Cat Shout for Joy

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Hanging up, he headed across to sort out the Bleak ­couple, Tekla’s angry diatribe filling his ears like swarming bees. Trying to hold his temper, he didn’t see Joe Grey peering out from the truck bed, didn’t see Joe’s smile as the tomcat thought about the phone call from Kit, about Kit leading Max to what? New evidence? Or only more useless shoes?

  When, in the truck, Max’s phone had buzzed and, answering, the chief had straightened up in the seat keenly alert to the caller, Joe had slid out from under the tarp and pressed against the back of the cab, listening.

  Shoes? Joe had come sharply alert. From Max’s end of the conversation, from the fact that Max didn’t cross-­examine the caller or ask his or her name—­and from the way Kit had raced out of the conference room earlier, she had to be the snitch.

  Having been gone so long from the village, having just gotten home and most of her thoughts on Misto, she hadn’t realized shoes might be important until this morning. In the conference room piled with shoes and photographs of shoes, listening to Max and the detectives, she’d raced off alone to fetch what she hoped would be evidence. She’d retrieved the shoes, she’d hidden them where they’d be safe, and then she’d called Max, and that made Joe smile. Kit, their scatterbrained Kit, was indeed growing up.

  21

  In the back of Max’s pickup, parked in the shadows of a cypress tree, Joe Grey reared up to peer over the side of the truck bed. He watched one of the four medics, a woman, tenderly clean up Sam Bleak’s forehead and his upper arm, cutting loose his torn shirt, wiping away blood from both injuries. Officer Crowley was present with two other uniforms, talking with the chief. Sam’s wheelchair lay fallen across a flower bed that edged a narrow brick walk. Sam sat on a carved wooden bench at the edge of the walk, which ran back between the buildings past the western shop, a boutique, a toy shop. A matching bench could be seen farther in between the windowed stores. Little lanes and half-­hidden courtyards could be found all over the village, pleasing the locals and offering a longed-­for charm to eager tourists. When Sam’s forehead and arm had been bandaged, a second medic, a slim young man, handed him a clipboard and pen.

  “This is your release, Mr. Bleak, if you’re sure you don’t want to go to Emergency.”

  Sam said he’d see his own doctor. Tekla leaned over, took the board from him, and began to read it out loud to him. As if he were too injured and unsteady—­or too senile—­to read the form himself.

  When she had finished reciting the dull paragraphs, she handed it back for Sam to sign: a release of liability, to protect the medics and police. These days a human could hardly breathe without removing responsibility from everyone in sight. The day will come, Joe thought, when Clyde and Ryan have to sign a waiver so the garbageman can pick up our trash.

  When the medics had finished with Sam and turned away, Joe dropped out of the truck into shadow and slipped beneath the shrubs at the curb. Hunkering there out of sight, he watched the three men and the woman gather their equipment back into the van, their blankets and oxygen tank and masks, their various black leather cases with the big syringes, packaged needles, and who knew what other kind of torture. As the van pulled away, Max began to question Sam, nodding to Officer Crowley to take notes.

  “He ran right up behind me,” Sam was saying. “Tekla wasn’t here, she—­”

  “I’d left him for just a few minutes,” Tekla snapped, “left him here in what I thought was a safe place while I ran into the bakery. Does a person have to be on guard every minute in this village? Isn’t there a street patrol? I would think . . .”

  Max stared at her with that dry, patient look. The same look as when he was about to strong-­arm a drunk.

  Joe looked up when Kathleen arrived. Stepping out of her car, she stood a moment taking in the situation; then she adjusted her camera and began to shoot the scene and the surround. Kneeling, the tall, slim detective photographed marks on the sidewalk the wheelchair had gone over, and close-­ups of the area of broken flowers in the narrow strip of garden. She took time to lift latent fingerprints from the wheelchair, then photographed Sam and the chair at different angles; she included in her camera range several shots of Tekla’s pant legs. She was fast but careful and precise, covering the area thoroughly.

  When Tekla started berating the chief again, Max asked her to step on over with Officer Ray. “She’s nearly finished photographing,” Max said. “She’ll want to interview you. You can wait on that other bench, back along the walk there.”

