Cat Laughing Last

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  They could drop the envelope at Dallas Garza's cottage door; or they could tell Clyde about it. Let Clyde take over, though this suggestion was totally against Joe's nature.

  Maybe, after all, he'd just leave it where it was, wait to see what developed.

  Standing on the kitchen counter hooking his claws in the refrigerator door, Joe pushed backward, wrenching it open. He caught it with a fast paw, before it swung closed again.

  On the bottom shelf lay a take-out tray glistening with clear wrap to keep it fresh. This was no collection of dry leftovers, this was a work of art, an elegant and expensive party tray, a concoction from Jolly's Deli, meant for true indulgence. This was their little snack? Joe wondered if he'd read the note right.

  But the tray had been placed in his personal area, on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

  "To what," Dulcie said, "do we owe this? Has Clyde not been well?"

  They removed the tray carefully and laid it on the linoleum. "Maybe he's trying to make up for past cruelties," Joe said, clawing at the plastic wrap. The tray contained an assortment as fine as any George Jolly had ever put together. There was imported Brie, Beluga caviar, Alaskan smoked salmon, king crab, shrimp salad, cold mushroom quiche, spinach souffle, four small cannoli, and brandy-flavored sponge cake, a treat that most cats would give up eight of their lives for but would find dangerous to their digestion. Enough party food, in short, to give the three cats heartburn for a month if they did not employ some restraint. The two older cats tried to eat slowly, savoring each bite. But the moment the wrap was off, the kit plowed in as if she hadn't seen food in weeks, slurping, guzzling, smearing the floor and her whiskers.

  Joe glanced at Dulcie as if she ought to teach the kit some manners, but Dulcie was too busy enjoying her own supper. When at last they were sated, they pawed the plastic wrap back over the uneaten portions and, like the good cats they were, they put the tray back in the refrigerator. In case Clyde would like a bite later.

  With their bellies full, they curled up together in a heap on Joe's chair, atop Catalina's hidden letter. They were asleep in seconds.

  They barely woke when Clyde came in, didn't hear him go to bed. They slept until the small hours called to them, the bright and imperative predawn summons that routs all night predators long before the sun appears-that shot of psychological adrenaline that has belonged to cats since the world began. This was the witching hour, the hour when the village was its most silent and when, on the hills, the succulent little rabbits danced.

  But tonight, they hunted human prey.

  Pushing out through Joe's cat door, they galloped across the village watching for marauding raccoons and the occasional coyote that might wander the village streets. Overhead, every star that ever burned seemed to crowd the rooftops. They had chosen five locations where the man in the tan Infinity could be staying, all houses with rooms to rent and with the requisite eucalyptus tree and pyracantha bushes. They separated before they reached Ocean Avenue, Joe heading for a cottage to the south, the kit for the one nearest the shore, and Dulcie for a motel just beyond the courthouse. The kit had been given specific instructions and stern warnings about what not to do.

  Many villagers didn't like eucalyptus trees, those handsome, aromatic imports from New Zealand that had so changed the face of California. In a high wind, their trunks broke too easily; and their wood was so full of oil that they created considerable hazard in case of a nearby fire. But other villagers loved them; and to a cat, certain varieties were excellent to climb, with open spaces between their wide-reaching branches, and clumped foliage that could conceal. And tonight those landmark trees might lead them to Susan Brittain's thief and maybe to Fern's killer.

  Dulcie, trotting away from Joe and the kit, galloped by the courthouse, looking ahead to the tall, rangy eucalyptus that thrust above the cypresses and pines, its silver foliage pale against the night. Beyond it stood a small, old motel of ten cottages surrounding a patio. The softly lighted sign read, No Vacancies. No Pets. The only parking, besides the street itself, was around back, four spaces; first come, first served. Trotting across the neatly tended patio garden between massed blooms of geranium and lavender, and watching for the motel cat, who, being elderly, was probably still asleep, she scrambled up the six-foot gate. Perched atop the fence, she looked down at the bare-dirt parking strip.

