Cat Shining Bright

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Had they already found Joe, were they with him? Lashing her tail, angry that she had fallen asleep and allowed them to slip out, she was filled with guilt, too. They were too young to be out on their own, they hadn’t learned all the dangers of the village, they hadn’t learned nearly enough about cars or about strangers, they might be bold but they were still innocent. Cursing her own neglect, she galloped into the living room where Wilma had answered the call.

  Courtney sat on the desk, her orange, black, and white softness pressed close to Wilma, her ear to the phone beside Wilma’s cheek, listening, her blue eyes wide and innocent. She hadn’t sneaked out of the house while Wilma and Dulcie slept. Dulcie wondered if the little calico had seen those two leave. Had seen, and had kept her kitty mouth shut?

  On the phone, Wilma said, “Hold on,” and she turned on the speaker. “It’s Joe, he’s in a café by the station, he only has a minute. The boys are with him, he said not to worry.”

  “They’re sticking to me like glue,” Joe said. “I’ll take good care . . . Gotta go, someone’s coming,” and the phone went dead.

  Dulcie knew they were headed for the crime scene. She knew that Joe would keep the kittens out of the way, and safe; he was always careful not to be seen by the law. If cats are conspicuous at a scene, and then within hours or a day an anonymous call comes in, a tip from the snitch, that was not a good combination.

  It will be all right, she told herself. Whatever happened, the danger’s over now. There was no need for her to show up, one more cat who might be seen, making the cops wonder. Instead she wandered the house, repeating to herself, They’re fine, the danger’s over, they’ll just watch from cover. But while Wilma made herself a soothing cup of tea over the open fire, and Courtney sat on Wilma’s desk clawing at the blotter, her calico body taut and uneasy, Dulcie paced nervously. Even if the police were there and Joe and Striker and Buffin would be safe, she felt that something was yet to happen. As if somehow her boy kittens were edging toward trouble.

  Kate Osborne, leaving the small caretaker’s apartment in the CatFriends shelter, headed down to the vet’s to leave three rescue cats, and then to the hairdresser to meet Charlie for breakfast; for a few moments she sat in her car warming it up, tucking a scarf into the throat of her sweatshirt against the morning chill. Her two daytime volunteers had already arrived, were feeding the rescues and cleaning their cages. The petting and grooming sessions would come later, after the kennels were immaculate and the cats all fed. Neither woman’s home had had serious wind damage, only a few fallen branches, but they said trees were down all across the village.

  Sitting in the Lexus, turning on a soft CD to calm the yowling cats, she could see that Voletta’s blinds, in the left-hand bedroom, were drawn. She supposed she should go down the hill, take her some breakfast, but maybe she was still sleeping after last night’s injuries. Scotty said she could get around all right in the walker. Voletta was a strong old woman. How many times had Kate seen her wandering the overgrown estate with its tumbled rocks and fallen walls? Kate liked to walk the ruins, too, but Voletta was always surly if they met. “You shouldn’t be walking up here, Ms. Osborne, this is Pamillon property.”

  “It’s mine, now,” Kate would say. “Had you forgotten?” She couldn’t bring herself to be falsely polite to the old lady. Even if Kate were only cutting a few roses from the estate’s wild-growing bushes, Voletta would scold her.

  Kate’s hair appointment was just after Charlie’s. Her short trim wouldn’t take long, and they’d have a late breakfast at the Swiss Café, if the power was on. Parking at the vet’s, she took two carriers to the door and went back for the third. Two of the scrawny rescues had been brought in last night before the winds grew fierce, the third cat early this morning, found by a paper deliveryman, the old cat shivering, ice-cold and very hungry. They had been fed and warmed up, but all three needed to be examined by Dr. Firetti and have their shots before they could join the shelter community.

  The clinic wasn’t open yet but when she pulled up to the door and rang the bell John Firetti answered. Tanned, with a boyish face despite his years, brown hair cut short above a high hairline, a kind smile, a hug for Kate, and gentle words for the three frightened rescues. A man who would never look old, not with that happy, caring grin. No wonder Dulcie’s kittens liked John so much; whenever he visited, the boy kits were all over him roughhousing and clowning, while Courtney, in the background, rolled over and flirted.

