Cat Breaking Free

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Lucinda laughed. "We're celebrating-or almost celebrating. We think… we may have found the right house. We haven't seen it yet, but from the brochure… We're meeting the Realtor first thing this morning." The old couple was just finishing their pancakes and bacon and coffee. "It's just a stone's throw from Wilma's," Lucinda said. "You can see her roof from the deck."

  "That'll be handy. You can walk right over."

  Lucinda nodded. She had an almost secretive smile, and Pedric's blue eyes twinkled-both looked as if this house included something very special. "Tell me what it's like," Ryan said, intrigued. The Greenlaws were such a lively couple; their venerable age had not dimmed the intellectual sharpness and enthusiasm that made their friends treasure them.

  "Everything we'll want is on the main level," Lucinda said. "Huge living room with a freestanding fireplace you can see from the dining room. High rafters, much like your studio. All one side is tall windows looking down on the village. One nice big bedroom on the main floor, with a big dressing room and bath, and two closets. It even has a double garage!" Garages, in the heart of the village among the crowded cottages, were at a premium, a big selling point for any house. As they talked, the waitress appeared and Ryan gave her order.

  "Downstairs," Pedric said, "is a big family room, two bedrooms and a bath and laundry."

  "Will you want all that?"

  "We thought," Lucinda said, "to remove the inner stairs. Turn the downstairs into a separate apartment for a live-in housekeeper. If this is the house, we hope you'll take a look at the job." She glanced across the patio, watching someone.

  "That blond young woman," Lucinda said, "in the pale blue sweat suit. She was finishing breakfast as we came in." She glanced at her watch. "Over forty-five minutes ago. She's been sitting there ever since, sipping coffee and watching something out the window, and making some kind of notes."

  Ryan reached down to adjust Rock's leash where he lay under the table. Bent over, she managed a quick look. She straightened up, shrugging. "That's Clyde's new neighbor, Chichi something. She was in Lupe's the other night. Nervy. She came over to our table, tried to join us. Clyde hustled her away, back to her own table. She was alone and maybe she was lonesome, I get that she doesn't know anyone in the village. But she was pushy."

  Lucinda said, "You can see that the waitress would like to clear her table. What can she be watching, of such interest?"

  Ryan turned her chair then, fussing with Rock's collar. Across the street from the restaurant were two galleries, a leather boutique, an antique clock and watch repair, and a small bookstore specializing in local history. The waitress came quickly with her order, setting down a stack of thin Swedish pancakes, a side order of ham, and a paper plate. She leaned down to give Rock a pat. The young brunette kept two lovely boxers, and Ryan asked her about them.

  "They're fine, but they're wild in this cold weather. They'd run the beach all day if I had time." She refilled Ryan's coffee cup. "At least they have each other to play with, and a big backyard." As she turned away, Pedric looked at his watch, laid some bills on the table with their check, and he and Lucinda rose.

  Lucinda's eyes were bright with excitement, looking forward to yet another house to consider. Maybe this would be the one, Ryan thought. They had been house hunting for weeks. Having spent the first year of their late-life marriage traveling up and down the coast in their RV, they were anxious now to get settled, as impatient as a young pair of first-time home buyers. As Ryan watched the tall, thin couple make their way across the patio, Chichi watched them, too.

  The young woman avoided looking in Ryan's direction, though they had met Saturday night at Lupe's. She probably doesn't remember me, Ryan thought. Except… I was with Clyde. And with Dallas and Max, and she was pretty interested in them, in getting to know them. She was all over Clyde. And Ryan's sudden shock of jealousy dismayed her.

  She didn't like jealousy, it was a constricting and enervating emotion. If Chichi was after Clyde, if she had moved next door to get close to Clyde, that was Clyde's problem.

  None of the three men at their table that night had seemed particularly drawn to the young woman. She might be good for a one-night stand, but she didn't seem to be a person who would wear well. Sipping her coffee, Ryan studied Chichi then turned away. Taking her notebook from her purse, she began making a list of hardware for the Harper loft. She loved this kind of project, turning unused space into something of value. Creating a spacious and cozy guest room where there had been nothing but stored feedbags and breeding mice.