  A line of pyracantha bushes bordered the drive, and on the narrow space, parked two behind two, were a Ford convertible, a white Olds coupe, a blue Chevy S10 pickup, and a black Jaguar. No Infinity, tan or otherwise. And nothing of that description was out on the nearby streets when she circled several blocks looking. She gave it up at last, and went to meet Joe and the kit. Joe, meanwhile, was trapped in the bedroom of a young woman.

  The lady had woken suddenly when Joe jumped to the dresser, though he'd made only a tiny thump. Looking sleepily around the room, she had pulled the blankets up against the early dawn chill, but then had risen to shut the window, effectively trapping Joe inside, unless he could slide the glass up again. She hadn't noticed the hole in the screen, or that it was unlatched. She had apparently been too sleepy to notice a cat blending into the shadows around the dresser. Joe wondered if all the young women of her generation slept in oversized T-shirts with pictures and statements of a personal nature stenciled on them. This lady liked champagne, diamonds, and hot cars. The room was on the first floor of an old, brown, shingled rooming house sheltered by a large eucalyptus. Joe had found the Infinity parked behind, license 2ZJZ417. Oily leaves stained its sunroof, and from the pyracantha bushes that grew along the drive, green berries were crushed beneath its wheels.

  Sniffing along the edge of the driver's door he had detected the scent of a man, of shoe polish, and of sugar doughnuts. He had followed the trail to the front door of the building, which of course was locked. A small, demure sign by the door said Do Not Disturb Resident. This meant, in village jargon, that the owner rented out a room or two, possibly illegally, a common practice in Molena Point, where any kind of housing was at a premium. He had tried the first open window, had smelled sugar doughnuts within, and had entered.

  He'd found the doughnut bag wadded up in the trash, and only the young woman in residence. Had Prey been here, visiting her, and already left? Joe waited until she was breathing deeply again, then fought the window open a few inches. He heard her stir, but he was out before she saw him.

  Leaping to the next sill, peering in through the glass, he listened to ragged male snoring. Even through the closed window, he smelled the same male scent as on the car, as well as the sugar-sweet doughnuts. Maybe the two tenants had shared a little snack.

  He could detect no smell of dog-but the guy had dumped the dalmatian. Maybe the dog had caused trouble with the landlady, maybe dogs weren't allowed. Maybe the guy had tried to smuggle it in and got caught, so he left it somewhere.

  What kind of a man would abandon a nice dog? Couldn't he find some other solution? Board the animal? At least take him to the pound if there was no alternative, not just dump him, frightened and hungry.

  The man slept naked in the single bed, the sheet thrown back, one arm draped over the side. Enough starlight washed into the room so Joe could see his face clearly. Thin cheeks, muddy-brown hair, pale brows and lashes, his ears set close to his head. His nose was long and thin, with slightly pinched nostrils. His forehead was high, for such a young man, rising into a widow's peak. A fresh scar burned across his brow, red and puffy, pushing up into his hair just where Susan Brittain's intruder had been wounded.

  The window was locked tight, Joe could see where the bolt had been thrown. But above him to his left, the high, narrow bathroom window was cracked open, the occupant assuming correctly that no human burglar could get through that small opening.

  Scorching up a bottlebrush tree that crowded against the house, Joe jumped to the sill and hung, scrabbling onto the narrow ledge. Clawing a hole in the screen, he unhooked the latch and slipped inside.

 
He balanced for a moment on the sill, looking, then dropped to the cluttered sink among a jumble of shaving gear, antiseptic bottles, adhesive tape, and oversized Band-Aids. A tangle of wet towels hung on the two rods. The walls smelled of mildew. Slipping silently down to the linoleum, without his usual heavy thud, he moved into the bedroom.

  The mismatched furniture was scarred and old, possibly purchased from the Goodwill with just this rental in mind. A calendar of the Grand Canyon hung above the bed, a stone landscape without any hint of plant or animal life, so dry looking it made Joe's paws feel parched. A half-eaten doughnut lay on the dresser next to the guy's billfold. Leaping up, Joe nosed the billfold open and had a look at the driver's license.

  The face matched that of his sleeping friend. The name given was Lenny Wells-Susan's dog-walking companion. The address was in San Francisco. He went through the billfold, stubbornly pulling out credit cards with his teeth. He found no other identification. But this guy with the fresh scar on his forehead had to be Augor Prey.

