Cat Telling Tales

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Ryan stood beside the tall studio windows looking down to the drive, the sun teasing a shine across her short hair. There was a more relaxed look on her face as she watched Clyde and Debbie pack up the car. Leaping onto the mantel beside her, Joe gave her a wicked smile.

  “What?” she said, turning from the window, her green eyes looking into his. When he’d left the kitchen earlier, she knew he was taking advantage of the moment to toss Debbie’s room. “What did you find?” she said softly.

  “She’s not so broke, ” Joe said with sly satisfaction.

  “How much?”

  “Two thousand, in cash. I didn’t find a bankbook, so maybe that’s all she has, but that’s hardly the same as broke. That should hold her until she gets a job—if she plans to get a job. I wonder,” Joe said, “how much money she had when she left Eugene. Aren’t there some pretty nice resorts in southern Oregon and on down in Mendocino?”

  “You do have a suspicious mind, tomcat.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Cop’s kid,” she said. “Comes with the territory. That’s why we survive, suspicion breeds safety. Two thousand bucks! Poor thing. Talk about destitute.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on top his head. “You did good, tomcat.” If a cat could blush, he’d look like a pink plush kiddy toy. Licking a paw to hide his embarrassment, he watched her make her way back downstairs, heard her in the living room hurrying Debbie along. When he peered down again through the window, the two kids were in the car, enthroned among the blankets and duffels, and Clyde was stuffing the last load in around them. Dropping down from the mantel, he pawed open the sliding glass door and slipped out onto the deck. Looking over, he watched Ryan hand Debbie the want ads, listened to her suggest job venues, including a contact with their friend Chichi Barbi, who had recently bought Charlie Harper’s cleaning service. Chichi was expanding the business, taking on a long waiting list of homeowners who wanted their houses cleaned and maintained on a regular basis. She was interested in any possible new employee who could pass the background check and was a good worker. He wondered if Debbie could pass on either count?

  But maybe he was being too hard on her, maybe with encouragement she’d knuckle down and get a job—or maybe, he thought, she’d run quickly through the two thousand, and then start whining again.

  Debbie was saying, “I need to stop for groceries.” She sighed, looking toward the car. “Something to feed the kids.” Joe imagined them pulling up before the little village grocery, imagined Debbie asking Clyde to come inside, to show her where things were, so it wouldn’t take her so long. And then at the checkout, giving Clyde that helpless, big-eyed look when she discovered she was short of cash. Right, Joe thought. And Clyde’s going to sucker up to that?

  As Ryan and Clyde headed for Ryan’s pickup to lead Debbie up to the cottage, Joe thought to scorch on down and ride with them, see how this played out. Except, he’d had more than enough of Debbie Kraft and Vinnie for a while. Instead he raced away across the roofs for Molena Point PD, where he could relax among easy cop talk, away from Debbie Kraft’s lies and fake smiles; he pitied Rock, who had already scrambled up into the backseat of the truck.

  If Max was back at the station, maybe he’d already called Eugene to check on Debbie’s movements, see when she had left Oregon for California. He wondered if he should call Eugene himself, to try to get a line on the red tomcat. The nursing home must have set up a temporary office, maybe even with the original phone number. Running across the roofs, with an icy wind at his back, he hurried for the station, thinking that winter had turned serious and bold. Dark clouds hung low over the village, the damp air smelled of rain and of a deeper cold yet to come. Well, but February weather on the central coast was never to be relied on. Racing beneath the wind, sailing across the occasional narrow alley, he hit the cold tile roof of the courthouse, ran its length, and dropped down to the roof of MPPD.

  He was just backing down the oak, headed for the front door, when a black-and-white pulled to the curb below. Hidden within the prickly oak leaves, he watched two uniformed officers step out, force their handcuffed prisoner out of the backseat and through the glass door, into the little foyer: a young, skinny fellow, long face, long greasy hair. Even from the tree Joe could smell the oily stink of his old leather jacket. As they marched him inside, Joe hit the ground behind them and slid in, too. The arrestee looked startled to see a cat race in past his feet, but the officers paid no attention. They stood at the dispatcher’s counter, portly Officer Brennan booking the guy in, printing him, listing his personal effects that Brennan had laid out on the desk; a dirty handkerchief, a little greasy coin purse, a squashed candy bar.