  As she completed her list, Danielle brought her the check. She just had time to pick up Lori and Dillon then swing by Clyde's and install one faucet-see if that one worked as he hoped. By the time she got up to the ranch, Scotty should have the rest of the shingles off the roof, and have the big metal jacks in place. She was fishing out small bills for the check when Rock stirred restlessly.

  "I'm about ready," she told him, reaching down to scratch his ear. He settled, looking up at her expectantly for another treat, though he'd had a third of her order. "That's all," she told him. "No more." Less than a year ago, when she first adopted him, Rock had been running wild in the hills, a beautiful, unwanted stray. It had taken her some time to manner him. He'd been so unruly that she'd been on guard every moment in a public place, never sure how he'd behave. She was digging for change when Rock came out from under the table, growling. Startled, she looked up.

  Roman Slayter was approaching her table. She was pleased that Rock's reaction today was totally different.

  "What a nice surprise," Slayter said, raising an eyebrow at Rock's growls, but giving her that charming, boyish, brown-eyed smile. Without asking, he pulled out a chair. When Rock's growl deepened, Slayter paused. "May I join you? Are you alone?"

  "Sorry, I'm just leaving. I have an appointment."

  Roman sat down anyway, stretching his legs out under the table. Rock sniffed at his shoes, and at once he began to wag his tail.

  What was wrong with the dog?

  Roman smiled, looking up when the waitress arrived. "I'll have whatever Ryan had."

  Ryan rose, shrugging on her jacket. Slayter gave her a pleading, lost look designed to gentle the meanest female. "Just for once, Ryan, indulge me. I have something of interest to tell you."

  "I don't have time to talk." Slipping her cell phone from her belt, she flipped it open. "You show up in San Francisco asking questions about the money from the sale. You were all over me with questions that were none of your business. How much did I get, where did I bank it? You weren't even subtle. And you barged into the Harper place, pushy and uninvited. Why would I want to be friendly?"

  Roman's smile was innocent and charming. "I'm sorry, Ryan. I only wanted to help-about the money. You know I've done financial advising, that I worked for Thompson and Marrick for a while. I never meant to pry, I just thought… Well, with so much sudden money dumped in your lap, that you might…"

  "That I might not know what to do with it? That I might not know how to handle my own money? That I'm too dumb to protect it?" She was so angry she thought her face must be flaming red. She stood staring down at him, wanting to hit him. But then she smiled.

  "If it's of any interest to you," she lied, "I've put all the money in annuities and trusts. Where no one, no one on earth can touch it, Roman." Speaking to Rock, she turned on her heel. But Roman's next words stopped her.

  "Before you go, Ryan, I have information about the recent jewel robbery."

  She spun around to face him. "Tell it to the cops, Roman. Why would you tell me? Go down to the station." She heard, beneath the table, the soft crunching and smacking that told her Roman had slipped Rock some treat. Leaning down, she snatched a Milk-Bone from his mouth. "And don't ever, ever feed my dog!"

  Calling Rock to heel, she held up the slobbery Milk-Bone and gently dropped it in Roman's coffee.

  With Rock at heel, she stalked out. Her heart was pounding. What the hell did he want? Let him pick on som
eone else! Driving over to get Dillon and Lori, she fumed. Rock was quiet, watching her. She felt only a little ashamed that she had snatched his treat. She began to think seriously about giving him poison training, where he would not accept food from anyone but herself, or would accept it only with a particular command.

  At Dillon's place, she had to honk for the girls. They came hurrying out, Lori carrying her little overnight bag and a piece of toast, the brown-haired, big-eyed child wiping egg from the corner of her mouth. Redheaded Dillon Thurwell, two years older, took one look at Ryan's angry face and climbed silently into the back seat of the king cab.

  Taking off, Ryan resisted the urge to burn rubber. In the back seat, Dillon gave Lori an amused glance. All the way to Clyde's, neither girl spoke. She must look mad enough to chew nails. Beside her, Rock looked back at the girls with a hangdog expression that made her want to laugh, and that shamed her.