  Using teeth and claws, he managed to slide the little plastic cards back into the tight leather compartments, leaving curious indentations for Prey to puzzle over, and coveting, not for the first time, the luxury of human thumb and fingers. He searched the dresser, easing the drawers open, trying his best to be quiet and not make scratching sounds, and glancing up frequently to be sure Prey hadn't awakened.

  He needn't have worried; the guy slept like the dead, didn't make a wiggle. Maybe he'd OD'd on too many sugar doughnuts. Finding nothing in the drawers but a few pairs of jockey shorts and athletic socks, and nothing taped beneath the drawers against the rough undersides, he inspected beneath the dresser.

  Nothing for his trouble but dust in his nose and whiskers. When he crawled beneath the bed, his inventory included five large dust balls, three gum wrappers, and a wadded-up paper bag, which, when he got it open, proved to be empty. He found nothing remotely resembling Catalina Ortega-Diaz's letters.

  When he shouldered the closet door open, he found the interior bare except for a row of rusty wire hangers. Apparently Prey preferred the backs of chairs for keeping the wrinkles from his jacket and spare shirts. Not until Joe slipped stealthily up onto the bed itself and approached Prey by padding across the blankets did his search pay off.

  Watching Prey, ready to leap free from grabbing hands, slipping to within inches of Prey's stubbled face and redolent night breath, Joe pushed an exploring paw beneath the pillow.

  Under the pillow lay a gun, just beneath Prey's head. Joe could smell burnt gunpowder, as if the piece had been fired recently but not cleaned. The cold barrel lay against his paw; he touched along its length, careful to stay away from the trigger, then gingerly he pressed a paw against the back of the cylinder.

  He could feel one shell casing, in the little exposed part of the cylinder that protruded out beyond the barrel. That could mean anything. A full load of five or six shots? A partial load? Only one bullet, in that particular chamber? Or even a spent shell. But surely no one would fire a gun and leave the empty shell casings in the cylinder.

  He sure wasn't going to try to open the cylinder and eject the shells to find out, even if he could manage that. Not without some pistol training-which he didn't think was in his immediate future. And not while crouching on the bed with his face just inches from Augor Prey's face.

  He had no way to know if this was the gun that shot Fern-but it sure did smell of burnt gunpowder. Slowly he backed away, watching the sleeping man, moving softly across the bed. When his heart stopped pounding, he leaped to the dresser again and sat for some time studying Prey.

  The wound on Prey's forehead was still angry, and darkly scabbed over. Joe could see the rectangle of sticky lines where adhesive tape had been pulled off. When Prey stirred and moved his hand, Joe dropped down to the rug again as silently as he could, and headed for the bathroom.

  Onto the counter, among the jumble of toiletries, one leap to the high windowsill, and he pushed out beneath the screen.

  Dropping to the grass, he headed through the village, for the house just beyond Molena Point's tallest eucalyptus tree, where the kit had gone to look for Prey. There must, he thought, be another two dozen houses in the village with eucalyptus trees and pyracantha bushes; and who knew how many of those rented rooms. He and Dulcie, picking the three they knew best, had gotten lucky. Trotting along the sidewalk beside the deep flower gardens of a handsome Tudor cottage, he wondered if his anonymous report of the revolver would be enough for Harper to get a warrant, either for Prey's arrest or to search the premises. Ahead stood the hundred-foot eucalyptus, at the edge of the little sand park.

  The park, running between the Bakery Restaurant and the beach, was a block-square oasis of low sand dunes, twisted cypress trees, and patches of hardy shore plants. The eucalyptus stood on the corner, its pale bark peeled off in long rolls like parchment, its white arms stretching against the night sky. Among its clumps of long silver leaves, he could see something dark, high up; something alive and clinging, wriggling nervously from the highest branch. He caught the gleam of frightened eyes.

  "Wow," said the kit from that great distance.

  "Come down," Joe said softly. "Come down, Kit."

  "Can't," bawled the kit. She clung like a dark little owl, high and alone in the night sky.

  "What do you mean, can't? Why did you go up there? You're not afraid?"