  Tekla looked as if she’d refuse. Scowling, she moved closer to Sam as if to remain protective of him—­as if Max or one of the officers might do him bodily harm. Max looked over at Kathleen and nodded.

  Turning, Kathleen headed for her car, locked the big camera safely in the trunk. She hung the smaller camera over her shoulder, took Tekla by the arm, and gently ushered the shorter woman back along the walk to the bench. She sat Tekla down with just enough force to prevent her from striking out as she seemed inclined to do. Quickly Joe moved to the back of the cypress tree out of sight and scrambled up. Hidden in the heavy foliage, he slipped out along a branch that arched over the sidewalk nearer to Tekla and Kathleen, where he could listen.

  And where, within seconds, Kit came slipping along behind him as if out of nowhere. Feeling the sway of the branch, he glanced back; she peered out at him half hidden, her mottled black-and-brown coat blending into the shaggy cypress. With a flick of her ears, she looked over.

  Max was kneeling beside the wheelchair where he could look Sam in the face. “I know you’re shaken, Sam, but can you tell me what happened? Just take your time,” he said gently.

  “He hit me so hard. I was sprawled on the ground before I knew what happened,” Sam’s voice was unsteady. “Like Tekla said, she’d gone on a quick errand, left me parked right here in the lane, said she’d only be gone a minute to the bakery. I was looking in the window at those fancy western boots, in plain sight of the busy street, when I was struck so hard from behind I thought a truck hit me.” Sam rubbed at the bandage on his forehead.

  “I went sprawling, my wheelchair slid away, I heard someone running. I saw a dark figure running, but I was so dizzy . . .” He looked pitifully at Max, pale and shaken—­but anger burned, too, deep in Sam’s eyes, and that shocked Joe. Sam Bleak, so mild and docile, suddenly burned with a cold rage that the tomcat had not seen before.

  Max studied Sam with interest. “Did you hear anything before he hit your wheelchair?”

  Sam shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all, the street was quiet. Then that terrible blow and I went over, I had no way to stop, no way to catch myself.”

  “Can you describe the person? Do you remember his clothes? His height? Some idea of age? Was it a man, a boy?”

  “A boy,” Sam said, looking directly at Harper. “Tan Windbreaker, I remember that. Old, worn jeans and scuffed leather boots. Running away, running from me so I didn’t see his face but . . . but I know him,” Sam said.

  Sam Bleak was silent, looking at Harper. His next words shocked Joe and Kit right down to their paws, made Joe want to leap down and claw Sam’s lying face.

  “The boy . . .” Sam said, “the boy . . . was Billy Young.”

  Max stood up, narrowly watching Sam. “Are you sure of that?”

  “He looked exactly like Billy, and dressed the same. I swear it was Billy Young.”

  Max was silent, his look cold and hard. Joe wanted to shout, That’s a lie! What the hell are you up to?

  “The boy who flipped me over,” Sam said, “it was Billy Young. That boy who works for Ryan Flannery—­that boy who’s too young to be working in a construction crew. Who thinks he’s so smart because he has a grown-­up job.”

  Joe and Kit looked at each other, fear for Billy sparking between them, fear of what they didn’t understand. Max stood rigid and withdrawn. Maybe only the cats and his fellow cops saw that twitch at the
side of his mouth, that quick inner fire that some humans wouldn’t notice. To the cats, even Max’s scent changed, had gone sharp with fury.

  Sam felt tenderly at his bandaged forehead. “Same jacket, same clothes,” he repeated. “Running away. I shouted at him to stop, shouted his name.”

  Again he was quiet, fingering his bandaged arm. Then, “Why would that boy do such a thing? What did he want? It was then, as I fell, that Tekla came around the corner, saw me tipped over. Tekla saw him, too, Captain Harper.” Sam’s fists clenched in anger. “Tekla knew him. He raced away—­up the brick alley and into the next street. Tekla started to pick me up, to pick up the wheelchair, but I told her to go on, try to catch him.

  “But he was gone,” Sam said shakily. “Just like those other attacks.” He put his head down on his hands as if he felt dizzy or was still very frightened.

  Max glanced at his watch. “And then what happened?”

