Cat Spitting Mad

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Joe peered closer, committing the seven digits to memory just as he had committed his own phone number, Dulcie's, and several numbers for Max Harper.

  He might not want to explore some of his more bizarre inherited talents, but the memory bank within his gray sleek head was of considerable use to the tomcat.

  Marin County, some thirty miles north of San Francisco, was the home of San Quentin State Prison. And Lee Wark hadn't been the only convicted murderer incarcerated there thanks to Harper.

  Repeating to himself the number and prefix, he was trying to figure how to get inside the apartment and paw through the rest of the bills when Dulcie hissed, staring down at the street.

  Almost directly beneath the balcony, in the line of halted traffic waiting for pedestrians to cross, sat an open black Mercedes convertible, its radio blaring rock music, its driver staring above her up toward Baker's windows. Her honey-colored hair was tied back with a yellow scarf. Her tan shorts revealed long, tanned legs. Her brown eyes scanned the portion of French doors that she must be able to see above the angle of the balcony. Beside her on the front seat sat three loaded grocery bags. The cats could see peanut butter, a jar of jelly, some kind of cereal. The traffic moved on.

  Dulcie watched narrowly as the convertible slid away. "What was she looking at?" Dulcie said.

  "Maybe at us." Joe leaped to the roof, away from the branch and Baker's windows. "Maybe she's a cat lover."

  "Oh, right." She joined Joe and the kit on the roof, her green eyes glowing. "Could she be checking on Baker? Is there a connection between Crystal and Baker?"

  "I don't-" Joe began. But Dulcie was gone, streaking across the rooftops, following Crystal's convertible as it crept in the line of slow-moving cars. Joe saw her disappear over the edge and reappear on the roofs of the next block, lashing her tail with annoyance-very likely after dodging too close to slow-moving wheels. He wished she wouldn't do that. The village's daytime streets, though crowded and slow, belonged to the cars of upscale tourists. That, he had pointed out to Dulcie, was why they used the rooftops.

  The early-morning village streets, before the tourists were out of their beds, boasted more careful drivers. Those streets smelled better, too. Smelled of the sea and of newly watered gardens, while the midday village smelled, to a cat, of exhaust fumes-deodorants-shaving lotion-perfume-chewing gum-restaurant cooking and too many human bodies.

  Joe caught up to Dulcie, the kit crowding close, and they followed the black Mercedes for eight blocks, crossing the streets twice among the feet of the tourists, enduring endless remarks about the cute kitties and constant attempts to pet them, dodging away from reaching hands.

  But when Crystal's car turned right, traffic moved swiftly again and the cats couldn't keep up; they ran until they were panting. Standing on the sidewalk, Joe stared after the Mercedes, frustrated. Joe and Dulcie didn't see the black SL again until the following week.

  But the kit saw Crystal's car later that evening and followed it, alone. Galloping along the sidewalk, dodging between tourists' feet, she was wildly excited to be on a trail that the two big cats had lost.

  The time was just dusk. She had been out for a prowl through Jolly's alley, because no matter how well Wilma fed her, she could never get filled up, and Jolly's had such delicious offerings, all that lovely smoked salmon.

  Leaving the alley licking her whiskers, she saw the open Mercedes go by, saw Crystal's tawny hair blowing and smelled Crystal's perfume. She followed, running seven blocks after the car but careful about crossing streets, followed until Crystal pulled into a drive and parked before a closed garage door.

  Crystal hurried up the wooden stairs, the kit following so close on her heels that when Crystal pushed in through the front door it slammed in the little cat's face. Backing away, the kit leaped to the windowsill, pressing her nose to the glass. There was a curtain drawn across.

  Rearing up, she couldn't see over it.

  Taking the direct approach she mewled at the door, her cries ever louder and more desperate, in the age-old classic plea: I am abandoned, I am starving, I am so terribly hungry and cold. She worked herself into a such a frenzy, convinced herself so well of her plight, that she was all a-tremble when Crystal flung open the door and dumped a pan of water in her face.

  The kit fled for Wilma's house.

