Collared For Murder by Annie Knox

Author:Annie Knox [Knox, Annie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-06-02T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

Eleven

On the second full day of the cat show, all of the attention turned to the ballroom and the conformation competitions, where the cats would be judged against the standards for each breed: Were their ears set at the proper angle? Were their bodies the correct shape? Did their profiles match some ideal (if arbitrary) standard? Each of the judging rings was packed with onlookers, and you could tell when every round ended by the squeaks and gasps and moans of the audience.

Rena and I set up our booth, and I agreed to man it while Rena took a tour of the floor to pass out cards and, of course, get a look-see at all the action.

“Are you the designer?”

I looked up to find Peter Denford standing at the corner of our table, that familiar Joe Time Coffee cup in his hand. I’d seen him hanging around the show and had even seen him the morning of his father’s death, but we’d yet to actually speak.

“Yes. Izzy McHale,” I offered, extending my hand.

He shook my hand, and I couldn’t help but notice the calluses on his fingers. He might play the part of artistic dilettante, but he actually worked hard at something.

“I’m glad to get to meet you,” I said. “The collar ornament you designed is beautiful. I loved the openwork surrounding the gems.”

He waved off my compliment. “As my father said, the drawing’s the easy part.”

His dad had said that? Still more evidence that Phillip was a complete sleazeball.

“I enjoyed the design work, but my real passion is for sculpture. Large-scale metalwork, actually. The exact opposite of that little charm I drew. I rarely find the patience to work on smaller projects like jewelry. I mean, there’s a reason my father didn’t have me execute my own drawing. The jeweler is the real hero.”

“Jolly’s a good friend. I’ll let her know.”

“I like your work,” he said.

“Oh, uh, thanks. Do you own pets?” I asked.

He grinned, and there was something charming about his smile. He had deep lines running from his nose to the corners of his lips, and when he smiled, those lines nearly bracketed his whole mouth.

“No. No pets. I leave the animals to my father. I just like your designs. Hipster designs for hipster pets. I like the social commentary.”

“Thank you.”

I didn’t intend my parkas and pj’s to be social commentary, but if this artist chose to view my work that way, I wasn’t going to stop him. If I told him that I designed the clothes just because I thought the animals looked cute in them, he’d probably think I was a loon, so I chose to take his comment as a compliment.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I added, suddenly realizing that this was the very first thing I should have said to the man.

He looked at me quizzically before the light of recognition dawned in his eyes. “Oh, of course. I keep forgetting. Thank you.”

I just stared at him, taken aback by how nonchalant he seemed to be about his father’s death.

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