Cat in the Dark

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Stacking her cartons of jumbled kitchen utensils and clothes against the wall beside Wilma's car, she sniffed the aroma from the kitchen, the delicious scent of ham and onions and cheese. But, hungry as she was, she didn't relish having to sit at the table with Bernine.

  She considered making an excuse and skipping breakfast, but that would hurt Wilma. It wasn't Wilma's fault that Bernine had moved in uninvited; she could hardly have let the woman sleep on the street-though the image did appeal. And not only had Bernine taken over the guest room, she was sitting in there with Clyde right now, all cozy beside the fire, and Clyde hadn't made the slightest effort to come out and keep her company.

  Coming home last night from the opening, she'd been on such a high, had returned Clyde's kisses with more than her usual ardor; they'd had such a good time. And now, this morning, he seemed totally distant.

  Slamming the last box into place, she wheeled her cement mixer out of the van and rolled it around behind the garage, parking it next to her two wheelbarrows, throwing a tarp over the equipment to keep out some of the damp. Wilma's backyard was as narrow as an alley, stopping abruptly at the steep, overgrown hillside. The front yard was where Wilma's flowers bloomed in rich tangles of color between the stone walks. Wilma, having no use for a lawn, had built an English garden, had worked the soil beds with peat and manure until they were as rich as potting mixture, creating an environ where, even beneath the oak tree, her blooms thrived.

  Closing the van's side door, Charlie stood a moment gearing herself to go back inside. Last night when Clyde gave her a last lingering kiss and drove off in the yellow roadster, waving, she had headed for bed wanting to stretch out and relive every lovely moment of the evening, from the festive arrival Clyde had planned for her, and all the compliments about her work, to Clyde's very welcome warmth. But then, coming into the guest room, there was Bernine in her bed, on the side of the room she thought of as absolutely her own, and Bernine's clothes scattered all over as if she'd moved in forever. Bernine had been sound asleep, her creamy complexion glowing, her red hair spread across the pillow as if she was about to have her picture taken for some girlie magazine or maybe welcome a midnight lover.

  A silk skirt lay across the chair, a pink cashmere sweater was tossed on the dresser, and Bernine's handmade Italian boots were thrown on the other bed beside a suede coat that must have cost more than six cement mixers. Surveying the takeover, feeling as if she'd been twice evicted, she'd gone back into the kitchen to cool down, to make herself a cup of cocoa. It was then that she found the note, folded on the table and weighted down with the salt shaker.

  She'd read it, said a few rude words, wadded it up, and thrown it in the trash. Had stood at the stove stirring hot milk, thinking she would sleep in the van.

  But of course she hadn't. She'd gone to bed at last, dumping Bernine's boots and coat on the floor, creeping into the other bed deeply angry and knowing she was being childish.

  This morning, coming down the hall from the shower, she'd avoided looking at Bernine sleeping so prettily-and had avoided looking in the mirror at her own unruly hair and her thousand freckles, had pulled on her jeans and her faded sweatshirt, her scuffed boots, tied back her wild mane with a shoestring, and slipped out of the room only to catch a glimpse of Bernine's slitted eyes, watching her, before she turned over, pulling the covers up.

  Then in the kitchen she'd hardly poured her coffee before Bernine came drifting in, yawning, tying a silk wrapper around her slim figure. And now the woman was in there with Clyde, all dressed up and smelling like the perfume counter at Saks. She hoped Bernine's soured love life, or whatever had left her temporarily homeless, had been suitably painful.

  An old boyfriend once told her that her temper came from insecurity, that her anger flared when she felt she was not in control of a situation, that if she would just take positive action, put herself in control, she wouldn't get so raging mad.

  Maybe he was right. She was considering what positive action she would like to take against Bernine when Mavity's VW Bug pulled to the curb, its rusted body settling with little ticks and grunts like some ancient, tired cart horse.

  Watching Mavity slide out, small and quick, and hurry to the front door, Charlie began to feel easier. Mavity always had that effect. And at last she went on in, across the roofed back porch to the kitchen.

