""Cozy Mystery tales just can't get any better than CATNAPPED!.""
Reviewed by Betty Cox
Posted July 13, 2014
Mystery
Attorney Nancie Hays calls her private investigators, Helen
Hawthorne and her husband, Phil Sagemont, at five a.m. on a
Monday morning and requests their immediate presence at her
office. Nancie has an important client that needs help on a
custody case, and the woman is practically in hysterics.
When Helen and Phil get to Nancie's office to possibly
rescue a kidnapped child, they learn that the victim is a
four month old, pedigreed Chartreux called Justine, and
owned jointly by bazillionaire Trish Barrymore and her ex-
husband, Mortimore, or as Phil calls him "Smart Mort." The
Court granted joint custody of Justine, with each owner
getting her for six months at a time. Mort should have
returned the cat no later than 5 AM. Mort, an
extraordinary CPA with a Midas touch for investing for his
well-heeled clients, has never been late in returning the
kitten before. When Mort Draco wed Trish Barrymore he took
her last name, as her late family had been social leaders
and Mort came from nothing.
Helen and Phil are owners and operators of Coronado
Investigations, an unseasoned enterprise. Nancie hands over
Mort's house keys to the PI pair. Mort is home, and very
dead; he was bludgeoned with Justine's Zen Cat Tower, and
Justine is nowhere to be found. Helen calls the police
before she calls Nancie, and the detective that shows up
immediately issues a warrant for Trish's arrest. Now
Coronado Investigations must not only find the catnapper --
that finally called and asked for five-hundred-thousand
dollars in ransom -- they have to find Mort's killer and
hope
they are one and the same.
Meanwhile, the couple's landlady and Helen's surrogate mom,
Margery, cannot afford all the repairs needed to keep the
old Coronado apartment complex from being condemned. Also,
Margery's ex-husband, Zach, has returned after his exit in
1978. By some weird coincidence Zach has a patent pending
on the Zen Cat Tower. No one wants to leave the Coronado,
and asks Margery to wait on selling to a developer.
CATNAPPED! is one of Elaine Viets' best book to date. Ms.
Viets' describes with wry humor the life of pedigreed cats
and their owners; plus she has spun more than one
interesting and plausible storyline, and has seamlessly
brought them all together. Phil and Helen are growing as
investigators, and their honeymoon is still going strong.
Residents of the Coronado are strong, helpful characters
that are featured in every book. Cozy Mystery tales just
can't get any better than CATNAPPED!.
SUMMARY
No more pussyfooting around! Husband and wife PI team
Helen Hawthorne and Phil Sagemont have barely scratched the
surface of the world of show cats when a cornered kitty
kidnapper’s claws come out.... This show
cat is a no-show.... The one thing celebrity
Trish Barrymore and her no-account accountant husband, Mort,
can agree on in their bitter divorce is shared cat custody.
But when Mort is found brained by a mahogany cat tower, and
Justine, their pedigreed Chartreux show cat, goes missing,
Trish calls on Helen and Phil. Despite a ransom note from
the catnapper, Trish is still the prime murder suspect in
the eyes of the police. As they await the post-Mort-em, it’s
up to Helen and Phil to find the feline filcher and let the
cat out of the bag. Discovering that Mort had some
shady dealings within cat show circles, Helen goes
undercover as an assistant for a woman who shows
prizewinning Persians. But Phil is not buying Trish’s
cat-that-swallowed-a-canary act—he thinks she might be
staging the whole catnapping. As Helen and Phil get
deeper into a high-pressure world of primping, posing, and
purring to collar a killer, they get caught up in a
cat-and-mouse game where the stakes are literally life and
death....
