Cat Shining Bright

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  He heard Juana Davis pause by the credenza to start a fresh pot of coffee. Luckily the maintenance crew cleaned the pot every night, or they’d be brewing road tar. He barely slit his eyes open as Max settled into his desk chair, hardly glancing at Joe.

  Dallas, carrying a printout, tossed his tweed blazer on the back of the couch and sat down. His jeans were freshly creased; he wore a white T-shirt, bright against his fresh Latino coloring; his short black hair was neatly trimmed. Davis, at the other end of the couch, was as usual in uniform, Joe seldom saw her in anything but black skirt and jacket, black hose, black shoes. Her square build, square face, and short dark hair seemed right for the regulation attire—but Joe preferred Juana in something less formal, the jeans and sweatshirt she wore on a hasty night call.

  Max reached underneath Joe, into the in-box, to retrieve a sheaf of papers. It had been years since he’d been careful handling Joe, wondering if he’d get scratched; now he glanced down, amused. “Looks like you have houseguests, tomcat. Looks like your family’s moving in with you.”

  His words shocked Joe. Had Wilma kicked Dulcie and the kittens out? What could they have done that she would evict them? He was unsettled, too, that Harper talked directly to him. He seldom did that, sounding as if he expected an answer. But why not? Max talked to his dogs that way, and to his buckskin gelding. What pet owner didn’t carry on a conversation with his animals?

  But what was this eviction about?

  Max looked at the two detectives. “A common break-in is one thing. But the trace evidence in Wilma’s living room—same as that from the salon and from Barbara Conley’s house.”

  Joe Grey kept his eyes closed, trying to hide his alarm. Someone had broken into Wilma’s? Were Dulcie and the kittens all right? He’d seldom burned so fiercely to speak up and ask Max for the details.

  “I want foot patrol, all three shifts,” Max said. “Wilma’s taking her cats and moving in with the Damens until we corral this guy.

  “He broke the living room window around 3 a.m., was going through her desk when Wilma came out. When she drew on him he took one look at the gun, bolted out the door, and was gone. She chased him—a pale Subaru SUV, but she only got the first three numbers.”

  Davis said, “And you found the same trace evidence as from the murder scene?”

  “McFarland did. Apparently the same flecks of Styrofoam, same as from Barbara’s house.”

  Davis sat frowning, Joe could feel her eagerness to compare the evidence from the three sources.

  “Ryan’s picking Wilma up,” Max said. “They’ll leave Wilma’s car in the drive. I’m sending McFarland to stay there, turn the lights on and off, the TV, the fireplace, let this guy think she’s home. Either he’s looking for something special or, after he tosses the place, he means to harm Wilma.” Max looked at the papers Dallas held. “Is that from the lab?”

  Dallas nodded. “Just came in—on some of the trace evidence from the Conley house.” The detective smiled. “Looks like Langston Prince was in Barbara Conley’s bed, maybe that same night.”

  Dallas took a sip of coffee. “And also in bed with her, fairly recently, was the man who killed them. The same dark hairs, other than Langston’s, that we bagged near the bodies at the salon. Looks like all the Styrofoam flecks are the same, too. The lab is comparing them. And,” he said, “they’re comparing the blond hairs we found in both houses. Not all were Barbara’s. Hers were dyed, long and everywhere in the house. The others were shorter, like a man’s hair. But none of those were in her bed,” he said, grinning.

  Two men in her bed the same night, Joe thought, isn’t that enough? Maybe the car thief was there earlier that same evening. And, he thought smiling, she didn’t even bother to change the sheets? Tomcats weren’t that fastidious, but Joe Grey found this particular situation disgusting.

  “Strange about that neighbor’s call,” Max said. “Just a young girl, but she was as secretive as our snitches.”

  “Maybe some teenager,” Dallas said. “Sneaked out with her boyfriend, didn’t want her folks to know.”

  Davis said, “What about the fingerprints at Wilma’s? Did they come up a match for those at Barbara Conley’s? When do we get the word back on Rick Alderson, see if we have a match?”

  Max leaned back in his chair. “We have Alderson’s prints, from his records. The prints we got from Barbara Conley’s match those we picked up at Wilma’s—we got a quick answer on that. AFIS says there’s no record on them. Nothing. This guy is not Rick Alderson.”