  Wilma's kitchen was cozy and welcoming with its blue-and-white wallpaper, its patterned blue counter tile and deep blue linoleum. The big round table was set with flowered placemats, Wilma's white ironware, and a bunch of daisies from the garden. Charlie poured herself a cup of coffee as Wilma and Mavity came in, Mavity's short gray hair kinky from the fog, her worn white uniform freshly washed and pressed.

  As Wilma took a casserole from the oven and put a loaf of sliced bread in the microwave, Charlie mixed the frozen orange juice, and Mavity got out the butter and jam. Clyde schlepped into the kitchen hitching up his cut-offs, looking endearingly seedy. His disheveled appearance cheered Charlie greatly-why would Bernine be interested in a guy who looked like he'd slept in some alley?

  On the table, the frittata casserole glistened with melted cheese; the Sicilian bread came out of the oven steaming hot. The bowl of fresh oranges and kiwi, mango and papaya was aromatic and inviting. As they took their places, the two cats trooped in, licking their whiskers, and sat down intently watching the table. Charlie wished she could read their minds; though at the moment there was no need, their thoughts were obvious-two little freeloaders, waiting for their share.

  When they were seated, Wilma bowed her head, preparing to say grace. Charlie liked that in her aunt. Wilma might be modern in most ways, but true to family tradition she liked a little prayer on Sunday morning, and that was, to Charlie, a comfortable way to start the week.

  But the prospect of a morning prayer seemed to make Bernine uneasy; she glanced away looking embarrassed. As if the baring of any true reverence or depth of feeling was not, to Bernine, socially acceptable-or, Charlie thought, was beyond what Bernine understood.

  "Thank you for this abundance," Wilma said. "Bless the earth we live upon, bless all the animals, and bless us, each one, in our separate and creative endeavors."

  "And," Clyde added, "bless the little cats."

  Amused, Charlie glanced down at the cats. She could swear that Dulcie was smiling, the corners of the little tabby's mouth turned up, and that Joe Grey had narrowed his yellow eyes with pleasure. Maybe they were reacting to the gentle tone of Clyde's and Wilma's voices, combined with the good smell of breakfast. Now the cats' gazes turned hungrily again to the table as Wilma cut the frittata into pie-shaped wedges and served the plates. Five plates, and a plate for Joe and Dulcie, which she set on the floor beside her chair, evoking an expression of shock and pain from Bernine.

  Wilma passed Clyde's plate last. "How's work going on the apartments?"

  "A few complications-it'll be a while before we're ready for you to landscape the patio. But between Charlie's expertise and my bumbling we'll get it done."

  "Thank goodness for Mavity," Charlie said, patting Mavity's hand. "We couldn't do without you."

  "Couldn't do without Pearl Ann," Mavity said. "I'm the scrub team," she explained to Bernine. "But Pearl Ann does other stuff. I don't know nothing about taping Sheetrock. Pearl Ann's a regular whiz-she can tape Sheetrock, grout tile, she can do anything. She says her daddy was a building contractor and she grew up on the job sites."

  Clyde passed Mavity the butter. "Pearl Ann would be just about perfect, if she'd improve her attitude."

  "I invited her to breakfast," Wilma said, "but she planned to hike down the coast this morning." Pearl Ann Jamison, tall and plain and quiet, was fond of solitary pursuits, seemed to prefer her own dour company to the presence of others. But, as Mavity said, she was a good worker.

  Mavity glanced at her watch. "I don't want to be late, leave Dora and Ralph sitting in the airport."

  "They don't get in until eleven," Wilma said, and
she dished up another helping of frittata for Mavity. "Maybe they won't stay too long," she added sympathetically.

  "One of those night flights," Mavity told Bernine. "Catching the shuttle up from L.A. They bring enough luggage for a year."

  "Yes, you said that," Bernine told her dryly.

  "And with my brother here, too, my little place is straining at the seams. Maybe one of these days I can afford a bigger house," Mavity rambled amiably. "Two guest rooms would be nice. I plan to start looking when my investments have grown a bit more. That Winthrop Jergen, he's a regular genius, the way he's earned money for me."

  Bernine gave Mavity her full attention. "You have someone helping you with your-savings?"

  "Winthrop Jergen," Mavity said. "My investment counselor. Doesn't that sound grand? He lives right there in Clyde's upstairs apartment, was living there when Clyde bought the place."