  "Tomcat chased me up. I've never been this high."

  "Where's the tomcat?"

  "I slashed his nose. He went down again, and Dulcie chased him."

  Joe looked around for Dulcie but didn't see her. He didn't hear any anguished cries from the neighboring yards. "What tomcat?"

  "A spotted tomcat, in that house I looked in. Came right through the window at me! Mad! Really, really mad!"

  Joe Grey sighed. "Come on down, Kit. Come down now!"

  She turned on the branch, heading down headfirst.

  "No! Don't do that! Turn around, and back down. You know how to back down a tree with your claws holding you." He was shouting, angry and terrified that she'd fall, and praying that no one was out walking this late. Or that some homeless soul had decided to sleep in the sand park and would wake highly entertained by their little drama. Why was it that a cat who knew better would lose all good sense when high up in a tree? Why would any sensible cat insist on starting down headfirst, knowing very well that she would be unable to stop herself?

  "Turn around, Kit!"

  She turned, wobbly with fear, clinging onto one small branch. She started to slip.

  "Get your claws in the tree. Back down with your claws! Watch where the bark is loose, don't…"

  She backed straight into the loose bark and slid fast, the bark curling down with her. Frantically she scrabbled and grabbed and nearly fell, then got her claws into a hard place. He could feel his own claws clutching, trying to help her. But at last she seemed to have a good hold. She backed down slowly, though he could still hear her claws ripping the bark. Where was Dulcie? Why had she run off chasing some worthless tomcat? The bark slid again, and he crouched to leap up after the kit, to break her fall.

  A voice stopped him. "You'll only make things worse."

  Dulcie pushed against him, her whiskers brushing his, both of them staring up at that small, scrambling creature. "She has to do it on her own. She has to know she can."

  "If she doesn't break her silly neck."

  They waited, not breathing, watching the kit fight her way down. She dropped the last six feet into the sand, crouched there panting, then slogged across the sand to them, her paws seeming heavy as lead, her head and ears down, her fluffy tail dragging.

  They praised her for coming down so cleverly, then scolded her for going up so stupidly high. They licked and nuzzled her and praised her again until she began to smile. Then they headed for Jolly's alley, just to cheer her. They were all three stuffed from Clyde's costly deli plate, but nothing else would delight the kit as much as that litt
le side trip. Trotting close together, soon they turned onto the brick walk, beneath the little potted trees. Light from the two decorative lamps reflected in the stained glass doors and mullioned shop windows. The jasmine vine that hid Jolly's garbage cans breathed its sweet scent onto the cool night breeze.

  But the bowls that George Jolly had set out last evening had been licked clean, the other village cats had been at them. They sniffed with interest the lingering scents of vanished smoked salmon and seafood salad, a little nosegay of mouthwatering goodness where no scrap remained. Facing the empty bowls, the kit hunched down with disappointment.

  "You're not starving, Kit," Dulcie said. She leaped to a bench beside a potted euryops tree, and stretched out beneath its yellow flowers. Above the tree, the stars burned like the eyes of a million cat spirits. "You found Augor Prey," she said, watching Joe, amused by his smug look.

  Joe Grey smiled. "Fits the description. Fresh scar on his forehead. Driver's license in the name of Lenny Wells. Revolver under his pillow, that's been fired recently." He looked intently at Dulcie. "It's time to call Harper. Time to find a phone," he said shortly.

  Since he'd grown dependent on placing a call for certain matters, and since every human he knew had a cell phone, the inability to access a phone anywhere, at any time, had begun to make him irritable-instant phone access was now the norm. He didn't like being left behind.

  Right. And he was going to subscribe to Ma Bell Cellular? Walk around wearing a phone strapped to his back like some kind of service cat all duded up in a red harness? Though he had to admit, phones were getting smaller all the time. Who knew, maybe the day of Dick Tracy's wrist radio wasn't far in the future. Maybe he could wear one on a collar, designed to look like a license tag.

  Though the electronic wonder that concerned him most at the moment was caller ID. How long would it be until Harper sprang for caller ID on his cell phone? That was going to complicate life. As would this new system that would give police the originating location of all cell phone calls via satellite. That would be more than inconvenient.