  “They’re sure?” Dallas said. “Wilma says he’s a dead ringer.”

  Max shrugged. “They’re sure. No record. The prints from Wilma’s match those at the Conley house and no record on them. AFIS ran both, to be certain—but there were smears, too, as with rubber gloves. A few partials where a glove was torn, but not much to go on.”

  This was all news to Joe. Pretending sleep, he tried to put it together. The trouble was he couldn’t be in two places at once, he’d missed too much.

  “I picked up a call when I came in,” Davis said. “Jerry, the bartender over at Binnie’s.” Binnie’s Italian was one of Davis’s favorites, she and the bartender sometimes dated casually.

  “He said Barbara Conley had been in the bar a number of times with a guy who looked like a muscle builder. Dark hair, black leather jacket. They’d come in late, stay sometimes until closing. But this was some weeks back, he hasn’t seen the guy recently. He said she’d been in for an early dinner with Langston Prince a couple of times.”

  I guess, Joe thought, there’s nothing wrong with Barbara dating her boss—until the wrong guy sees him in her bed.

  Joe Grey didn’t linger long over thoughts of human digression; he was soon out of Max’s office, dropping quietly down behind the chief, slipping out then racing down the hall and out on the heels of a pair of attorneys, then up to the roofs and home. He wanted to be there when his kittens arrived, he wanted to be sure they were all right, after the break-in. Wanted to be sure they behaved. And, maybe he’d like to see his family happily settled, in his home.

  14

  Ryan pulled her red king cab into her aunt’s drive between Wilma’s car and the back door and quickly they loaded up—a small overnight bag for Wilma, a box of food and toys and quilts for the kittens. Leaving the house watched by three plainclothes officers wandering the neighborhood door to door handing out religious pamphlets, and by one of Ryan’s carpenters measuring for the window, they hoped this much activity would keep the burglar away from the area until the house was quiet again. Wilma’s car had sat in the same spot all night and would remain there.

  Quickly the kittens leaped into the backseat, keeping their little mouths shut in case a cop, moving down the sidewalk, might hear them. All three were wide-eyed at this new delight, not only the exciting escape from the burglar, but the adventure of visiting a new house and taking over Clyde and Ryan’s downstairs guest room all to themselves.

  So far in their short lives they had been inside only two other houses besides their own: Kit’s hilltop home with Lucida and Pedric Greenlaw, the cats all sitting before the fire listening to Pedric’s tales; and Max and Charlie Harper’s ranch house with its pastures and stable and hay barn where they could climb the tall bales, and chase mice. Now here was another new place to explore, and the first thing they saw as Ryan approached the Damens’ house was Joe Grey’s tower rising above the second-floor roof. It didn’t look damaged at all, it looked brand-new.

  “A tree really fell on it?” Courtney asked, switching her tail.

  “It did,” Ryan said. “It was all torn branches and broken glass. It doesn’t take my crew long to fix a problem.” As she pulled into the drive, Wilma, Dulcie, and the kittens all piled out, moving quickly into the shadows of the porch. Ryan took the big box from her, as the kittens fled up the walk, hit the cat door at a run, and bolted inside nearly crashing into the big silver Weimaraner. He stood shocked at the onslaught, but smiling and wagging his
short tail.

  Joe Grey leaped to the couch watching his unruly kittens. “This is Rock,” he said as the kittens warily backed off from the Weimaraner. They had too often been warned about dogs, especially big dogs. “Rock’s all right,” Joe told them, “he won’t hurt you. He’s an exception.”

  “Exception,” Courtney said, not sure what that meant, but liking the new word. Was “exception” a kind of dog? Or did it mean different than others? Rock stepped gently among them to lick their faces. Reassured, the kittens rubbed against his legs. Ryan’s dad had brought the sleek gray dog back early that morning from their vacation trip; he had brought, as well, a dozen fresh, cleaned trout that were now in the refrigerator. The kittens, following the delicious scent to the kitchen, searched the counters and table but found no fish at all. Disappointed, they bolted away again through the rest of the house. Dulcie started after them—until she caught Joe’s look, and stopped.