  When he took the cages in, Kate headed for the hairdresser, thinking about the thefts and the storm. She knew a tree had fallen on the Damens’ roof, she had talked with Ryan earlier; she was thankful that Joe was safe, that everyone was all right. She was tempted to stop for a moment, take a look at the damage; but the street would be filled with cops working the wrecked car, or maybe with Ryan’s crew already cutting and clearing away the tree. Life, Kate thought, was a poker game: good luck sometimes, and sometimes not so much; all an inexplicable and surprising mix.

  She thought of Scotty, of all the years they’d known each other, and not until these last few weeks had a sudden spark of real interest begun; though both were still a bit shy, both still holding back. Where would this lead, this slow, careful, yet for Kate heart-pounding relationship? Neither of them had ever been deeply serious about anyone. Kate, when she married Jimmie Osborne, had thought she was in love; but that was not the real thing, that partnership hadn’t lasted long before she knew the real Jimmie. That painful marriage was why, from the time she left him, she had been so wary of getting involved with anyone else. She certainly didn’t have Kit’s wild, head-over-heels exhilaration, the way the impetuous tortoiseshell had fallen at once, paws over ears, for red tabby Pan. Kit was so joyous, so certain that this was the moment, this meeting was the spark that would ignite the rest of her life—of both their lives. In Kit’s case, it looked like she’d been right.

  Kate thought about Scotty, last night, how quick and efficient he had been getting Voletta Nestor down to the hospital, carrying her out to his pickup, the wind blowing so hard it made her frizzled gray hair stand out every which way, wind had rocked the heavy truck so it nearly skidded off the road. Kate had watched them from Voletta’s house as they descended the narrow lane toward the village; hastily she had cleaned up the mess in the bedroom then had fought her way back through the wind to the safety of the cat shelter, to calm the frightened and nervous cats.

  First thing this morning she had called Voletta’s niece, she told Lena that Voletta had been in the hospital, she described the extent of the wounds just as Scotty had described them to her on the phone from the emergency ward. Lena had sounded shocked and distraught. She said she would be down before noon, and that she would stay as long as Voletta needed her. She wanted to know what she could bring. A walker? A wheelchair? Yes, she would be alone, she said nervously. She said she had no one to help her, but something in her voice was hesitant and uncertain.

  Lena was about fifty, she was surely responsible enough to take care of Voletta. Kate had met with her several times when she was trying to buy Voletta’s five acres. A small, light-boned woman like Voletta herself, but with smooth complexion, brown hair cut in bangs and straight to the shoulders. A quiet, hesitant woman, she seemed so shy, her voice as soft as that of a young girl. Still, Lena had been strong enough in the sales discussions, siding with her aunt. The cranky old lady had no intention of selling and Lena had been bold in backing her up, cool and emphatic suddenly, as forceful as Voletta herself.

  Coming down Ocean Avenue into the village, Kate started to turn onto the side street that led to the beauty salon but she halted abruptly.

  The street was blocked with police cars. Charlie’s red Blazer was parked just beyond where officers were stringing crime scene tape across the wide entry to the courtyard. Her stomach turned when she saw the coroner’s van, Dr. Bern’s van, parked inside the courtyard at the bottom of the steps that led up to the beauty salon. Two cops stood at the top of the st
airs. She caught a glimpse of Dr. Bern inside. She sat in her car shaky and chilled. Charlie had had the only early appointment. Charlie, and Barbara Conley, their hairdresser, would have been in there alone.

  Speeding on two blocks to the first parking place she could find, she skidded in at an angle, jumped out, and ran, she was ice-cold deep down inside. As she reached the patio, the coroner was coming down the tiled stairs. Behind him, four stern-faced young medics came carrying two stretchers, one behind the other. Each stretcher sagged with a wrapped body.

  Sick and shaken, Kate spun around searching for Charlie, for her wild red hair and vibrant smile. Looking and not finding her she felt more and more hollow. She didn’t dare go to Dr. Bern, didn’t dare go to his van, didn’t want to see what was there. When she couldn’t find Charlie, she sought among the officers for Max Harper.

  There: his back to her, Levi’s, boots, western shirt. He was talking with someone. He was so tall and the way he was standing blocked her view, she couldn’t see . . . she ran . . .

  She stopped, and started to breathe again.

