Cat Under Fire

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  "You better believe it. And you'd better stay out of the cafes."

  "I thought we were talking about the trial."

  "We were talking about the trial." Clyde's voice had risen. "And doesn't it mean anything to Dulcie that of the four suspects, Lake is the one the police arrested and charged with murder? And are you forgetting that Lake had a key to Janet's place?"

  Joe licked a spill of milk from the table. "So he had a key. Kendrick Mahl had a key. And so did Sicily. Anyway, Janet had to be killed by someone who knew about welding equipment, and Kendrick Mahl gets the vote for that. Mahl has to know about gas welding-he handles the work of four metal sculptors."

  "That doesn't make him a welder. And Mahl was questioned and released."

  "Besides," Joe said, "everyone knows he hated Janet." It was common knowledge in the village that Mahl had never forgiven Janet for leaving him. "And what about sister Beverly? From the way people-including you- describe her, she sounds like a real piece of work. She didn't waste any love on Janet." Joe twitched an ear, flicked a whisker. "No, I wouldn't rule out Beverly."

  "That doesn't make sense. If sister Beverly killed her, she wouldn't burn Janet's paintings. Beverly inherited Janet's work. Would have been over a million bucks' worth. Why would she set fire to a fortune?

  "And why," Clyde continued, "would Sicily Aronson kill her? She made a bundle of money as Janet's agent. Now, with Janet dead, that's dried up. She'll sell the last few paintings, probably for huge prices, but that will finish it."

  He looked at Joe bleakly. "Not only Janet, but most of her work is gone. Everything she hoped-that she cared about, gone.

  "She said-told me once, if she never had children, at least her work would live after her. That generations down the line, maybe something of what she saw and loved might still have meaning for someone."

  Joe said nothing. He'd seen villagers slip into the Aronson Gallery to spend a few minutes looking at Janet's paintings as if that pleasure turned a simple shopping trip into a special morning. He had seen villagers wave to Janet on the street and turn away smiling deeply, as if they were warmed just by the sight of her. Janet's death had generated such intense anger in the village that for a while the county had considered moving the trial to a more neutral town.

  Before Lake was indicted, Detective Marritt and the Molena Point police and the county investigators had spent weeks sifting the ashes and debris of her burned studio, sorting and photographing bits of burned cloth, sorting through pieces of blackened metal and wood, bagging the charred debris for the county lab.

  And the police had gone over Janet's apartment just as carefully. Sheltered beneath the concrete slab floor of the studio, the apartment had been left untouched by the fire. The police had fingerprinted, photographed, taken lint samples from every inch of Janet's home.

  Clyde added more cereal to his bowl, and more milk. "Just suppose for a minute that Lake didn't kill her."

  "So, suppose."

  "So the killer's still free, Joe." Clyde gave him a long look. "So, is he going to take kindly to Dulcie snooping around looking for new evidence?"

  Joe smirked. "I'm not sure I understand you. You're saying Janet's killer is going to be afraid of a kitty cat?"

  Clyde didn't say a word. They both knew what he was thinking. At last Joe cut the bravado, his expression sobered. "You think someone besides you and Wilma knows about Dulcie and me-the way Lee Wark knew?"

  "Wark was after you and Dulcie like a butcher after a side of beef. So why not someone else?"

  "But Wark was a fluke. A Welshman who grew up knowing some pretty strange history. That won't happen again. How many Welshmen can there be in Molena Point."

  Clyde rose and refilled his coffee mug. "I'm only saying, you and Dulcie keep nosing around, and there's going to be trouble."

  My sentiments exactly, Joe thought. But he wasn't taking sides against Dulcie. Shrugging, he began to clean his claws, stretching them wide and licking between, scattering dirt on the table.

  "Do you always have to wash when you don't want to listen! Face it, Joe. Ever since you two got involved in Samuel Beckwhite's murder, you think you're some kind of detectives-feline Sam Spades." He sat down, digging fiercely at his cereal. "Don't you understand that cats don't solve murders, that cats…"

  Joe leaped from the table to the kitchen sink, turning his back, staring sullenly out the window. "Who solved Beckwhite's murder? Who led the police to the auto agency, to where the money was hidden?"