ExcerptChapter 1 Monday The bedroom phone shrilled at five a.m. Phil Sagemont squinted at the caller ID through bloodshot eyes. “Uh-
oh, it’s Nancie Hays,” he said. “This can’t be good.” Helen Hawthorne groaned, reached for the lamp, and knocked over an
empty wineglass. “I don’t want to go to work before dawn,” she said. “We don’t have a choice,” Phil said. “We’re the PIs for her firm.” He
put the phone on speaker, and they both winced at the lawyer’s
clipped, brisk voice. “Helen, Phil, I need you in my office now,” she said. The lawyer was
barely five feet tall and a hundred pounds, but she had the authority
of a four-star general. “It’s a custody case. We think the husband’s violated the visitation
agreement. We need you to get her back.” “How old is the kid?” Phil said. “It’s not a kid; it’s a kitten,” Nancie said. “Four months old.” “A kitten!” Phil said. “Call Animal Rescue.” “This isn’t any ordinary cat,” Nancie said. “It’s a pedigreed
Chartreux, a show cat owned by Trish Barrymore.” “The socialite married to Smart Mort?” Phil asked. “His name is Mortimer Barrymore,” Nancie said. Helen could almost see
the little lawyer fighting back her impatience. Nancie kept her dark
hair short and practical. She’d be wearing a no-nonsense dark suit,
even on a stifling September morning in South Florida. “Trish says the cat’s bloodlines go back to prewar France,” Nancie
said. “Hers go back a lot farther. She’s paying and paying well. That
cat is her child and she’s upset that her baby has been kidnapped by
her husband.” “Oh, please,” Helen said. Phil snorted. “If you two want to keep working for this firm,” the lawyer said,
“you will take her problem seriously. “Trish and Mort are in the middle of a bitter divorce. They’re
fighting over everything: Who gets the two mansions, the Mercedes and
the Ferrari, even the antique cigar case. It’s the biggest headache
I’ve ever handled. “The only thing they’ve agreed on is the shared custody of their cat,
January’s Jubilee Justine. Trish keeps her during the week. Mort
picks her up Saturday morning and returns her Sunday night. He gets
Justine every holiday. Phil, if I hear another snort from you, you’re
fired. “Trish is living at their Fort Lauderdale mansion. Mort’s at their
estate in Peerless Point, about five miles away. Saturday, he picked
up Justine at eight o’clock, like he always does, and took her to his
place. He was supposed to return her at seven o’clock Sunday night. “When Mort didn’t show by nine, Trish was frantic. She called the
Peerless Point police and wanted them to issue an Amber Alert.” “For a cat?” Helen said. “That’s what the cop said. When he figured out she was talking about
a kitten, he laughed at her. Then Trish made it worse and said, ‘Do
you know who I am?’ “ ‘Yeah, a crazy cat lady,’ the cop told her. “Trish said, ‘I’ll have your job.’ “ ‘You’re welcome to it, lady,’ the cop said. ‘Have fun dealing with
nuts like you.’ “Trish called me and I called you last night. You didn’t answer your
phone. I lost track of how many messages I left.” Nancie didn’t hide
her annoyance. She expected detectives on retainer to be on call
around the clock. “Uh, we unplugged the phone,” Phil said. He sounded sheepish. “Newlyweds!” Nancie said. “You’ve been married more than a year.
Aren’t you over that by now?” “I hope not,” Phil said. Helen felt her face flush hot with embarrassment in the dark bedroom.