  13

  DALLAS GARZA arrived in Molena Point at 8 A.M., the morning after the three cats spied on Stubby Baker. He was a big, broad-shouldered man dressed in civilian clothes-faded jeans, a tan shirt, charcoal V-necked sweater, and a tan corduroy sport coat, clothes that blended well into the milieu of Molena Point, comfortable layers to be removed as the fog burned off and the day turned warm. Garza's thick black hair was trimmed short, in a well-styled, no-nonsense haircut. His chiseled, square face, brown as oak, seemed carved into lines that were all business-a look that won immediate confidence from law enforcement and nervous reluctance from those who would screw with him.

  During his twenty-three-year career he had been put on loan three times to other departments when their internal affairs got into a tangle, carrying out investigations of fellow officers-once in Redding on a drug-related case, and twice in southern California on charges of moral misconduct. This was the first time he had been called in to investigate a murder.

  He had never met Max Harper. Garza didn't socialize on his vacation time; he kept to himself. He didn't like the fact that his case was Molena Point's chief of police, an officer well thought of in the village and among other law enforcement agencies in the state.

  But he owed Lionel Gedding. And Garza was rigid about paying his debts.

  He was uncomfortable, too, that Hanni was here and had opened the cottage, as if they were down for a family vacation.

  He didn't stop at the cottage to drop off his bag, but drove directly to Molena Point PD. In the police lot behind the station, he swung a U and backed into a slot against the back wall. Sitting in his car, he took in the blank, two-story brick wall on his right where the jail was housed, and the single-story police station on his left. The station was connected to the courtrooms and city offices behind him by an enclosed passageway.

  Garza had worked in San Francisco for ten years. Before that, he had put in five years on a SWAT team in Oakland. He would be forced to retire at age fifty-seven because his work was considered hazardous duty. He had no idea what he would do after that. He was four years younger than Molena Point Police Chief Max Harper. He had read the file on Harper the night before.

  Leaving the police parking lot, he walked two blocks toward Ocean to have breakfast at a favorite small cafe. Sitting in the patio with his back to the restaurant wall, he ordered three eggs over easy, ham, biscuits, and coffee. He ate slowly and neatly, watching the village street. A lot of the locals out this time of morning were dog walkers. And the tourists were walking mutts, too. Several hotels in the village catered to pets. Folks liked to bring their dogs along where the little poodles and spaniels-and a few big dogs-could run on the beach, show off up and down Ocean-four-legged conversation pieces-and sit with their masters at the outdoor cafes.

  It amazed him that people with money, people who drove expensive foreign cars, had mongrels instead of well-bred animals. Mutts. Absently he counted nineteen dogs; only two of them were purebred, and neither of real good breeding.

  If Garza was a snob in any way, it was in the matter of canines.

  A well-bred pointer or setter, a handsome big Chesapeake or Weimaraner of really good bloodlines was one of the finest accomplishments of mankind.

  A far finer accomplishment, in many respects, than man himself.

  But that was a cop's view.

  Paying the bill, tucking the tip under the sugar bowl, he walked to Molena Point PD, entering by the unlocked front door into the big open squad room. His first look at the department didn't please him.

  In the big open room, all functions seemed to be carried out with little thought to privacy or security. And certai
nly minimal attention to neatness. This surprised him. Harper had a reputation for running an orderly shop, but these officers' desks were piled with papers; a case of soft drinks had been left by the front door; several officers had hung their jackets over the backs of their chairs; two had laid their guns atop their desks; a pair of field boots stood next to an overflowing wastebasket. They didn't use shredders? Even the dispatcher's area contained stacks of papers that he would never have allowed. He did not, as he began to make the rounds of the room, find much to admire in Max Harper's department.

  Joe Grey and Dulcie spotted Garza leaving the restaurant as they stepped out of Jolly's alley after a leisurely post-hunting snack. The man's solid build and his military walk and air of authority drew their gaze. Dulcie's green eyes widened; her dark, striped tail twitched with interest. "Who's that?" The broad-shouldered, dark-haired Latino was an imposing figure.