  "The police came because gunshots were reported."

  "Sure gunshots were reported." He spun around staring at Clyde. "That nut nearly killed me and Dulcie before the cops got there. And who do you think saw Wark and Osborne change the VIN plates on the stolen cars? Who do you think saw them take the money out of the cars and stash it? Who made sure the cops found it?"

  "All I'm saying is, you and Dulcie are…"

  Joe flexed his claws, fixing Clyde with a narrow yellow gaze, his ears flat to his head.

  Clyde sucked up coffee. "I know you two broke the Beckwhite murder, but that doesn't mean you need to spend the rest of your lives trying to solve murders that are already-that are… Why can't you just be happy? Why can't you two just enjoy life and leave this alone?" He got up and rinsed out his cereal bowl, brushing against Joe. "I understand why you and Dulcie were interested in Beckwhite-you saw Wark kill him. But this… Neither you nor Dulcie has any direct interest in Janet's murder."

  Joe had said exactly the same thing to Dulcie, but he didn't like Clyde saying it. "Dulcie knew her just as well as I did. Dulcie was fond of Janet, and she loved Janet's work. That painting Janet traded to Wilma-Dulcie lies on the couch for hours, sprawled on her back, staring up at that painting."

  Clyde set his bowl to drain on the counter. "The point is, if Lake didn't kill her, and if you two keep prodding at this, the real killer is going to find you just the way Wark did."

  Joe examined his back claws.

  "Oh hell. It's no good talking to you. Wait until Dulcie gets caught sneaking into the courtroom, and then see…"

  "She doesn't sneak into the courtroom. She listens from the ledge-that ledge that runs along under the clerestory windows. It's October, Clyde. Balmy. All the windows are open. All she has to do is skin up one of the oak trees behind the courthouse and there she is, exclusive box seat." He grinned. "Box seat she has to share with about a hundred pigeons. The first day, it took her two hours to clean the pigeon crap off her paws and her behind. She said it tasted gross."

  "Didn't you help her?"

  Joe stared at him coldly. "I'm not licking pigeon crap off her. Now she carries a hand towel up with her, to sit on."

  "That's cute. And when someone sees her going back there into the alley carrying a hand towel, what then? Sees her climb up the tree carrying the towel in her teeth, or sitting on the ledge on the damned towel. Don't you think they might wonder?"

  "Cats do strange things. Everyone knows cats are weird. Read the cat magazines, they're full of stuff like that. Anyway, Dulcie says the trial is a farce. If she believed before that Lake was innocent, the shaky testimony has really convinced her." He lay down on the cool white tile of the countertop and patted at the tiny, intermittent drops of water falling from the leaky tap.

  Clyde scowled at him and reached across him to turn off the tap. The dripping stopped. "What shaky evidence?"

  "Lake's fingerprints in Janet's bedroom, for one thing." He lifted his head, staring at Clyde. "The guy lived with her for six months. Of course his prints were all over. Don't you suppose the prints of every woman you ever dated are plastered all over your bedroom?"

  "I don't go to bed with them all."

  "Name one."

  "I didn't go to bed with Janet. I dated her but we never…"

  "Only because she wouldn't."

  Clyde sighed. "You're off the subject. When Dulcie didn't even know Lake, until after the murder, why is she so hot to help him?"

  Female pass
ions-feline passions-dreams of white cats- who knows what runs Dulcie? "You ever hear of justice? Of wanting to see justice done?"

  "Come off it."

  Joe smoothed the fur on his chest with a rough tongue. "She thinks Lake was set up. She thinks the evidence was planted, that Lake's car was driven to the scene by someone else."

  "Don't you think the cops checked that? Detective Marritt…"

  "You know what Captain Harper thinks of Marritt. And sure they checked it out. That's the point-they don't have any proof it was Lake's car, don't even have a plate number." He sat up, admiring his muddy pawprints on the clean tile. "All the witness said was, it was an old, dark Suburban like Lake's. What could that old woman see, with her lousy eyesight?"