She slipped on her robe, as if Nancie could see she was naked. “Why did they agree on custody of the cat, if they fight about
everything else?” Helen asked, hoping to distract the lawyer. “They care about Justine’s welfare,” Nancie said. “Pet custody is
tricky. The court regards pets as property. Some judges won’t order
visitation for the other pet parent. Get the wrong judge, and it’s
like asking if you can visit your ex-wife’s couch. The judge will
think you’re crazy.” “I wonder why,” Phil said. “Take this seriously, Phil. Don’t you two have a cat?” Nancie asked. “Thumbs,” Phil said. “He’s a great cat, but he’s not our four-legged
son.” Thumbs heard his name, jumped up on the bed and rubbed his head
against Phil’s hand. The detective absently scratched the cat’s ears
and said, “Now that your client has destroyed any hope of police
cooperation, you want us to rescue the situation?” “She’s our client, not mine,” Nancie said. “Get your clothes on and
come straight to my office. Don’t bother making coffee. I have a
fresh pot and a bag of bagels. Be here before six. I want you to meet
Trish, then pick up Justine at Mort’s house.” She hung up. “Glad I plugged in the phone at three a.m.,” Helen said. She and Phil
showered together to save time, but there was no romance this
morning. They dressed quickly, and Helen poured breakfast for their
six-toed cat. “At least you get to eat,” she told Thumbs. He ignored her and stuck his head in his food bowl. Phil quietly shut the jalousie door. No other lights were on at the
Coronado Tropic Apartments. The two-story white art moderne building
loomed over the palm trees. Window air conditioners rattled in the
soft, predawn light. Helen and Phil tiptoed past the turquoise pool.
The humid air was so sticky-hot, Helen felt like she was swimming to
her white PT Cruiser. She was grateful for the Igloo’s air-
conditioning. “I can’t believe this,” Phil said, as he plopped resentfully into the
passenger seat. “Coronado Investigations has solved murders and saved
lives and now we’re rescuing kittens.” “Hey, it pays the rent,” Helen said, starting the car. “A kitten!” Phil said. “Not even a cat – or a dog. WWBD? What would
Bogie do?” “Take the job to pay for his scotch,” Helen said. She admired her husband’s chiseled profile and noble nose as she
listened to him grouse about the kitten rescue. She thought her man
looked like a rock star, with his long silver hair tied back in a
ponytail. He’d certainly performed like one last night. She smiled at the memory, then turned into Nancie’s parking lot. The
law office was a neat stripped-down charcoal cube with an imposing
wooden door. The lawyer’s silver Honda was parked in back, leaving
the best spots for visitors. A sleek black Mercedes brooded under a
palm tree by the door. Helen parked next to it. Inside, past the foyer, she saw Nancie at her desk. Like the lawyer,
it was plain, white and strictly business. A pale blonde in a black
lace dress sat in the lime green client chair. “Bogie would definitely approve of our decorative client,” Helen
whispered, as they headed for the office. “Helen and Phil, help yourself to coffee in the conference room and
join us,” Nancie said. “We’ll eat after we talk to Mrs. Barrymore.
She’s anxious to get home in case Mort returns with Justine.” Helen looked longingly at the basket of bagels and bowl of fruit as
she poured two black coffees into white china cups. Phil snitched a
grape. Nancie introduced them, and the private eyes took the two
chairs across from Trish Barrymore. “Now, tell Helen and Phil what happened this weekend,” Nancie said. “My baby’s been missing almost twelve hours,” Trish Barrymore said,
and dissolved into tears. Helen Hawthorne watched the woman’s well-bred reserve crumble like a
hurricane-slammed seawall. She thought Trish was overreacting, but
she didn’t seem to be faking her distress. Her blonde hair straggled
out of its chignon, and she’d gnawed patches of pale pink polish off
her nails. “You have to find her,” Trish said, her voice unsteady. “Nancie said
you would.” She quit gulping back sobs and unleashed heart-wrenching
wails. “Now, Trish. I said Helen and Phil would try,” Nancie said,
attempting to walk a line between caution and comfort. “Coronado
Investigations has had amazing success, but I can only promise that
Helen and Phil will do their best.” “Justine needs her mother,” Trish said. “She’s all alone.” “Trish, you don’t know that,” Nancie said. “We believe she’s with
your husband.” “Former husband,” Trish said. “Almost former.” She discreetly tugged
on the hem of her black lace skirt and crossed her legs at the
ankles. “You know Mort would never hurt Justine,” Nancie said. “No, he loves our baby as much as I do,” Trish said. “But she’s so
tiny he could step on her. He walks around the house without his
glasses. What if he accidentally hurt her?” “Justine is a smart kitten,” Nancie said. “She won’t let herself get
stepped on. If something should happen, Mort would take her straight
to the hospital.” “He’s not cruel,” Trish said, trying to reassure herself. “You and your husband are going through a difficult divorce,” Nancie
said. “You’ve instructed me to fight for everything, even your silver
pickle forks.” “Those were a present from my great-grandmother!” Trish’s temper
flared like a lit match. “That Tiffany pattern was created for her.
