Fur Love or Money

Chapter 1

"I think it's impossible to take a bad photo of Elvis," Rose said.

"I think you're right," I said.

We were standing in my office more than halfway through the proofs from a photo shoot Elvis had taken part in the day before and there wasn't one image so far that had caught him with his eyes closed or mid-sneeze, which was usually what happened when I had my picture taken. That might have been because Elvis was naturally photogenic, or it might have been because he was a friendly black cat who loved attention.

Elvis had been in a cat show almost a year ago and had attracted the notice of a well-known pet food company. He'd spent most of Monday morning at a photo shoot that was part of a public service campaign funded by the pet food company to encourage people to adopt an older shelter cat. Rose and I were looking at the proofs. She was the reason Elvis had been in the cat show in the first place.

Rose Jackson was a private investigator. She looked like someone's sweet, cookie-baking grandmother-which she was. People tended to underestimate her and then regret it later. She was tiny, barely five feet, with white hair, gray eyes and a warm smile. She was also stubborn and resourceful, with a memory like a computer, which included some stories about me that I really wished she would forget.

Charlotte's Angels-yes, the name was inspired by a certain TV show from the late 1970s-the detective agency Rose ran with her friends, had had a case that required them to be undercover on the local cat show circuit. Elvis had been their entrée into that world. To my surprise he had risen to the challenge, charmed everyone he encountered and walked away with the blue ribbon in the house pet category, a trophy and the chance to be a spokesperson (spokescat?) for more than one pet supply company. Rose and her cohorts had caught the person they were after. I had ended up with a concussion.

Rose and Elvis were both intently studying the computer now. "I think this one is my favorite," she said to him. "I like the way you're tilting your head to one side just a little."

The cat narrowed his green eyes as though he wasn't sure he agreed with her. "Mrrr," he said.

Rose touched the screen with one finger. "See how long that makes your neck look?" Rose always talked to Elvis as though he understood everything she said to him. I had a sneaking suspicion a lot of the time he did.

He leaned in for a closer look and then murped his agreement. It seemed he did think Rose was right after all.

Elvis had been a street cat of sorts before he'd ended up with me. It made him the perfect choice for a campaign urging people to think about adopting an older pet. I had no idea how he had ended up here in North Harbor, but the scar that cut diagonally across his nose and the others that were covered by his fur suggested he had been on his own for a while. On the other hand, Elvis was friendly and sociable and had had no problem adjusting to living with me. I had never thought of myself as a "cat person" but now I couldn't imagine life without him.

"I don't have any input into which photos they'll end up using," I said to Rose. "They just sent these to me as a courtesy. I'm not even sure who's going to make the final decision."

She waved away my words with one hand. "It doesn't matter, dear," she said. "They're all wonderful." She smiled at Elvis. "You're doing a very good thing, helping other cats find homes." Then she leaned over and kissed my cheek. "You did a good thing, too."

I frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"You donated Elvis's fee to our no-kill shelter."

"How did you know that?" I said. I should have guessed Rose would find out. I had never been able to keep anything a secret from her.

She shrugged. "I'm old and cute." Then she smiled again. "And I'm shameless about eavesdropping."

I laughed. I was fairly certain it was that last characteristic of hers and not the first two that had gotten Rose the information about my donation.

"Is one o'clock still good?" she asked, brushing cat hair off the front of her pink-and-green-striped apron.

"It is for me," I said.

Rose and I were driving over to Windspeare Point to deliver some dog biscuits Rose had made for Casey, a black Lab she had befriended last year. The dog had found her, just by chance, after Rose had been hit over the head with a boat fender and knocked unconscious. She had stayed in touch with Casey and his owners, Ashley and Keenan Clark.

"I'll be ready," Rose said. She patted my arm and headed for the door. She paused in the doorway for a moment. "I think we should celebrate Elvis's first photo shoot with cake."

"You think we should celebrate everything with cake," I said.

"Lucky for you." She grinned at me and she was gone.

Elvis stretched, took a couple of passes at his face with his right paw and jumped down to the floor. It seemed he was going back to work as well. I sent a quick thank-you email to the photographer and shut off my computer. Then I came around my desk and pushed my office door closed with one foot. I took off the shirt I was wearing, put it on a hanger and pulled on an old, faded, paint-splattered blue hoodie. Rose and Elvis weren't the only ones who had work to do.

I went downstairs to find Rose and Elvis showing two women the sideboard I had finished painting less than a week ago. It was close to four feet long with sliding glass doors. I had painted it a pale shade of green called glacier. It had taken a lot of sanding and scraping to restore the piece, which, when I bought it, had been painted a muddy shade of brown with two pieces of garish orange-flowered wallpaper glued to the top.

Second Chance was a repurpose store, a place where discarded furniture and other items got a second chance instead of ending up in a landfill or a corner of someone's basement. It was also pretty much the focus of my life at the moment. The shop was in a two-story, redbrick building from the late 1800s in North Harbor, Maine. We were a short walk from the harbor front, and easy to get to from the highway-which meant we saw a lot of tourists. We sold everything from furniture to housewares to refurbished linens. Our stock came from a lot of different places: yard sales, flea markets, people looking to declutter or downsize. I bought regularly from several trash pickers. Rose worked for me part-time when she wasn't busy being the senior version of Nancy Drew.

I caught her eye and pointed toward the back door. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. I cut through the workroom, went out the back door and started across the parking lot toward the old garage that had been turned into more working space and storage. Mac was standing in front of the open doors eyeing three tall metal lockers that we had found at a yard sale. All three of them were plastered with stickers inside and out. Mac was convinced if we could remove the stickers and then paint the lockers something other than the bilious pea soup green they currently were, they would sell. I was less convinced, but I'd learned not to dismiss his ideas just because I didn't see potential where he did.