  "Oh," Bernine said. "I see." As if Mavity had told her that Jergen meted out his financial advice from the local phone booth.

  "He has clients all over the village," Mavity said. "Some of Clyde's wealthiest customers come to Mr. Jergen. They pull up out in front there in their Lincolns and BMWs."

  Bernine raised an eyebrow.

  "He moved here from Seattle," Mavity continued. "He's partly retired. Said his doctor wanted him to work at a slower pace, that his Seattle job was too frantic, hard on his blood pressure."

  She gave an embarrassed laugh. "He talks to me sometimes, when I'm cleaning. He's very young-but so dedicated. That conscientious kind, you know. They're hard on themselves."

  "And he does your-investments," Bernine said with a little twisted smile.

  "Oh, yes, the bit of savings we had before my husband died, and part of my salary, too." Mavity launched into a lengthy description of the wonders that Winthrop Jergen had accomplished for her, the stocks he had bought and sold. "My account has almost tripled. I never thought I'd be an investor." She described Jergen's financial techniques as if she had memorized, word for word, the information Jergen had given her, passing this on with only partial comprehension.

  Bernine had laid down her fork, listening to Mavity. "He must be quite a manager. You say he's young?"

  "Oh, yes. Maybe forty. A good-looking man. Prematurely silver hair, all blow-dried like some TV news anchor. Expensive suits. White shirt and tie every day, even if he does work at home. And that office of his, there in the big living room, it's real fancy. Solid cherry desk, fancy computer and all."

  Bernine rewarded Mavity with a truly bright smile. "Your Mr. Jergen sounds most impressive."

  Dulcie, watching Bernine, envisioned a fox at the hen coop.

  "But I do worry about him." Mavity leaned toward Clyde, her elbows comfortably on the table. "You know that man that watches your apartment building? The one who's there sometimes in the evening, standing across the street so quiet?"

  "What about him?"

  "I think sometimes that Mr. Jergen, with all the money he must have-I wonder if that man…"

  "Wonder what?" Clyde said impatiently.

  Mavity looked uncertain. "Would Mr. Jergen be so rich that man would rob him?"

  Clyde, trying to hide a frown of annoyance, patted Mavity's hand. "He's just watching-you know how guys like to stand around watching builders. Have you ever seen a house under construction without a bunch of rubberneckers?"

  "I suppose," Mavity said, unconvinced. "But Mr. Jergen is such a nice man, and-I guess sort of innocent."

  Bernine's eyes widened subtly. She folded her napkin, smiling at Clyde. "This Mr. Jergen sounds like a very exceptional person. Do you take care of his car?"

  Clyde stared at her.

  Dulcie and Joe glanced at one another.

  "Of course Clyde takes care of his car," Mavity said. "Mr. Jergen has a lovely black Mercedes, a fancy little sports model, brand-new. White leather seats. A CD player and a phone, of course."

  The little woman smiled. "He deserves to have nice things, the way he helps others. I expect Mr. Jergen has changed a lot of lives. Why, he even signed a petition to help Dulcie-the library cat petition, you know. I carry one everywhere."

  Wilma rose to fetch the coffeepot, wondering if Mavity had forgotten that Bernine sided totally with Freda Brackett in the matter of Dulcie's fate.

  This was the second time in a year that petitions had been circulated to keep Dulcie as official library cat, and the first round had been only a small effort compared to the present campaign. At that time, the one cat-hating librarian had quit her job in a temper saying that cats made her sneeze (no one had ever heard her sneeze). The furor had been short-lived and was all but forgotten. But now, because of the hardhanded ranting of Freda Brackett, all the librarians, except Bernine, and many of the patrons had been walking the village from door to door getting signatures in support of Dulcie. Even Wilma's young friend, twelve-year-old Dillon Thurwell, had collected nearly a hundred signatures.

  Mavity busied herself picking up her dishes, and she soon left for the airport, her decrepit VW ratting away through the thinning fog. Strange, Dulcie thought, that at breakfast no one had mentioned the two burglaries. Usually such an incident in the village was a prime topic of conversation.