  But as he watched Clyde, he was ashamed of arguing. He knew perfectly well that much of Clyde's irritation came from his pain over Janet. He seldom saw Clyde hurting; it was a new experience. He told himself he ought to be gender. Clyde and Janet had been good friends. They had dated heavily for a while, then had remained friends afterward, casual and comfortable.

  Feeling contrite, he rubbed his ear against Clyde's hand, filled with an unaccustomed sympathy and tenderness. "Janet was special," he said quietly, pressing his face against Clyde's knuckles. "She was a special lady."

  They were silent for a moment, Clyde absently scratching Joe's head, both of them thinking about Janet.

  At first, after Joe learned he could speak, he'd been uncomfortable about being petted. He and Clyde were equals now. He found himself weighing their relationship in a new light, and he hadn't been sure about this petting business. But then he'd decided. It's okay; a little closeness is okay.

  Clyde had been shy about petting him, too. As if petting was no longer proper. But they were still pals, weren't they? Still human and cat, still crusty old bachelor housemates.

  The faint sound of scratching from the front door brought him to sudden alert. He ducked out from under Clyde's hand, giving him a wide stare. "Gotta go." He leaped off the counter and trotted out through the living room.

  Through the translucent cat door, he could see Dulcie's dark shadow pacing, could see her impatience in every quick line of her body. He pushed under the limber plastic, hating the feel of it. If I live to be a hundred, I won't get used to that stupid door sliding down my spine.

  Before he was completely through, Dulcie pressed close to him, purring. Her green eyes were so huge they made him shiver. Every time he looked at her he fell deeper into joy. Just to be near her, just to know they were together, that was all he wanted from life. "What are you doing here so early? Has Elisa Trest already testified?"

  She was strung tight, so wired, she couldn't be still. She wound around him, pacing, fidgeting.

  "There's a diary, Joe. A journal. Janet kept a journal." She pressed against him, all green-eyed eagerness. "Mrs. Trest testified yesterday afternoon after I left. She said Janet kept a diary-Rob told me. The police are going up there this morning to look for it." She switched her tail impatiently, shifting from paw to paw.

  He just stared at her.

  "Well come on, before the police get there." And she whirled away, leaping down the steps.

  "Hold it." He sat down on the porch, immobile as a stone. "You plan to snatch evidence out from under the cops' noses?"

  "Just to have a look at it," she said innocently. "We don't have to take it."

  Joe sighed. "Clyde's right. You're going to get into trouble. Besides, they've already searched her apartment. Why would…"

  "Come on, Joe. Hurry." She spun around and ran, racing away up the sidewalk, her peach-colored paws hitting just the high spots, flashing above the concrete.

  He remained sitting, looking after her. The lady's nuts. No way we can reach Janet's place before the cops do.

  Or maybe she meant to go right on in, sniff out clues between the cops feet.

  The fact that they had already pulled that kind of stuff, after the Beckwhite murder, didn't seem to matter. The fact that they had been right there under Captain Harper's boots, so much in the way that Harper had given them more than one puzzled look, didn't faze her.

  Dulcie, you're crazy if you think we're going to push into the middle of another police investigation.

  She stopped, up at the corner, looking back. He made no move to follow. Impatiently she raced back, leaped up the steps, and licked his nose. "We could just go up and see. If the police are there, we'll leave. Imagine it, imagine if Rob Lake is convicted and even put to death, and he's innocent and we could have helped and we didn't. Then how would you feel?"

  Joe looked at her for a long moment, then laughed. "Oh, what the hell." He rose and followed her. "Who says we can't outsmart a few cops?"

  And they ran, their paws pounding the pavement. Careening against her, he wished she wasn't so persuasive, so damned impetuous and stormy.

  And he loved her stormy ways.

  4

  Clyde stood at the living room window watching the cats gallop away toward Ocean Avenue. He had to laugh at Joe's short tail, at his sturdy rear loping up and down in strong, muscular rhythm. Beside him, Dulcie ran as light as a low-flying bird. He watched them worriedly. Their swift departure did not telegraph a casual, "let's go hunt." Crossing Ocean, zigzagging insanely between cars, they nearly made his heart stop.