Mac looked over his shoulder and smiled as I approached him. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that was just about as paint-spattered as my hoodie. He was tall and lean with light brown skin and black hair, which he kept cropped close to his scalp. Rose had once described him as "easy on the eyes." She hadn't gotten any argument from me.

Mac was my second-in-command, my second set of eyes, my everything, personally and professionally, although the latter had come first and the former had benefitted from more than a little meddling from Rose and her friends.

"How did the photos turn out?" he asked.

"Not a bad one in the bunch," I said. "I swear that cat is as photogenic as the real Elvis was."

"That's good," he said. "Here's hoping some cats end up with new homes because of him."

There was a bottle of vodka sitting on a nearby stool. "Is getting all those stickers off driving you to drink?" I asked. I knew he'd tried using a hair dryer with little success.

He pointed a finger at me with a mock scowl. "You jest, but that bottle of vodka is the key to getting rid of all those stickers."

"Oh, do tell," I said, folding my arms across my chest and eyeing him with more than a little skepticism.

"All I need to do is soak a cloth with the vodka, lay it on a sticker and then a few minutes later come back and scrape it off."

I studied the three lockers. There were a lot of stickers covering the outside-band stickers, shoe stickers, stickers with positive affirmations and some with four-letter words-and almost as many inside. Even if the vodka trick worked, Mac still had a lot of scraping ahead.

"It'll work," he said. He could probably see the doubt on my face. "I have it on good authority."

I looked over my shoulder at him. "And who exactly is this good authority?"

"Alfred."

"Mr. P.?" I said. Mr. P., aka Alfred Peterson, was a licensed private investigator, a computer whiz and Rose's gentleman friend. She balked at the use of the word "boyfriend."

Mac nodded. "Yes. C'mon, you've said he's one of the smartest people you know."

"He is-when it comes to computers and human nature-but with something like this"-I gestured at the lockers-"not so much. Have you forgotten about the Dento 5000?"

"It should have worked," Mac said, somewhat indignantly.

"But it didn't."

The Dento 5000 was the result of Mr. P.'s first foray into late-night-infomercial shopping. It looked like something from an old science-fiction movie and was supposed to suck the dents out of just about any material you could name. And it did. The problem was the results only lasted for about five minutes and then what had been undented was suddenly re-dented, generally with a fair amount of noise and-at least once that I knew of-an alarming display of sparks.

"Could you at least not say 'I told you so' until I try it?" Mac asked with a grin.

I shrugged. "I guess I could do that."

He reached out and caught the edge of my sweatshirt, pulling me toward him. "I would be very appreciative."

"Rub-my-shoulders appreciative or cook-dinner appreciative?" I asked.

"Both," he said.

I gave him a thumbs-up. "Great plan. Good luck."

Mac laughed. "Always good to have your support." He glanced around and then kissed me before letting go of my shirt. "So what's your day look like?" he asked.

"Rose and I are going to see Casey in a little while," I said. "She made him dog biscuits. She even got a bone-shaped cookie cutter so they'd look authentic."

"Good to know," Mac said.

I pulled my cell out of my pocket. "I need to pick your brain. Take a look at this." I handed him the phone.

He looked at the image I'd brought up on the screen, then he looked at me. "Tell me it's not really that color." He was looking at a large armoire painted Barbie pink. It wasn't the first time we'd come across something painted that very flamboyant shade.

"Oh, it's really that color. It sort of glows in real life. What I need to know is can we get it in the back of your truck and then get it off again? It's solid wood and it's heavy."

Mac frowned as he studied the two photos I'd taken of the armoire. "It looks to be about the same size as the one you worked on last year. Am I right?"

I nodded. "It is. But remember that one was in pieces-literally. This one isn't. It has to come down a hallway and then out through a sun porch. I measured everything. It will fit, but there's not a lot of wiggle room."

Mac handed the phone back to me. "We can move it. I can borrow a handcart from Glenn. But I'm probably going to need some extra muscle."

"I don't think that will be a problem," I said. "The guy who's selling the armoire is a big man." I held out both my hands. "And he said he has no problem helping move it. I think he's just happy to be getting rid of it. He also said he had a fair number of phone calls but no takers."

"We're good then," Mac said. "I'm guessing this is for Michelle?"

"It is," I said, putting my phone back in my pocket. "It's going to be a housewarming present."

I'd known Michelle Andrews since we were kids. She'd been house-hunting for months and had been outbid on several she'd liked. I was keeping my fingers crossed that her luck was going to change. She'd mentioned wanting an armoire when she finally did find a house so I'd been hunting for one for her for weeks. This pink one was the first one I'd discovered in decent shape-other than the color. I'd already found a small dining room hutch for her that I'd sanded and painted a pale mint green. The hutch she knew about. The armoire was going to be a surprise.

"If I need help when I get it here I'll ask Nick to give me a hand," Mac said. "When do you want it picked up?"

Nick Elliot and I had been friends since we were babies. He'd known Michelle almost as long as I had. I knew he'd say yes to Mac. "Whenever it works for you," I said. "I gave the guy a deposit. He said he'll be around all week."

"I'll call Nick and see when he's free, just in case."

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," I said.

He smiled. "Once I've tried Alfred's vodka trick I'll get started on tightening the joints on your yard sale chairs." He quirked an eyebrow at me. "Your stash must be getting low."