  "Either a full bird colonel or some kind of law enforcement. My guess would be our detective from San Francisco. Garza's due to arrive this morning."

  They followed him, padding along the curb and through sidewalk flower gardens until the broad-shouldered stranger entered Molena Point PD. As Garza stepped in through the glass door, the cats beat it into the courthouse, whose front door was easy enough to claw open, galloped down the hall into the squad room, and took cover under Max Harper's desk.

  They couldn't see much but the jungle of desk and chair legs and officers' shoes spreading away across the linoleum, but they could hear Garza working the room, introducing himself to individual officers. They listened with interest to the causal wariness exhibited by Harper's men and women as they took Garza's measure.

  "Talk about a roomful of tomcats," Joe said, grinning.

  "So what would you expect? Garza was sent here to do their job and possibly to help prosecute their chief."

  Joe slipped out from under the desk far enough to see Garza sitting at Detective Davis's desk with Davis and Ray. They seemed to be going over field notes, Garza reading his copy and asking questions. Joe felt nearly invisible, with all officers' eyes on the threesome while trying to look busy with their own affairs. When at last Garza headed for Harper's desk, carrying the detectives' thick sheaf of reports and photographs, Joe was deep under the drawer section beside Dulcie.

  Sheltered from Garza's feet, they dozed as the detective shuffled papers. Periods of silence indicated that he was reading. He rose occasionally to refill his coffee cup from the large coffeemaker on the credenza behind him. Joe was soon cross-eyed with boredom.

  They had meant, coming out of the alley, to head for Dulcie's house and make that call to Marin County-Joe had a feeling about that phone number. The same kind of feeling as when, though he couldn't see or smell a mouse, he knew the little beast was close. He wanted to make that call in an empty house, without any human listening, and Wilma would be at work.

  Telephones still amazed him-sending his voice over that unseen cable to manipulate someone invisible at the other end.

  That joining of humanity's electronic wonders and his own remarkable feline skills gave him a huge sense of power. A real twenty-first-century, state-of-the-art jolt.

  And right now, while they marked time on the dusty linoleum under Harper's desk, learning nothing of value, that Marin phone number bugged him.

  They listened as Garza arranged to see the stable manager where the Marners had kept their horses, and to see several Marner family members who had arrived soon after the tragedy and were staying in the village. He set a time to see Charlie Getz and to interview the staff at Cafe Mundo. The problem with all this was that Joe and Dulcie would be privy to nothing, no more inside line to what was happening than if they'd been a thousand miles from Molena Point.

  Garza told Lieutenant Brennan that he would talk with the Marners' neighbors in their condo building, and he made an appointment for that evening with Dillon Thurwell's parents. That would be a hard call, for Dillon's mother and father to talk with police again, when there was only that one slim lead to finding Dillon, only the lost barrette.

  At least they knew she'd escaped the killer at one point. But nothing after that. Nothing more than that one small piece of jewelry that had been described in the paper just after the murder, the barrette Dillon's mother said the child had been wearing when she left the house Saturday morning. Nothing else to give them hope that Dillon was still alive.

  Garza made no appointment with Joe's housemate, though Clyde was Harper's closest friend. Other than this omission, the detective seemed to be starting out in an efficient and businesslike manner. Maybe he was going to descend on Clyde's place unannounced, hoping to catch Harper off guard.

  When Garza finished with the phone, he nodded to Detective Davis and Ray, and the three of them headed back to the conference rooms, Garza carrying the reports Davis had given him, as if he meant to go over the meat of the case in strict privacy. The cats were crouched for a swift race down the hall to listen, when they heard the conference room door slam closed.

  Slipping into the shadows of an adjoining room, they pressed their ears uncomfortably to the wall-cats' ears are not made for wall-pressing; it hurts the delicate cartilage. Even with their superior hearing, they could make out only indistinct murmurs, and the conference rooms had no windows that might be open to the bright morning. Their source within Molena Point PD had dried up faster than canned tuna left in the sun. Sometimes even a cat, the most facile and adept of snoops, gets outshuffled.