  Joe strolled past them and down the hall, thinking that there was a lot to be said for the ambience of a small-town police department. He couldn’t imagine being allowed this kind of freedom in the vast, impersonal complex of San Francisco or LAPD. He’d seen the pictures of those daunting establishments with their complicated security, bulletproof glass walls, locked doors. He’d heard the officers discuss the many divisions of the metropolitan hierarchies, and couldn’t envision a feline sleuth trying to function in that high-powered maze.

  Surprisingly, though, cats were serving their own important role in big-city PDs. Even in L.A., feral cats were doing important work. Not sleuthing, but protecting the criminal files and records. Several L.A. precincts, whose buildings were plagued by rats, had brought in colonies of feral cats, housing, feeding, and caring for them, setting them loose among the offices to handle the out-of-control rodent population. Rats in the offices. Rats in the lunchroom. Rats running down the halls into the storage rooms, eating paper supplies and, more alarming, destroying old criminal files: a felon’s record quickly expunged, vanished into the belly of a hungry rodent. And it wasn’t only L.A. that was employing ferals who might otherwise be killed. Other large city police departments were taking notice, bringing in their own bands of ferals, working with foundations of volunteers like Alley Cat Allies or Animal Friends. Feline exterminators were now working at city offices, college campuses, all kinds of institutions—stable cat populations that did not produce unwanted kittens, but went happily about their business destroying the rats, not only saving valuable paperwork, but saving lives, too. For every rat the cats killed, they destroyed a potential carrier of hantavirus that was fatal to humans, and for which there was no vaccine and no cure. Dogs, Joe thought, weren’t the only four-legged professionals serving human needs. Those cats could be as important as Red Cross nurses, giving folks a helping paw.

  Slipping into Max’s office, into what he considered his personal lair beneath the credenza, he sniffed the sweet scent of horses from Max’s Western boots. The chief was on the phone, glancing up now and then at Detective Juana Davis. She sat in one of the leather chairs, leaning over massaging her left knee where a prospective felon, now in Soledad Prison, had graced her with a well-placed kick while she was cuffing his partner. Orange cat hairs clung to Juana’s dark uniform, evidence of the kitten she’d recently adopted. Juana seemed more relaxed since the kitten had come to share her condo; the little creature was born nearly in the middle of a murder case that Juana, and Joe himself, had worked in tandem, Juana happily unaware of the identity of the snitch who alerted her to the murder, unaware of the three cats’ roles in the timely demise of the killer. Max hung up the phone, looking across at the detective.

  “As far as Eugene PD can tell, Debbie did leave ten days ago, about the time she mailed Ryan’s letter. Landlord said her lease was up three months ago, but she refused to move. He called her husband here in the village. Erik was out of town, but he got him on his cell. Kraft told him he was divorcing her, said if she wanted to stay she’d have to sign her own lease, pay her own rent. Landlord went over there three times with a lease. Her car was there but she wouldn’t answer the door. Brown, 1998 Suzuki station wagon. Eugene has our BOL on her but hadn’t spotted her. Strange, if she was camping, they watch those campgrounds pretty c
lose. Well, she’s here now, arrived last night, stayed with Ryan and Clyde. I went by this morning, talked with her, asked her to come in and get printed. She doesn’t want Erik to know she’s here, claims she’s afraid of him. Claims he’s into some kind of real estate scam.”

  “If she’s avoiding him,” Davis said. “Why would she come here?”

  Max shook his head. “Says he won’t expect her here, that he’ll think she’s headed north.”

  “His condo’s right in the middle of town,” Davis said. “Pretty hard to keep out of his way. The Brighton, that second-floor penthouse.” In Molena Point, as in much of California where the buildings were designed to resist impending earthquakes, even a second story often rose above the surrounding rooftops. Joe knew that penthouse well; its walled back patio was a favorite for the village cats, a sunny spot out of the wind on cold days. The little terrace had no access from the roofs around it except to the pigeons and seagulls, and through open aspects at the base of the wall meant for rain runoff, where the local cats could easily slip inside. With Erik gone so much of the time, it was an ideal hunting preserve. One could enjoy a sunny afternoon nap, wake when a pigeon landed, snatch him up before he knew you were there. Warm nap and instant feast, how could any cat resist?

