-print retro bikini doing the backstroke near the bell-tower end. Dee Chatwood.
When she reached the edge of the pool, Dee climbed out, toweled off her short platinum hair, and asked, “You’re Helen Hawthorne?”
“I’m here for the job at your cattery,” Helen said. “Trish Barrymore recommended me.”
Up close in the bright light, Helen could see that Dee was fifty, fighting to look forty. Her waist had thickened, but the swimming kept her fit. She had skin like fine brown leather and long red claws. Her Botoxed forehead was frighteningly smooth and her collagened lips were overripe, but the effect was curiously attractive.
Dee slid into a black caftan with feline grace and settled herself at a wicker patio table. Helen half expected her to lick the stray water droplets off her arms.
The maid came back carrying a tray with two silver pitchers and
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