  “Let them go,” Joe said. “Let them investigate.”

  Ryan agreed. “They can’t get into trouble here as they might have up at the Harpers’ ranch. No horses to step on them, no territorial barn cats to attack them.”

  “They have to learn about new places,” Wilma said as the Weimaraner poked his nose at her, begging for a pet. “Even a new house is an adventure, they can’t stay babies forever.”

  The kittens raced in again, pounding down the hall to explore the living room more fully, investigating the flowered couch and chairs, the three tall green plants growing in pots against the soft yellow walls, the fresh white draperies that begged to be climbed. But when they eyed the draperies then looked from Dulcie to Joe Grey, they backed off.

  As Ryan and Wilma headed for the kitchen, they paused a moment to watch the kittens looking above the couch and the mantel at the framed drawings of Joe Grey and Dulcie, of Kit, of a little white cat and the big silver dog. They looked and looked; and Courtney said, in a whisper, “Charlie Harper did these. Oh my. One day, will she draw portraits of us?”

  “I expect she will,” Wilma said, wondering at the kitten’s use of the word “portrait.” A word perhaps from memory? From some long-ago dream?

  But Striker and Buffin were most fascinated with Joe Grey’s comfortable chair, frayed, clawed, fur matted; Courtney joined them there, they all had to roll in the deep cushions, in their father’s scent, flipping their tails and purring.

  Joe and Dulcie watched them investigate behind the furniture, picking up new smells; they followed the kittens as they prowled again through the big family kitchen with its round table, the flowered chair at the far end that also smelled of Joe and of Rock and of another cat.

  “You smell Snowball,” Joe said, leaping to the kitchen table. He looked at his three curious children. “When you discover Snowball, be gentle with her. She’s not used to new visitors. She’s a shy, tender little cat—but she doesn’t speak. Be kind with her, you three.”

  The kittens looked back, very serious, then raced away to find Snowball; but pausing to investigate the downstairs guest room, rubbing their faces against its wicker and oak furniture, they quickly made it their own room. It was already scented with Wilma’s overnight bag and with their own sacks of kibble, their own toys and blankets.

  Best of all were the softly-carpeted stairs leading from the hall to the rooms above: they raced madly up and down, leaping over one another, flipping around in midair, dashing between Rock’s legs as he ran up the stairs gently playing with them. Dulcie followed to keep them out of trouble. Joe Grey remained in the kitchen watching Wilma slice cranberry bread and Ryan brew coffee; Ryan wore a flowered apron over her worn jeans and khaki work shirt, the ruffled hem brushing the top of her leather work boots. They could hear, upstairs, the thunder of Rock’s paws, and the kittens’ softer thumps as they leaped from desk to rafter and down again; they had strict instructions not to go out on the roof.

  Ryan said, as Wilma sat down at the table and poured the coffee, “I’m still nervous about the break-in. That was no casual burglary, not after his following and watching you. You have nothing of huge value, not like the mansions up in the hills or along the shore.”

  “Janet Jeannot’s painting,” Joe Grey said, leaping to the table. “Janet’s landscape hanging right there over Wilma’s fireplace.”

  Ryan nodded. “That painting of the village is worth a nice sum. But it isn’t as if you own a whole collection of expensive art, or a houseful of priceless silver and antiques. Besides Janet’s landscape there are only the few pieces of jewelry Kate has given you. They’re worth a lot. But even if he’d seen you wearing them, how would he know they were real? And,” she said, putting sugar and cream on the table, “if he was looking for jewelry, why would he look in your desk? He—Oh,” she said, looking at Wilma, then at Joe Grey. The tomcat’s yellow eyes were smugly slanted, waiting for Ryan to catch up.

  “Oh,” she said again, “the Bewick book? But how could he know about that? Anyway, it’s gone now,” she said sadly. “There’s nothing but ashes.”

  It was the feral cats who had first discovered an old and sturdy, handmade wooden box buried among the ruins beneath a tilted foundation. They had led Wilma and Charlie Harper there to find, within, an ancient and valuable volume, hand printed on thick parchment pages. Old, handmade type, hand set, and printed by some early, manual process. The illustrations were woodcuts, hand carved, hand printed. The volume had been produced by artist and writer Thomas Bewick in 1862.