She gave us her silver. Both our homes have been in my family since
they were built in 1925. The Barrymores have been social leaders for
centuries. Mort came from nothing!” But Smart Mort knew how to make money, Helen thought. And Trish knew
how to spend it. Tastefully. The CPA with the boyish curly hair and
lopsided grin raked in so much cash Trish could turn her crumbling
family mansions into designer showcases – and there was still more to
splash around. “That’s why he married me, you know,” Trish said. “For my name.” “Oh, I’m sure he married you for more than that,” Nancie said. Helen was, too. Even burdened by grief, Trish had style. This morning
she was mourning her potential loss in a black lace dress that cost
as much as a summer vacation. “You’re beautiful,” Nancie said. “You’re regal. You serve the
community. I’ve lost count of all your civic and charity boards.” “Twenty-three,” Trish said. “Mort’s last name was Draco! Like a Harry
Potter character! What kind of name is that? He used me. He changed
his name to Barrymore.” And painted himself with the dull green patina of old money, Helen
thought. “Custody cases are always difficult,” Nancie said. “But despite
your differences, you and Mort worked out an agreement for Justine.” “We did it for the emotional well-being of our child,” Trish said.
“Justine has a brilliant future as a show cat. She’s a pedigreed
Chartreux. They’re known for their smoky gray fur and copper eyes.” “Here. See for yourself.” She produced a photo from a slim black
clutch. The kitten was a fluffy gray cloud with eyes like new
pennies.
“That’s January’s Jubilee Justine,” Trish said. “She’s beautiful,” Helen said, though she felt disloyal. She knew
Thumbs, her big-pawed white and gray cat, wouldn’t really mind if she
admired another cat. “Big name for a little cat,” Phil
said. “She was born in a J year,” Trish said. “Chartreux have their own
naming system. Their names must start with a particular letter of the
alphabet, depending on the year they were born. I’m lucky 2014 is a J
year. I would have hated it if she’d been born last year. I don’t
like the I names nearly as much.” “So Mort didn’t return your cat on time,” Phil said, steering her
back to the story. “Did you call him when he didn’t show up?” “I gave him ten minutes’ grace time,” Trish said, “in case he was
caught in traffic. Then I called his land line and his cell phone. He
didn’t pick up. I called every ten minutes until nine o’clock. Then I
called the police. They were no help at all. That’s when I called
Nancie and she contacted you.” “Do you think Mort left town with Justine?” Helen asked. “No,” Trish said. “Our baby doesn’t like to fly and long car trips
upset her tummy.” “How do you transport your cat?” Helen asked. “In a pet carrier?” “We each have a Baby Coach,” she said, producing a soft-sided carrier
that looked like a small black school bus with clear mesh windows and
jeweled headlights. I brought it for you. She won’t go anywhere
unless she’s in her bus.” She handed the bejeweled bus to Phil, who handled it like a live
snake. Helen hid a smile. “Continuity is so important to help Justine transition,” Trish said.