  Charlie stood close to Max, the two deep in serious discussion. Max held a clipboard, taking notes. Charlie was all right, she wasn’t one of the bodies on a stretcher. Kate broke in between them, threw her arms around Charlie trying not to cry.

  Charlie held her, both of them shivering. “It’s . . . Barbara,” Charlie said. “Barbara’s dead. And Langston Prince. They were . . . I found them shot.” Charlie tried to sound steady, to stay steady in front of Max. “I just walked in and—” She stopped, pressed her fist to her mouth. Behind them, the medics were sliding the stretchers into the coroner’s van. “I just . . .” Charlie was saying when a yowl like a cat cry came from the roof above, loud enough to draw the attention of every officer present.

  Staring up, Kate and Charlie could see no animal, no shadow among the cluster of metal air intakes and protruding vents. But they knew that voice. Charlie looked at Max. “Are we done, can I . . . ?”

  “Go,” Max said, frowning, watching the roof. He got edgy whenever he saw or heard a cat around a crime scene. Charlie and Kate ran up the stairs, swung over the rail, and along the one-story roof to the metal pipes—but now there was only silence. They called softly, “Kitty? Kitty? Come, kitty,” in deference to the men below.

  They found Joe and the two kittens crouched among the tangle of air ducts, Striker holding his paw up, blood flowing from his pad, the buff youngster looking frightened, and ashamed because he had cried out. The cats were silent now, staring up at Charlie and Kate wanting help, Joe Grey’s eyes fierce with the need to hurry.

  Kate, pulling off her scarf, wrapped the cut paw. Charlie picked Striker up, cradling him as Kate picked up Buffin and Joe Grey, father and son draping themselves across her shoulders. She knew Joe wouldn’t stay here, and they couldn’t leave Buffin alone, she didn’t want to think of the trouble he could cause.

  Coming back over the roof and down the stairs, every officer watching them with their passel of cats, they ran for Charlie’s Blazer to head for the veterinary hospital, and to hell with what the cops thought. Passing Max, he looked at the blood-soaked scarf. “How bad is it? You need help?” And he gave Charlie a deeply puzzled look. Why were Joe Grey and his kittens there, what were they doing there? One was hurt, but why take all three to the vet?

  “Not too bad,” Charlie said coolly. “Just a lot of blood.”

  Max studied Charlie again, an unsettling gaze. “Call me on my cell if you need anything, we’ll be securing the two victims’ houses,” and he turned away, frowning.

  9

  Dulcie paced the living room trying to ignore Wilma’s glances. Joe had said Striker and Buffin were fine, but that didn’t keep her from worrying nor did it ease her anger that they had sneaked off and that he hadn’t brought them straight home. She thought of hawks, of stray dogs, of skidding cars.

  “They’re growing up quickly,” Wilma said. “Wanting adventure just as you did at that age—just as you still do,” she said softly. Having encouraged Dulcie to wait, not go chasing after the boy kittens, Wilma sat in a chair before the fire, Courtney in her lap, a book open before them, reading aloud one of James Herriot’s stories, about a lone little cat who had no home.

  The house was dim, her electricity still off, the only brightness this morning was where the fire’s blaze lit the pages of the book and warmed the living room. Wilma had gotten to a part of the story that brought tears to Dulcie’s eyes and that made Courtney shiver when suddenly the lights came on. In a moment they heard the soft rumble of the furnace. At the same time, the phone rang. Dulcie leaped to the desk and pressed a paw to the speaker, making sure the volume was turned up. It was Lucinda.

  “Is your power on yet? Did you weather the storm all right?”

  “Power just came on,” Wilma said. “Yours is still out? Is Kit there, is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Lucinda said, “but I worried all night. Yes, our power’s still out.”

  “The neighbors have two pines down across the street,” Wilma said. “A real tangle. Lucky they hit the garage and not the house. The young couple was out looking at it, I expect they’ve called a tree service—if they can get one in this mess. Do you want to come down to breakfast? I’ll make pancakes . . . There’s no one else here,” she added, for Kit’s benefit.

  “We’d love it,” Kit and Lucinda said together, Kit’s cry almost drowning Lucinda.

