Fat Cat Takes The Cake

FOURTEEN

Chase thought about Bart Fender as she waited on other customers. If he couldn’t taste sweet things, he probably wouldn’t be back. Probably a good thing since he barely fit into the store. In fact, she wondered if all that bulk was natural. It was possible he took performance-enhancing drugs. But he came into contact with young high school athletes daily. She hoped his bad habit—if that was the cause of his massive body—wasn’t rubbing off onto his students. She was so glad she wasn’t going to high school now! Back then, as far as she knew, the principal hadn’t been raking money from the school system and she was sure the coaches weren’t taking illegal drugs.

As she was counting change for one of the regulars, Mrs. Cray, she saw Mr. Snelson walk past on the sidewalk. She must have stared at him, because Mrs. Cray turned around to see what was getting Chase’s attention.

“Oh, Mr. Snelson,” she said. “He’s quite a character.”

“You know him?” Chase asked.

“Why, yes. I clean the high school, you know.”

“No, I didn’t. How long have you been doing that?” The last Chase knew, Mrs. Cray was cleaning offices at the university.

“I started this year. Mrs. Snelson got me the job. She works in the office at the U, you know.”

Chase didn’t know that either, but was more interested in what Mrs. Cray knew about the principal. She would not have to ask, though. Mrs. Cray was the chatty sort.

“It was kind of strange last weekend. There was that big thing, you know. The reunion.”

Chase nodded. She did know that.

“So they asked me to clean on Sunday instead of Saturday, my regular day. There’s one thing I don’t like about that man.”

She paused for effect while Chase waited for her to go on. “He told me on Sunday that he can’t stand teenagers. Do you believe that? I mean, I never heard such a thing. He can’t stand teenagers? Why does he have that job? That’s what I’d like to know.”

Aha, thought Chase. After all of those years confronting the pupils, dealing with truants and kids who didn’t care if they never finished school, or athletes who assumed the school owed them something, it sounded like he’d had enough. That was, no doubt, why he was getting into real estate.

That evening, Mike rang the bell at the rear door before the tidying-up in the kitchen was completed.

“Oh, there’s Mike, Anna,” Chase said. “He’s early.”

Anna grinned. “I’m glad you’re back with him. There’s something about that other—” She stopped short as Mike strolled in.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I can be in two minutes. Have a seat and a leftover Lemon Chiffon Bar.”

Mike hoisted himself onto a stool and Anna set the goodie on a paper towel in front of him. She was asking him if he’d like lemonade with that as Chase ran up the stairs to pass a brush through her hair, wriggle into a clean pair of jeans, slip on a fresh sweater, and swish some mouthwash. She found herself humming “Tonight” from West Side Story and realized she was truly happy she wouldn’t be eating vegan food tonight, to say nothing of being with Mike.

The Italian food at Mike’s discovered restaurant was perfect. Or maybe it was so delicious because of her recent experiences with Eddie. The man himself was delectable, but eating with him was not.

Mike didn’t seem inclined to talk about Eddie, which relieved Chase.

“You’ll never guess who came into the clinic today,” he said.

The question didn’t call for an answer, which was good, because Chase’s mouth was full of lasagna. Good beefy, cheesy, noodle-y lasagna.

“Mrs. Snelson. She said her husband’s the principal of Hammond High.”

Chase finished her bite of goodness. “Is she a new customer for you?”

“Yes, her dog is a new patient. I don’t think she’s had him for very long. Was he the principal when you went there?”

“Yes. He was at the . . . Yes, he’s been there forever.” She stopped talking, not wanting to mention the sore subject of the reunion.

“She mentioned that. She said he’s having trouble adjusting to the dog.”

Mike warmed her heart with his smile and topped off her wineglass with the Chianti Reserva he had selected. Its full-bodied taste was perfect with the robust Italian flavors. The candle on the table flickered and danced, helping create an intimate space where only the two of them and the table of delicious food existed.

“What does that mean? Have they never had a dog before? I don’t think they ever had children.” She forked another piece of lasagna. Yum.

Mike swirled some of his spaghetti carbonara, but didn’t take a bite. “Sounded like he might be allergic. She hasn’t had him long. He’s a tiny lap dog, teacup Chihuahua.”

“Is he cute?”

Mike shrugged and took his bite. After a bit he said, “I prefer more natural breeds. This one is neurotic.”

Chase thought a lot of Chihuahuas were neurotic. “Can you be allergic to such a tiny dog?”

“Sure. Size doesn’t matter. What got me, though, was what she was saying to me, as a perfect stranger. She brought up your reunion and how awful the murder was. Then she repeated, several times, that her husband and a business colleague were together at her house all night, so they couldn’t possibly have known anything about the killing.”

“Why would she talk about that with you?”

“The more she went on, the more I thought she was trying to convince me. And, I should add, the more I thought she was lying. Why she would need to tell me this, I don’t know.”

“Maybe,” Chase said, “she was rehearsing her story for the police.”