  “I told Tekla to leave me be, in case anything was broken, and she called 911.” He did look pale. But, in truth, this was no more than a hoax, no more than a vicious lie.

  “The siren came right away,” Sam said, “the medics’ van. Then more cops while the medics were looking me over, poking and prodding, and one of the cops—­that tall one, the first one here, he started taking pictures. The medics kept arguing with me to let them put me in the van, but I didn’t want to go to a hospital, I’ve had enough of that. And then,” Sam said, “you got here, your pickup pulled in to the curb.”

  “You’re sure it was Billy Young,” Max said coldly.

  “Looked exactly like him. I only glimpsed the side of his face—­high, thin cheekbones, brown hair, tan Windbreaker. Same clothes he usually wears,” Sam said, “same Windbreaker, same old, battered boots.”

  “I’d like you to come into the station, you’ll need to fill out a report.”

  Sam’s frown turned uncertain. He glanced across to where Tekla was deep in conversation with Kathleen Ray, as the detective recorded Tekla’s version on her phone, so the two interviews could be compared.

  “If you file a complaint,” Max told Sam, “if you can identify him clearly, you can bring charges. If the boy has attacked others, it’s your responsibility to tell us what you can.”

  Above in the cypress tree, Joe and Kit smiled at how cool Max was. The Bleaks had to know that Billy was the chief’s ward, or at least that he lived with the Harpers. So why would they set Billy up? For what possible reason? Simply because Tekla didn’t like Ryan, to get at Ryan through Billy, make them both look bad to Harper?

  That didn’t make any sense. And now, as Max pushed Sam with questions, was Sam indeed getting nervous?

  Could this all be Tekla’s setup? Had she forced Sam along with it, and now he was losing his resolve?

  But then, what was Sam’s anger about? Was that all fake, too?

  Whatever the answer, Joe thought, the Bleaks will find out soon enough what the chief already knows. This was a crime Billy couldn’t have committed, Billy was safe at the station when Sam was mugged; a dozen cops had seen him, including Max and all three detectives. The Bleaks, in a moment of misguided inspiration, had backed themselves into a corner, and didn’t that make Joe and Kit smile.

  Most likely Tekla had tipped over the wheelchair herself, maybe eased it over gently so Sam wouldn’t in fact break any bones and create a real problem.

  But they did manage to scrape his forehead and arm, Joe thought. Maybe they didn’t mean to do that, maybe that part was an accident as they performed their little charade. And that made him smile all the more.

  The question is, why would they go to such lengths to get Billy in trouble? Oh, but Tekla would, Joe thought, just out of meanness. Or, he wondered, did they do this as some sort of diversion?

  “Did you and Tekla walk down from your apartment?” Max said, glancing back along the street. “From the little guesthouse you’re renting?”

  “Yes,” Tekla said coolly. “So that Sam could get some air. It isn’t good to always be riding around in the van.”

  Kathleen said, “I can give you a ride to the station, if you like. So you can file your complaint.”

  Tekla drew herself up. She said nothing. Sam smiled weakly. Kathleen and the chief stood over them waiting for a response, both officers so stern and severe that the Bleaks might find it hard to refuse. At last Sam allowed Kathleen to help him into the wheelchair, careful of his painful arm, and she wheeled him to her squad car, Tekla walking like an angry guard dog beside him. Kathleen settled them in the backseat and folded Sam’s chair into the trunk.

  As they pulled away, leaving Max talking with Officer Crowley, Joe and Kit left the cypress tree praying Billy was still at the station. They didn’t want to miss this confrontation. Joe wished Dulcie were there. He’d give her a blow-­by-­blow account, just as he would lay it all out later for Misto and for Pan. Misto needed to be kept in the loop; the old cat needed to see and feel as much as he could of these last, waning days, Joe thought sadly.

  But as he and Kit galloped away across the roofs toward the station, he looked slyly at her. “You found shoes! Did Dallas get them?”

  Kit smiled. “I watched him fish them out from under my porch. He lifted each one with a stick inside so he didn’t smear any prints. I hope I didn’t smear any.”

  “Your porch?” He stopped and looked at her, and was getting ready to scold her. But she looked at him so contritely that he swallowed back his words.