“We each have a Zen Cat Tower for her to relax.” “What’s that?” Helen said. “It’s a graceful mahogany tower six feet tall with three levels,”
Trish said, “plus a sisal scratching pad and a hideaway. It has
washable suede cushions. “Justine has the same toys, dishes and food at both places so she
will always feel at home. We explained that Mommy and Daddy still
love her, they just can’t live together anymore. She seems to be
coping well. “We know we’re not the only couple in this situation. Britney Spears
and K-Fed and Jennifer Love Hewitt and Ross McCall fought over their
fur babies.” “So did another Barrymore,” Helen said. “I read that Drew Barrymore
and Tom Green had a custody dispute over their Labrador.” “Those Barrymores are no relation. They’re actors.” Trish spit out
the word. “I guess if you don’t have children, you have to fight about the
pets,” Phil said. “Tell that to Jon and Kate Gosselin,” Nancie said. “The reality show
stars had eight kids and still fought over their dogs.” “Please, please bring my baby home,” Trish said. “And if it’s
possible, try to keep our names out of the media.” “We’ll do our best,” Helen said. “Here are the keys to the house where Mort is living and the alarm
code,” Trish said. “He didn’t change them in case I needed to get Justine in
an emergency. Nancie and I agreed it would be better if you picked
her up.” “The situation is too volatile at this stage in the negotiations,”
Nancie said. “May I go home now?” Trish said. “In case Mort’s there with Justine?” “Of course,” Nancie said. “You can count on Helen and Phil to handle
Justine’s return discreetly.” “Our divorce has already had too much publicity,” Trish said. The PI pair waited until the front door closed before they attacked
the bagels in the conference room, then carried their plates to the
table. “Is this case for real?” Phil asked, then bit into a garlic bagel
slathered with onion cream cheese. “Very real,” Nancie said. “I know you’d rather have a nice clean
murder or civil suit. I don’t usually take divorces, but Trish and
her family are good clients. Pet custody and visitation rights are the hottest area of the law
right now.” “But it’s ridiculous,” Phil said. “Not to Mort and Trish Barrymore. If you think they’re hard to take,
you won’t believe the Laniers of Tennessee,” she said. “When they
split, the wife said she deserved custody of the dog because she kept
it away from ill-bred bitches – her words – and made sure the dog
went to a weekly ladies’ Bible class.” “Was it a lady dog?” Phil asked. “I have no idea,” Nancie said, sharply. “Mrs. Lanier wouldn’t let
anyone drink around the dog. Mister Lanier said he deserved custody
because he taught the dog how to ride on the back of his motorcycle
and never drank beer around him. The court gave the couple joint
custody. Each spouse got the dog six months at a time.” “I would have bought the dog a beer and given him to someone who
wasn’t so crazy,” Phil said. Helen saw a frown crease Nancie’s forehead. She was running out of
patience. “Let’s go pick up Justine,” Helen said. “What’s Mort’s
address?” “Forty-two Peerless Point,” Nancie said. “Mort and his cat are
rattling around in eight thousand square feet of prime waterfront
real estate. Call me as soon as you get Justine.” Helen and Phil made the trip in twenty minutes, slowed by morning
rush hour traffic. Peerless Point was an enclave of historic
waterfront homes. Mort’s estate was hidden behind a ten-foot white
stucco fence. Phil punched in the code and the ornate wrought-iron
gates swung open. “Wow,” Helen said. “This looks like a silent screen star’s house.”
The two stucco wings were perfectly balanced by a series of arches:
arched windows, an arched portico draped with red bougainvillea, and
a white arched door. The pale rose brick drive wound through a sculpture garden. They
drove past time-weathered marble statues of gods and angels. “Mort’s at home,” Phil said. “At least his red Ferrari is. It’s
parked under the arches.” Helen parked behind it and they walked carefully to the front door. Phil had the door keys out, but Helen tried the massive wrought-iron
handle. “It’s open,” she said. “What’s the dark red puddle on the door step?
Paint?” Phil kneeled down for a closer look, but the coppery smell and clouds
of flies gave them their answer. He peered inside. “It’s Mort,” he said. “He’s dead.”
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Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: "Cozy Mystery tales just can't get any better than CATNAPPED!."
Elaine never disappoints! Have all her books on a special shelf in my bookcase. As a cat lover this was probably one of my favorite books in this whole series! But I'm sure she's not done yet! Always looking for the next one Elaine writes no matter if it's Dead End Jobs or Mystery Shopper series. Thanks always for an enjoyable read, Elaine! (Helga Thompson 1:35pm July 30, 2014)
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