  But she was still puzzled by the change in Rock's reaction. Why growl at Roman, and the next minute cozy up to him? And the fact that he would so eagerly take food from a stranger frightened her badly. Looking into the rearview mirror, she tried to make small talk. "What did you have for breakfast?"

  "Pancakes," Lori said hesitantly. "With a gallon of syrup," she said, rubbing her tummy. "Bacon, two eggs. A piece of chocolate cake."

  "That should keep you until midmorning." These two would burn it off riding, cleaning stalls and doing chores for Charlie, burn it off just with the energy of their wild young spirits. Lori had so blossomed since she came out of hiding in her cave in the library basement, since going to live with Cora Lee French and the senior ladies. She was such a bright, eager child, and so resourceful and ready for adventure, now that she was among caring friends. Ryan hoped her adventures would remain positive.

  "I'll only be a minute," she said, parking in front of Clyde's house. She grabbed the bag of faucets, took Rock with her, and left the girls in the truck. This project did make her laugh. Just thinking about it soothed her anger. The idea that Clyde's cats liked to drink from the bathroom sink and he was tired of waiting on them-and that he could teach four cats to turn on the water faucet by themselves. How many men would even have the patience to try? How many men would care where their cats drank?

  She really didn't think this would work, but Clyde did. They had a dinner bet on the success of the project, steak and champagne at any upscale restaurant of the winner's choice. The whole project was a belly laugh.

  But who knew? Maybe he could teach them; what did she know about cats? Swinging out of the truck, she stopped still.

  The scene on Clyde's front porch amazed her. Made her angry all over again. Apparently, Chichi had left the cafe right after she did. The blond bimbo stood on Clyde's porch snuggling up to him, or trying to. She was all over him, petting his face and laughing with a high giggle that set Ryan right on edge; all that pulchritude and sex thrown at Clyde was just too much, made her feel like a jealous schoolgirl.

  But then Ryan's commonsense took hold. Looking Chichi over, her sense of humor returned with an explosion that made her want to double over laughing. This was pitiful! The woman was more than a joke, this was a scene straight out of the daytime soaps or out of the cheapest comedy. Clyde's face was red with embarrassment or with anger, or both. Glancing past Chichi to Ryan, he looked so uncomfortable she thought he might expire right there on the porch. Even Clyde's cat seemed amused, staring out at them through the front window with, Ryan could swear, a malicious grin on his gray and white face.

  17

  Much earlier that morning, before Ryan left her apartment and before the Greenlaws entered the Swiss Cafe, Joe Grey was jerked from sleep. He'd been dozing in his tower after a little hunt. He woke to the sound of water pounding in the pipes, from the house next door-a sound for which he'd been listening, even as he slept. Chichi was up early again.

  Slipping out from among the warm pillows and out of the tower, he sat down on the roof. Night was just drawing back, in the wake of a clear, silvered dawn. He gave himself a quick wash, working fastidiously on his front paws until he heard the rumbling in the pipes stop, then the faintest rustling from within the house next door, a sound no human would hear. Then, louder, an inner door closing, maybe the closet door. He waited until he heard Chichi's outer door open and close, and heard the lock turn. He listened to her walking through the grass below him, her footsteps softly swishing. Heard her hit the sidewalk in her soft shoes, walking quickly. Only then did he follow across the shingles, peering over.

  Wearing a pale blue sweat suit and what looked like good running shoes, she was headed toward the heart of the village. Joe didn't picture Chichi as a runner, certainly not a serious one. As, above him, the silvered sky brightened, he watched her cross Ocean beneath its shelter of eucalyptus trees. He hungered to follow her. But he wished, far more, that he knew how long she'd be gone.

  He'd heard her leave early like this on several mornings, but until the night of the robbery he hadn't paid much attention. He thought that those times she'd been gone for at least an hour. Dropping into the pine tree on the far side of her house, he backed down, sprang into the little lemon tree, cursing the sting of its thorns, and leaped to the sill, hoping she hadn't repaired the screen.

  When he examined his recent handiwork, he almost laughed out loud.