  Of the few original copies that remained, most were owned by collectors, each worth at least several thousand dollars. But this one single copy had an added chapter at the back, where Bewick had written about the cats he had encountered in his travels. Wilma and Charlie had been so excited to find such a treasure; but they were shocked when they read that chapter. Why had Bewick written this?

  Later when Wilma researched through all the collectors’ and libraries’ lists of ancient books, through all the sources she could find, there was no hint of this unique, single volume. She didn’t understand why Bewick had produced that copy. He had to know how dangerous any printed word was for the safety of the cats he had so admired—someone who loved the speaking cats should be committed to keeping their secret. Had Bewick let his urge to tell such a wondrous tale, to produce just the one volume with its beautiful woodcuts, override his concern for the cats themselves?

  The book, she thought, hidden there in the Pamillon estate, had to have belonged to someone in the Pamillon family. Had they all known the secret, or had only a few? If the wrong person read those words, they might well go searching for the rare cats, meaning to exhibit them, to show them on TV, make fortunes from the innocent creatures.

  Fortunately, that seemed not the case with this family—the Pamillons might have been strange in many ways, but the person who had hidden the book had apparently remained silent. One old aunt, who had died recently, had known all her life the truth about the feral band that lived in the ruins but she had said no word, Wilma was certain of that.

  There were a few men in prison who knew; no one could say how they found out, but they had cruelly trapped several of the feral band. Charlie had freed the leader of the clowder, and Clyde had helped to release the others from their crowded cage.

  The day that Wilma and Charlie found the book and brought it home, Wilma had locked it in her desk; but soon she had moved it to her safe-deposit box, adding Charlie’s and Ryan’s names and giving them keys. Then, not long afterward, for the future safety of the cats, but their hearts nearly breaking, the three women had burned the rare volume. They had felt sickened, standing around Wilma’s fireplace watching the flames devour a treasure singular and precious.

  Now, in the kitchen, Ryan said, “How could this Rick Alderson, who is not Rick Alderson, how could he know about the book—if that’s what he was after?” She looked at Joe Grey. “Do you know something we don’t, tomcat, with that sly look? Or are you only guessing that’s what he’s looking for?”

  Joe
lifted his paw, snagging a slice of cranberry bread. “I wish I knew more, I wish I could put it together—but that’s the only thing Wilma did have of great value,” he said, licking crumbs from his whiskers.

  “And who is this guy,” Joe said, “if not Rick Alderson? He’s apparently part of the car thieves, and he could be the beauty salon killer. How does Wilma fit in, how does the book fit in? Could he know about it from someone who’d been in Soledad Prison?” Nothing Joe had picked up, snooping on Max’s desk and listening among the officers, had touched on rare books or the theft of books. But, he thought, if the Bewick book was what this guy was after, even if it had been destroyed, could it be used to trap him? Quietly enjoying his snack, Joe began to put together a plan. “Maybe . . .” he said. “Maybe if—”

  A sound from above silenced him, a rocking and sliding noise, a rhythmic thumping from Ryan’s studio. They all looked up, listening—until a crash directly overhead sent Joe and Wilma and Ryan flying away from the table. A thunder so loud they thought the ceiling would fall sent them racing for the stairs. Between their feet the little white cat bolted down headed for the kitchen and safety. From above, Rock’s thundering bark filled the master bedroom and studio, an angry, puzzled challenge.

  Then, as suddenly, silence.

  An empty, guilty silence.

  Racing upstairs they found, at the top of the steps in Clyde’s study, nothing at all amiss. Ryan moved to her right into the big master bedroom. The doors to the dressing room and bath were closed. She looked in both but everything was in order; the entire room was undisturbed, even the space under the bed.

  They headed for her studio.

  Sunlight blazed in through the glass walls that framed the oak and pine trees. Sun shone on Ryan’s beautiful, hand-carved drafting table, picking out the ornate curves of its metal stand and its sleek oak top. The table lay on its side, the big, movable drafting surface wrenched away from the intricate metal stand, the floor dented where the table had crashed and broken.