  When they were safely across, into the tree-shaded median, they turned north. Running through the lacy tree shadows, they were headed straight for the hills. And where else would they be going in such a hurry but to Janet's, to the burned remains of her studio. There was nothing else up in that direction to cause this degree of excitement. When they set out together simply to hunt, they stalked along, carefully looking around them, absorbing scents and sounds, working up slowly, he supposed, to the required intensity of concentration. But now they were all fire, scorching away toward the hills like two little rockets.

  They'd been up at Janet's before, returning with cinders on their coats and secretive but dissatisfied looks on their sly little faces.

  Stepping out onto the porch, he watched them race out of sight, wishing they'd leave this alone.

  So what was he going to do, follow them? Fetch them home?

  Life had been simpler when Joe was just an ordinary tomcat, when Joe Grey had nothing to say but a demanding meow. When he had nothing on his mind but killing birds and screwing every female cat in Molena Point. Sometimes Clyde longed mightily for those days, when he had at least some control over the gray tomcat.

  Now, face it, Joe and Dulcie were no longer little dough-headed beasties to be bossed and subjugated. Nor were they children to be guided and directed toward some faraway future when they could function on their own.

  These two were already functioning in what, for them, was an entirely normal manner. The two cats were adult members of their own peculiar race: thinking creatures with free wills-though he didn't dare dwell on the historical convergences that had produced those two devious felines. The power of their heritage clung around the cats, the breath of dead civilizations shadowed them like phantom reflections, darkly. If he let himself think about it, he got shaky. When he dwelled too long on the subject, he experienced unsettling dreams and night sweats.

  Whatever the cats' alarming background, the fact was that now he had little jurisdiction over Joe Grey. He could argue with Joe, but he was awed by the tomcat, too, and he was obliged to leave Joe pretty much to his own decisions.

  And the tomcat, wallowing in his new powers, had grown far more hardheaded than ever he was before.

  Joe Grey's own theory about his sudden new abilities was that the trauma of seeing Samuel Beckwhite murdered had triggered the change. That the shock had stirred his latent condition-much as shock might bring on latent diabetes, or propel a patient with high blood pressure to a stroke.

  Whatever the cause, Joe's new persona was unsettling for them both. Clyde had to admit, Joe had had a lot to deal with, a lot to learn. He supposed the tomcat was still getting it
sorted out. And as for himself, living with a talking cat demanded all the understanding a man could muster.

  Wilma said much the same. That sometimes she wished Dulcie would just go back to her earlier vices of stealing the neighbors' clothes. Wilma had been used to Dulcie slipping in through the neighbors' windows, turning the knobs of their unlocked doors, trotting through neighbors' houses dragging away stockings, bed jackets, silk teddies.

  He had known Wilma since he was eight, when she moved next door, a tall beautiful blond who soon was the object of his first pre-adolescent crush. She broke his heart each time she left to return to graduate school. She had not only been his first love, but his friend. She was fun, she was tolerant and good-natured, a gorgeous young woman who knew how to throw a baseball and when to keep her mouth shut.

  Wilma was gray-haired now, and wrinkled, but she was still slim, a lithe and active woman. They had remained friends even after she finished her graduate degree, never losing touch, through his failed marriage and through Wilma's career as a parole officer, first in San Francisco, and then in Denver. She had retired, from the Denver office of Federal Probation five years ago. When she returned to Molena Point shortly after, they celebrated her retirement with dinner at the Windborne, lobster and champagne, sitting at a window table looking down the cliffs to the rolling sea.

  Now, standing on his porch staring up the street where the cats had disappeared, he realized he was late for work. Maybe he'd go in at noon. How long since he'd given himself a half day off? He didn't have anything special this morning. In memory he could hear Janet saying, "Let the men run it for a day. Why bother with the headache of your own business if you can't play hooky?" She had loved to goad him into taking time off, though it meant that she had to abandon her own heavy schedule of sculpture commissions. Locking her studio, she had acted as if she were playing hooky. They would pick up a picnic basket at the deli and drive down to Otter Point, spend the day walking the sea cliffs, laughing, acting silly, getting sunburned.