  "Come on," Joe said, and he headed down the hall, through the courthouse, dodging behind the heels of a pair of attorneys- you could always tell attorneys, they had briefcases growing out of their hands-and down the street to Dulcie's house, hot to get at the phone.

  14

  JOE AND DULCIE spied the kit in Jolly's alley as they were headed for Dulcie's house and the phone. The kit sat smugly beneath the jasmine vine beside an empty paper plate.

  Dulcie nudged her. "Come on, kit. Is that your second breakfast?"

  The kit smiled. Her face smelled of caviar and roast lamb.

  The two cats hurried her along out of the alley and down the street-like herding fireflies. She was everywhere, up the bougainvillea vines that climbed the shop walls, up into the oaks and across the roofs and down onto balconies and awnings. When they nosed her through Dulcie's cat door, she charged at a plate of scrambled eggs that Wilma had left on the floor and inhaled yet another meal.

  "I saw Wilma walking to work," she said between bites. "She looked elegant. Those beautiful pale jeans and that new black blazer and cashmere sweater."

  "Just jeans," Dulcie said. "Not so very fancy, kit."

  "Elegant," the kit repeated. And Dulcie had a sharp sense of the kit's fascination with beautiful clothes-a hunger perhaps as keen as Dulcie's own covetous craving. She wondered if the kit had ever stolen a silky garment from some house when she traveled with that rebel band of homeless cats. Wondered if the kit, just as she herself, had ever innocently lifted a silk nightie from someone's clothesline or nipped in through an open window to snatch a lacy teddy or a pair of sheer stockings.

  Well, Dulcie thought, I don't do that anymore.

  At least, hardly ever.

  She missed having those lovely garments to snuggle on. Oh, Wilma gave her pretty things. But the stolen ones were nicer.

  She was ashamed of her failing, and secretly reveled in it. She didn't consider herself a thief. She always gave back the stolen items, in a way-leaving them in the box on the back porch that Wilma had provided, where the amused neighbors knew to retrieve their "misplaced" clothes. Not stealing, she thought, following Joe through the dining room and onto Wilma's desk.

  Joe pushed the phone from its cradle, squinched his paw small, and punched in the San Rafael number. He was unusually nervous. The kit bounced up beside them to watch, round-eyed. And the three cats bent their heads, listening to the measured ringing.

  A man's gravelly voice. "Year. Alby? That you, Alby? You're two minutes ea
rly."

  Joe said, "Is this Davis Drugs?"

  "What the hell? Who's this? Who you calling?"

  "Davis Drugs." Joe repeated the number he'd dialed.

  "You got the wrong number, buster. Get off the friggin' line."

  Joe pressed the disconnect, scowling. "That didn't net much."

  "Didn't it?" said Dulcie. "Wait a few minutes, and try again."

  He waited, then punched the redial, checking the little screen to be sure he'd dialed the right number the first time. The kit watched every move.

  A different voice answered. Smooth but equally abrupt. "Yeah? Who you want?"

  "Hello?" Joe said inanely.

  "Who you want to talk to?"

  "I was calling Davis Drugs. Can you tell me what place I've reached?"

  "Davis Drugs! That's a good one! We ain't got that brand, buddy. Who you calling?"

  "Can you tell me what place this is? Maybe I have the…"

  A clanging, metallic voice sounded in the background, its vibrating rumble so loud they couldn't make sense of the words. Sounded like "Wall uh-uh-ers heave ta ecc-ecc-ecc-ed wall at once." A man shouted, "Come on, Joobie. Get off the damn phone! I got a call coming." Then a click and the line went dead. In a moment the recording came on telling Joe to hang up and dial again.

  He slapped his paw to silence the offensive message. "What was that all about?"

  Dulcie sat scowling, trying to make out the words. She lifted her paw. "Let me try."

  She punched the redial and the speaker button so they could all hear. She sat washing her paws, listening with all the sophistication of a debutante buffing her nails while monitoring the call of a dull-witted suitor. The gravelly voice answered. "Start talking. It's your nickel."

  "Hi, honey. This is May."

  "May who?"

  "Maybe I could give you a good time, baby."