  What the hell, she’d gotten the shoes, hadn’t she? That could be the key, if they could find a matching shoe, one with a good set of fingerprints. That could be the evidence they needed; and he looked at Kit and didn’t criticize—he wasn’t going to trash her bright-­eyed joy in finding them.

  As they leaped to the roof of the courthouse and raced its length, Kathleen’s squad car pulled up to the red zone below. Dallas’s Blazer was already there. He was just disappearing through the glass door carrying a cardboard box. It was filled with evidence bags, each the size and the shape of a shoe. Kit stared down at it with triumph, her ears up, the tip of her tail twitching.

  Joe just hoped they’d turn out to be the right ones, belonging to the perp, not just someone’s worn-­out footwear. Backing down the oak tree, they crouched in the bushes by the front entry watching Kathleen remove Sam’s wheelchair from the trunk and unfold it. As she held the glass door so Tekla could roll him through into the lobby, Joe and Kit slipped behind them into the smelly retreat of the holding cell—­their retreat for as long as Evijean remained on duty. He thought of Dulcie resting at home as she’d been told, and wished she were there to enjoy the coming performance.

  22

  Though it was just mid-­morning, a warming fire burned on the Firettis’ hearth, its blaze reflected in the fog-­frosted windows. Firelight brightened the flowered couch where Misto lay tucked up in a quilt between Dulcie and Pan. Mary Firetti and Wilma sat on the matching couch sipping coffee. Wilma had brought a gift for Misto, a big tray of custards. The three cats had promptly lapped up three small bowls before they snuggled close.

  At home earlier, Dulcie had paced from room to room wanting to be outside, wanting to roam but having promised to stay in, not to run the roofs but to rest. She had paced and glared at Wilma, who sat at her desk paying bills. She’d wanted to be at the station, wanted to find Joe Grey, wanted in on the action. Whenever she’d trotted out into the garden for a few minutes she felt Wilma at the window watching her. It was all very well to be quiet and protect the kittens, but she’d begun to feel like a caged wildcat. But when the custards were ready to take to Misto, getting in the car, Wilma said, “You need only be idle for a little while, the kittens will arrive soon. I don’t need to tell you how important this is, these are the most precious of babies.”

  Dulcie knew that! She tried not to snap at Wilma. She tried not to sound sulky. But even a trip in the car was
a treat, just to get out. Trotting up the Firetti walk through the last of Mary’s cyclamens as bright as new crayons, she had raced into the cottage to nearly pounce on Misto and Pan, she was so glad to see them—­though it had only been a few hours.

  Pan said, “Kit slipped away early. Restless, so restless.”

  Dulcie snuggled closer and looked tenderly at Pan. “You miss Kit this morning,” she said, licking his ear. Kit might have been restless, she thought, but maybe that was a loving gesture, too, to slip away at dawn, to leave father and son alone together, just the two of them.

  Mary had set Wilma’s dozen little bowls in the refrigerator to keep cool. “Misto does so love your custards. I make little stews, I make soups, but your custards are the real treat.” She looked at Misto, then back at Wilma. “We talked about Ben,” she said softly. “I told him about Ben.”

  Misto lowered his ears and put out a paw to Wilma. But as she reached to stroke him she saw behind his grieving look that staunch certainty, too, in his golden eyes. “Where Ben is now,” the old cat said, “he is safe, he is beyond human cruelty.” He licked Wilma’s hand. “Ben is loved with a strength the living cannot imagine, he is free in joy now, he flies weightless.”

  They talked about Ben and about the attacks, Misto stoic, in his own way removed from the deepest pain. It was nearly noon when Wilma and Dulcie left the Firetti cottage, Misto napping again, and Pan still close beside him. Riding home, Dulcie thought about the street crimes, about new police reports, new intelligence coming in, about Joe at the station, and she looked up forlornly at Wilma.

  Wilma sighed. She hadn’t worked in corrections for all her career without knowing how these present crimes drew Dulcie. “You want to be with Joe, putting the pieces together.”

  Dulcie sighed.

  “I’ll take you to the PD if you’ll promise to wait there. To let me pick you up later, not come galloping home alone over the rooftops. You might not go full term, Dulcie, you might . . .”