  Max said, “Kraft’s still out of town, expects to be gone for another month or more. I talked with Fowler. Says he’s down in Orange County reorganizing the branch office there, some kind of staff shake-up. Says from there, he’s headed for the Bahamas on vacation.”

  Davis smiled. “Pretty tough life.”

  Max laughed. “For sure, Debbie’s current digs won’t match that kind of luxury. Ryan and Clyde are moving her into one of the cottages they bought, that dilapidated one up near the meth house we raided.” He frowned, none too happy with that operation.

  “They sure saw that coming,” she said. “Empty house, nothing left but the smell. Crime-scene cleanup service should be in there this week. Took us a while to locate the landlord, the house sold six months ago to a Jarvis James, in Chicago.” They exchanged a look of disgust. Someone out of state buys an old cottage, next thing you know they’re making meth.

  And, Joe thought, most likely ruining the house for future sale. Even if the house was torn down, the land could be useless if it was sufficiently soaked with lethal chemicals.

  Davis said, “We have computer copies of the deed and the closing papers. Most of it was done online.” Neither Davis nor the chief liked the shift from paper contracts to those completed online, which the real estate and escrow companies had so eagerly embraced, and which made evidence harder to nail down.

  “Kathleen’s working on the contract,” Davis said, “trying to pick up the trail.” Kathleen Ray, the newest of the three detectives, had brought with her a fine expertise in the world of computers, and both older detectives were more than happy to see her take on that annoying aspect of their work. Davis said, “She’s found other purchases for James, so we’ll see where that leads. Looks like Ryan and Clyde, and Hanni, are stuck with those places for a while. Besides the economic slump, no one wants to buy near a meth house.”

  Max said, “Hanni’s nearly done with her renovation. Ryan and Clyde mean to go ahead, too, and then wait it out.” He tilted back in his chair. “The meth house isn’t the only problem up there. The papers on some of those places are in a hell of a tangle. City attorney’s beginning to see illegal foreclosures, false documents, the works. Could keep that area depressed for some long time.”

  “Anywhere else,” Davis said, “I’d worry. But land’s too valuable in Molena Point, city council’s too concerned, city attorney rides too close when these things begin to happen.”

  Joe thought about the cats that the rescue group had trapped in that neighborhood. Many members of their local CatFriends group had taken three or four cats apiece into their homes, to shelter on a temporary basis. He thought some of them would turn out to be so charming they’d end up as permanent family members. Juana had already told Charlie she’d take another young cat, that her orange kitten was growing bored, home all day alone, that he was clawing and chewing up the furniture. Davis hoped that two cats, if they were compatible, would chase each other, climb the cat trees, play tag, rather than spend their energy as a two-cat demolition crew.

  “Anything more on the burn?” Max asked.

  “We lifted three sets of prints from the whiskey bottles and the carton, besides Hesmerra’s. Sent the whole thing for contents analysis to the lab, along with the shattered remains of the bottle she had in bed. The few dishes, glasses, pans, knives and forks were melted, but we sent a collection of that to the lab. I’m guessing, even with the new methods, they won’t be able to lift much. The rest of the burn, Dallas and I lifted four sets of prints besides hers.”

  Joe had taken a good look at those transformed blobs of glass, smoky and milky and as weird as artifacts from an alien planet. The pots and pans, too, the knives and forks, all were melted into misshapen monstrosities that might have been turned out by some misguided, first-year art student.

  As for the wood alcohol that had killed Hesmerra, that was as common as bargain brand cat food; a person could buy the stuff anywhere, any grocery or drugstore. Slip into Hesmerra’s cave, ease off one of the little plastic cap covers, remove the lid. Pour out some of the whiskey, replace it with denatured alcohol. Slip the plastic back on, and wait for her to retrieve that particular bottle and suck it down. The hitch was, the killer couldn’t be sure of the timing; it might be months before she picked up the poisoned offering—unless he’d doctored all the bottles.

  Or had the killer slipped into the shack, maybe when Hesmerra was sleeping or passed out? Added the wood alcohol to her already open whiskey?

  Davis said, “Billy told you that Erik Kraft and Hesmerra were friends?”