  Wilma rose as Dulcie clicked off the phone. She put aside the book, tucked Courtney down again in the warm chair, and headed for the kitchen. In moments the two cats could hear the sound of cracking eggs and then the beater going, then soon the sound of Wilma setting the table—but suddenly Courtney was no longer in the chair. She was on Wilma’s desk looking out the window. She was not waiting for Kit and the Greenlaws, but peering across the street where the two pines had fallen.

  “That man,” she said as Dulcie leaped up. “That same man again, watching our house.” She crouched lower, just her eyes and ears visible above the window frame. “Why is he watching? What is he watching?” The cloud-dulled sun rising behind Wilma’s house put the cats in shadow. Across the street, the fallen trees and broken branches made their own shadows among the damaged walls of the garage so little of the darkly dressed figure was visible. Dulcie was about to trot out to the kitchen and tell Wilma he was there when, again, the phone rang.

  Wilma picked up the kitchen extension. On the desk, Dulcie hit the speaker. What she heard made her hiss and lift a paw as if to strike the tomcat at the other end of the line. “Oh, Joe! How could you take them there and not keep them safe?”

  “I didn’t mean to bring them! If you’ll remember, I left them with you,” he said sharply. “The little brats followed me. I didn’t see them slip into the station. When a call came in for the medics and coroner, then I did see them. But what was I going to do? It was Charlie on the line, she’d walked into a murder. What else could we do but . . . ?”

  “Oh,” Dulcie said more meekly.

  Wilma said tensely, “Is Charlie all right?” Charlie Harper was Wilma’s niece, she was Wilma’s only family.

  “Fine, Charlie’s fine,” Joe said.

  “But,” Wilma said, “I thought she was going to the hairdresser . . .”

  “It was the hairdresser,” Joe said. “Barbara Conley was shot, and the owner of the salon. Just the two of them in the shop.”

  Wilma was silent. There was talk around the village about Barbara, and Langston Prince—but then, there was talk about Barbara and any number of men, some who lived in Molena Point and others whom no one seemed to know.

  “She . . . Barbara had been giving Langston a haircut,” Joe said. “But right now we’re . . .” Joe’s voice went low, as if he saw another scolding coming. “Striker cut his paw. It isn’t bad but Charlie and Kate brought him to Dr. Firetti, he’s putting a little bandage on it. I’m in Charlie’s Blazer, on her cell phone . . . Dulcie, don’t be mad. He
’s fine, he’s enjoying the attention.”

  Dulcie was silent. Joe, at the other end of the line, heard only a hollow emptiness. She said, finally, “How did he hurt himself? He wasn’t in the middle of the murder scene? What was he doing? How bad is he? What does Dr. Firetti say?” She knew she sounded tightly wound. And all the while that she was trying not to scold, she and Wilma and Courtney watched the man across the street. She said, “I hope Buffin wasn’t hurt, too?”

  “Buffin’s fine,” he said stiffly. She needn’t be so judgmental. “He’s having the time of his life looking in at all the other cats. Kate’s giving him a tour.”

  Dulcie sighed. “Bring them straight home when you’re done.” She knew how bossy she sounded. And what good was it to scold? She could hear in Joe’s voice his dismay that this had happened. She’d get the details later. The man across the street hadn’t moved, blending into the shadows of the fallen trees. As the clouds thinned and the sun lifted higher they could see more of his face: wide cheekbones, straight, thin nose, and narrow chin. He wore a cap, with pale hair sticking out. When the Greenlaws’ car pulled up, he slipped back among the branches, there was a ripple of shadow around the side of the shattered garage and he was gone.

  Dulcie and Courtney watched the street in both directions but he did not reappear. Dulcie started for the cat door, wanting to follow from the roofs. Wilma picked her up and held her firmly. “Not this time. Let him go, Dulcie.”

  Dulcie obeyed, startled at the unease in Wilma’s voice. They heard the back door open. Kit bolted into the kitchen ahead of Lucinda and Pedric; it seemed strange to see her without Pan, but the Firettis did need him just now, since Misto died. Wilma went to put the bacon in the microwave and pour pancake batter on the grill. Soon the smell of both filled the house, joining the scent of coffee.

  But Dulcie’s mind wasn’t on breakfast. It was partly on the vanished man and, most of all, on her injured kitten. How soon would they be home? Kate and Charlie were with them, and Dr. Firetti would take good care of Striker, yet still she wanted to race over the roofs to her child.