Amy Riser’s voice rang out, strong and clear with underlying authority as she made her way toward the stage. She stepped up on the stage and went over to the lectern. Tina moved aside and Amy splayed her hands on the podium and said loudly, “I’m Detective Amy Riser, Fox Hollow Police. I’m asking for everyone’s cooperation in our investigation.”

“Investigation?” A redhead wearing an expensive-looking pink cashmere sweater who I recognized from the Siamese trial stepped forward, her brows drawn together. “What does that mean?”

“It means there’s more to this than meets the eye,” commented a fat, balding man from the middle of the crowd. He pointed a finger at Amy and said, “You’re a homicide cop, aren’t you? So does that mean . . .”

“Oh my God,” cried someone else. “Isobel was murdered!”

Excited voices broke out again, and Amy Riser slammed her hand down on the lectern, causing a few people to jump. “Quiet, please,” she said. “There has been no official determination yet as to the cause of Ms. Lanford’s demise. Right now we are regarding her death as a suspicious circumstance.”

“Suspicious in what regard?” the fat man asked. “Was she poisoned? Stabbed?”

“We cannot release any details at this time. What we are asking for is everyone’s cooperation,” Amy said, her tone steely. “As soon as we get your statement, you are free to leave. My men will be around shortly.”

“So what about the show?” someone yelled. “Is it canceled for good or what? And what about letting us know what that prize is, what we’re all working toward?”

Tina touched Riser’s arm, and they held a short, whispered conversation before Amy Riser made her way off the stage. Tina again gripped the microphone. “The detective has informed me that since the main arena where the show is held is not considered part of the crime scene, we’ve been given permission to resume the show. We will commence tomorrow at eleven a.m. with the scheduled agility judging.”

The murmuring and whispering started again. One man raised his hand. “You’re really going to continue the show?” he asked. Before Tina could answer, he shook his head. “We’re not Hollywood, after all. The show doesn’t have to go on.”

“It is terrible about Isobel,” Tina said. “But there are other people to consider. Some have traveled a long way for this show, and I know Isobel would want it to continue.”

“She damn well would,” muttered Sheena. “Wherever she is, I bet she’s enjoying this.”

Tina started to step down from the podium, but a gray-haired man in an Argyle sweater stepped forward, blocking her path. “Since the show will be continuing,” he said, “there is a matter that needs attention.”

Tina looked at him. “And what might that be?”

“The reveal of the grand prize for the winning feline,” he said. “Lots of us have been waiting patiently for that announcement.”

“Mark Coffee,” muttered Sheena. “Figures that would be what he’s interested in.”

Tina raised an eyebrow. “That will be revealed, sir, in due time.” She started to step away but he blocked her path. “I think the time is now,” he said.

Tina squared her shoulders. “As Detective Riser said, a woman is dead. I think we can all understand what the more important issue here is.”

“You bet we do.”

I turned and saw Dennis Lanford pushing his way through the crowd. He paused in front of Mark Coffee, shot him a withering look, then jumped up on the podium and went directly to the lectern. He grabbed the microphone and said, “Good evening, everyone. Some of you know me. I’m Dennis Lanford. Isobel Lanford is—was—my stepmother.” He paused, raised one hand to swipe at his eyes. “This show was one of Isobel’s greatest achievements. She worked tirelessly for many years to make it a success. She loved cats, and she loved this association. It was more than just an avocation to her—it was her life.”

“How touching,” Mark Coffee said. I gave a quick glance around at people’s expressions and was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who caught the hint of sarcasm in his tone.

Dennis looked out over the crowd. “I want to assure everyone that this show will indeed continue and it will be dedicated to her memory. As far as the grand prize goes, we hope to have a statement issued tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! Why do we have to wait?” shouted Mark Coffee. As the murmuring started up again, Dennis banged his hand on the lectern.

“Please—have a little respect,” he said, his tone softer. “We will try to satisfy everyone, but . . . I beg for your patience. Please.” He swiped at his eyes again and stepped away from the lectern.

“Crocodile tears,” someone off to my left said. “He couldn’t stand his stepmother, and everyone knows it.”

“Yeah,” said someone else. “He’s putting on some performance for the police’s benefit, no doubt. He’s probably thrilled she’s gone.”

“Who knows,” said a third, “maybe he did her in.”

Sheena’s eyes flashed. “Someone should tell those people to mind their own business. Dennis wouldn’t kill Isobel. No way.”

I looked at her. “You sound pretty positive of that.”

She shrugged. “I’ve gotten to know Dennis over the past few days. He’s a lot of talk, and he and Isobel didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of issues, but deep down he really cared about her. He would never have harmed Isobel.”

I wasn’t so sure I agreed with Sheena’s statement. I distinctly remembered Dennis saying there had been plenty of times when he wished his mother weren’t around.

Had he meant permanently?

There was also the matter of the stolen charm. Had whoever killed Isobel also stolen it? It seemed the most logical conclusion, that perhaps the charm had been the main objective and poor Isobel had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unless . . . could her murder have been planned along with the theft? And if so, could Dennis have had something to do with it?

I had no answer to that question . . . yet.