  Tape? She'd put duct tape on the torn screen? Smiling, Joe took a corner of the tape in his teeth and gently pulled, peeling it back neater than skinning a gopher.

  But then, pressing his paw sideways against the glass and exerting all the force he could muster, he was unable to slide it.

  Where before she'd had the slider locked open a few inches with a little peg, now she had secured the window completely closed. Had shut it tight so he wouldn't come back? He felt a chill course down through his fur.

  But how likely was it that Chichi knew his special talents? He was just a cat; and she didn't like cats. He pressed his face against the glass, mashing his whiskers, to peer in.

  He could just see the lock protruding. It was one of those that slid up or down along the metal frame when one closed the window, the kind that usually locked but not always. That sometimes, in these old windows, didn't work at all.

  This one had caught, though. Hadn't it?

  Pressing against the window, he shook and rattled the moveable section as hard as he could.

  And at last, slowly, the little lock slid down the metal frame and dropped to the bottom. Now, with sufficient body pressure, he was able to slide the window back as far as the little peg, which was still in place. And in a nanosecond he was in, searching her room, his ears cocked for her approach through the overgrown yard.

  Carefully, he went through every dresser drawer again, searching for the little black bag, flinching at every faintest sound. He didn't want to be caught in the closed room with her again. He told himself he was magnifying the danger, but there was something totally focused about Chichi Barbi, a singular determination that unnerved him.

  He searched the closet among her few clothes and shoes, searched the top closet shelf, leaping up stubbornly forcing open three suitcases and badly bruising his paws. All were empty. The latches weren't as bad, though, as zippers, which were hell on the claws. He searched under the bed and in between the mattresses as far as his paw would reach, then as far as he could crawl without smothering. He'd hate like hell for her to catch him in that position. He searched the under-sink bathroom cabinet, the night-table drawer, peered into the two empty wastebaskets, checked the carpet for a loose corner under which she might have loosened a board.

  He found nothing, nada. He was nosing with curiosity at the back of the little television set when he heard her coming, brushing past the overgrown bushes.

  Leaping to the dresser he crouched, ready to bolt. He watched her pass the window, heading for the door. As the door handle turned, he slid out through the window and shouldered the glass closed behind him.

  He hardly had time to paw the
tape back over the torn screen when the inside light went on. Praying she wouldn't notice that the tape was wrinkled, not smooth the way she'd left it, he dropped down to the scruffy grass.

  He was crouched in the dark bushes beside the foundation of the house, poised to scorch for home, when he thought about those two empty wastebaskets. And a sure feline instinct, or maybe acquired cop sense, stopped him in his tracks.

  Waiting in the bushes until he heard her cross the room to the bathroom, he beat it past her door and past the kitchen door, to the tall plastic garbage can that stood at the rear of the house.

  The lid was on tight. He tried leaping atop Clyde's plastered wall and reaching down with one paw to dislodge it, but the distance was too far, he could get no purchase without falling on his head. Stretching farther, he lost his balance and dropped to the top of the lid-embarrassing himself, though there was no one to see him.

  Dropping to the ground, he hung one paw in the can's plastic handle and pressed up on the lid with the other. He should have done that in the first place. The lid popped right off and felt silently to the grass.

  Leaping up to perch across the mouth of the can, his hind paws on one side, his left front paw bracing him on the other, he hung down into the dim stinking world of Chichi's rotting garbage: sour grass cuttings, moldy food cans, and a sour milk carton, and he sorted through Chichi Barbi's trash like a common alley cat.

  Well, hell, FBI agents did this stuff. So did DEA. If those guys could stomach the stink and indignity, so could he.

  Surprisingly, the moldering grass was the worst. It stuck to him all over, clung to his sleek fur, got into his ears and in his nose and eyes. Part of Chichi's job as house sitter was to mow the tiny scrap of weedy lawn. She used a hand mower that was kept in the narrow one-car garage, which occupied the south side, between her living room and Joe's house. As he balanced, pawing and searching, he was painfully aware that he was in plain sight of Clyde's guest room window, not six feet away.