  She guessed Bernine had been too interested in Winthrop Jergen to think about burglaries, and certainly Clyde wouldn't mention them in front of her and Joe; Clyde hated when they got interested in a local crime. He said their meddling complicated his life to distraction, that they were making an old man of him-but Clyde knew he couldn't change them. Anyway, their interests gave him something to grouse about. As she and Joe slipped out into the fog through her cat door and headed up the hills, their thoughts were entirely on the burglaries and on Mavity's brother, Greeley, and his traveling tomcat.

  "If Greeley is the burglar," she said, "we need some hard evidence for Captain Harper."

  He looked at her quizzically. "Why the change of mind? You were all for keeping this from Harper."

  "I've been thinking-if Harper doesn't find the burglar and make an arrest, he'll set up a stakeout. And what if they see Azrael break into a shop? That would really tear it. What if the Gazette got hold of that?"

  "Harper isn't going to tell the press that kind of thing."

  "But one of his men might. Maybe the uniforms on stakeout would tell someone. What if Lieutenant Brennan or Officer Wendell sees Azrael open a skylight and slip in, and then there's a burglary and they start blabbing around the department?"

  Joe sighed. "You're not happy if we finger the old man, and you're not happy if we don't. I swear, Dulcie, you can worry a problem right down to a grease spot. What is it with females? Why do you make things so damned complicated?"

  "We don't make things complicated. We simply attend to details. Females are thorough-we want to see the whole picture."

  Joe said nothing. There were times when it was better to keep his mouth shut. Trotting across the grassy park above the Highway One tunnel, they headed up a winding residential street, toward the wild hills beyond.

  "And," she said, "if Brennan and Wendell did see Azrael break in, they'd start putting things together-remembering the times we've been under their feet at a crime scene."

  "Dulcie, who would believe that stuff? If a cop talked like that, they'd laugh him out of the department. No one would believe…"

  "People would believe it," she said impatiently. "The story's so bizarre, the press would love it. The papers would have a field day. Every tabloid would run it, front page. And every nut in the country would believe it. People would flock to Molena Point wanting to see the trained burglar-cat. Or, heaven forbid, the talking cat. If that got in the news…"

  "Dulcie, you're letting your imagination go crazy."

  But he knew she was right. He cut a look at her, kneading his claws in the warm earth. "If we can find the stolen money and get it to Harper, and if the guy's prints are on it, Harper will make the arrest without a stakeout. And the cops will never know about Azrael."

&nbs
p; "If there are any prints on the money, with those gloves the old man was wearing."

  "Likely he'd count the money after he stole it," Joe said. "Why would he wear gloves then? Harper gets the prints, arrests the old man, and you can bet your whiskers that tomcat won't hang around. He'd be long gone. And good riddance."

  "Except," she said, "that old man might tell the cops about Azrael, just to take the heat off himself. Figure he could make himself famous and create enough interest, enough sympathy for the talking cat, enough public outcry, that he'd be acquitted."

  "That's really way out."

  "Is it? Look at the court trials just this year, where public opinion has swayed the verdict."

  He looked at her intently. She was right. "Talking cat confesses to robberies. Verbose kitty discovered in California village."

  She twitched her whiskers with amusement. "Tomcat perjures himself on witness stand."

  "Speaking cat insults presiding judge, is cited for contempt."

  Dulcie smiled. "County attorney goes for feline conviction. Judge rules that jury must include proper quota of cat lovers."

  "Or cats," he said. "Tomcats sit on jury…"

  "Cat excused because she's nursing kittens…" She rolled over, convulsed with feline glee.

  "But," she said at last, "what about the murders? We don't…"

  "What murders?"

  "The three deaths. Azrael said he saw death-three murders."

  "You don't believe that stuff. Come on, Dulcie, that's tomcat grandstanding. There will be murder in this village.. ." Joe mimicked. "I smell death, death before the moon is full…" He yowled with amusement. "I see you two little cats standing over the bodies. … Oh, boy, talk about chutzpah."

  "But…"

  "So who is going to be murdered over a couple of little, two-bit burglaries? Come on, Dulcie. He was giving you a line. That tomcat's nothing but a con artist, an overblown bag of hot air."

  But Dulcie lashed her tail and laid back her ears. "There could be truth in what Azrael said." With all his talk of voodoo and dark magic, was the foreign tomcat able to see into the future?