  Max nodded. “Billy thought that was because Debbie, herself, never went to see her. Neither sister did, Billy said it’s been like that since his mother died. Greta was the youngest, maybe her sisters felt protective, felt Hesmerra was remiss in letting her go out in the storm that night. Though that doesn’t really explain such rigid, long-standing anger.”

  “Doesn’t explain a lot of things,” Davis said. “Doesn’t explain Hesmerra’s maneuvering for jobs that gave her access to the Kraft offices, and to Alain Bent’s house.”

  Max said, “I asked Emmylou Warren to come in for prints, I want to talk with her, maybe she can fill us in. Up at the burn this morning, she was pretty nervous. Billy said she and Hesmerra had a falling-out when she was evicted.”

  “You want a BOL on her?”

  “Not at this point. If she doesn’t show, have the patrols watch for her, give her a little nudge.”

  Of course she was nervous, Joe thought, if she lifted that file box from the crime scene. It had sure smelled, and looked, as if it had been buried in the earth beneath the fire. Question was, would she bring the box to the chief? And, a more worrisome question, how much had Max seen in the backseat of her car when he grabbed one guilty tomcat and tossed him out?

  Joe thought he must have seen the box. But before he grabbed Joe, did he see the letterheads that were barely sticking out, had he seen enough so that when he did have the box, he’d focus right in on the gray tomcat pawing through the evidence—if that was some kind of evidence?

  Or would Emmylou decide to keep those papers to herself, maybe hide them, and not get involved? He was wondering if he should make a call, fill Max in on the letterheads in case she didn’t give the papers to him, when a woman’s querulous voice cut loudly down the hall. “I’ll see him now! He left three very curt calls on my machine, when one polite message would have done, and I don’t expect to be kept waiting.”

  The dispatcher mumbled an answer Joe couldn’t make out. The woman said, “I’ve been out of town. Now that I’m home, I have better things to do than waste my time in this place, with the implication that if I don’t show up I’m under some kind of arrest. I’m not in t
he habit of being summoned by the police, by a public servant, and then kept waiting.”

  With a look of sorely tried patience, Max rose from his desk and headed up the hall. Davis was slower to rise. Limping, she moved out close behind him. Silently Joe followed them, his claws itching for action. MPPD was his second home, and he didn’t take kindly to rude humans throwing their weight around.

  13

  Three hundred miles north of Molena Point, the red tabby tomcat sat in the cab of a U-Haul truck as it roared down Highway 101. Perched comfortably atop the driver’s duffel bag, he watched the pine-wooded hills race by, broken now and then by green pastures. For most of the trip, the sky had been clear, the sea to their right sparkling blue, but then as they neared the Oregon paper mills they’d hit that area’s overcast, as thick as curdled milk, the sky hanging low and gray, the sea as unappealing as a smear of mud.

  Whatever the weather, though, hitchhiking was a blast—if you chose your mark with care, if you didn’t hook up with some nutcase who had no respect for a lone tomcat. Lazily washing his paws and whiskers, he glanced at his hefty driver. She was a big, square woman dressed comfortably in faded jeans, a khaki shirt, a soft brown leather jacket, high brown boots that could stand a good polish if one cared about such matters. Her U-Haul rental agreement, tucked carelessly into the visor above her head, gave her name as Denise Woolsey. She was maybe sixty-some, though he had trouble discerning the exact age of a human. Cats were easier, advancing age providing the clear signs, lengthening chin, graying muzzle, spreading toes and dropped belly; and of course the changing smell of old age.

  Denise had told him, conversationally, that she was moving house; she talked to him as she might to any hitchhiker, and he liked that. She was hauling her furniture, all her worldly goods, from Astoria to her new home in Stockton. She said she’d given away half of what she owned, meaning to simplify her life. She seemed hungry for conversation, even if it was one-sided. Maybe she’d taken him aboard simply for someone to talk to, imagining that he couldn’t repeat any of her shared secrets. She hadn’t a clue he could have contributed to the conversation, could have entertained her, himself, with tales of his own travels. The cab smelled of ancient dust, fresh coffee from her thermos, and the stink of the southern Oregon paper mills, the sour, acid smell of ground-up wood pulp trapped beneath an increasingly heavy fog that hugged the coast.