Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Maudie put her arm around Benny, giving him a hug as she smiled across at Carlene. “This show was scheduled some months before … some months before Easter of this year,” she said, glancing down at Benny. “The gallery had a contact down there, he took the photographs in February.

  “After the shooting, I wasn’t sure I could get the show together—or get myself together. But I knew Martin wouldn’t want me to cancel. And I knew we’d be moving up here, I knew at once, when Martin died, that we couldn’t stay in L.A.”

  “Aren’t you afraid,” Carlene asked, “that if that terrible person who shot Martin—that they might see the magazine, even this little local one, and learn where you are? Aren’t you afraid this kind of publicity will draw them to you?”

  Maudie looked at her sister for some time. “I wasn’t the target, Carlene. It was Martin and Caroline who were murdered.”

  “But you were right there, you must have seen the killer.”

  “I didn’t. It was dark. I didn’t see anything, just the flash of the gun and a white empty afterglow as I grabbed the kids and ducked down.”

  “But you could have seen him. How would he know you didn’t? If you—”

  “All I saw were split second flashes of gunfire.” Maudie laid down her fork. “I did not see the killer’s face, Carlene. Don’t start imagining what isn’t so.” Beside her, Benny looked very small, the child sat very still, huddled into himself. Maudie hugged him again and took his hand, but she didn’t back off from the discussion; as if, Joe Grey thought, she would not encourage him to hide from this new and ugly turn his life had taken.

  “But they don’t know what you might have seen,” Carlene pressed stubbornly, with, apparently, no notion how her questions might upset the little boy beside Maudie.

  Across the table, Jared gave his mother a look of disgust. “She said it was dark, Ma. Let it go.”

  Next to Jared, Kent lazily stirred his mashed potatoes and gravy into mush, with the manners of a three-year-old. Carlene said automatically, “Don’t play with your food,” as she must have done for Kent’s entire life; she gave Jared a despairing look that he returned with a little smile of understanding. Maudie changed the subject, tossing the conflict back into Carlene’s lap.

  “How’s Victor doing?” she asked innocently. “How much longer does he have to serve, down at Soledad?” Had the two sisters been like this all their lives, at each other with this mean one-upmanship?

  At the other end of the table, James said, “It was on the local news, Maudie. You must have seen it. Victor’s being transferred out, to another prison.” He said it without emotion, his thin, sharply carved features unrevealing. James Colletto had a nose as straight as a new ruler.

  “I haven’t had the TV on,” Maudie told him softly, as if embarrassed that she’d broached something more painful, even, than she’d thought. Beside her, Benny had finished his mashed potatoes. Maudie picked up the serving bowl that sat within her reach, and dished him another helping. Jared reached across the table to pass her the gravy, while James sliced more roast beef for the child. The little boy, apparently paying no attention to the adults, was shoveling in the good hot food—a real sit-down dinner, the cats thought, smiling.

  “There was a stabbing in the prison yard,” James said quietly. “Three men against one, and Victor among them. Apparently it was Victor who did the stabbing. We don’t know much more than that.” He laid his fork down. “We’re told he’ll go back to court, that he could be convicted on a new charge.” His voice was flat with resignation.

  “Of course they’re blaming Victor,” Carlene said. “That’s what they’ve done all along. The cops, the judge, everyone. The night that pizza place was robbed, Victor wasn’t anywhere near it. Was he, Kent? I’d never have thought we had crooked police, right here in our little village, I never would have guessed that Max Harper …” She stopped, staring at Maudie. The cats couldn’t see Maudie’s face, but in her lap, her left hand was balled into a fist, and beneath the table her sandaled foot tapped silently on the thick rug.

  “What’s wrong?” Carlene said, staring at her sister. “You weren’t here. You haven’t been reading the paper, you don’t know half what’s going on.”

  Maudie’s foot continued to tap. She made no reply. Jared looked sympathetic, but he, too, remained silent. Kent smirked at Maudie in such a superior way that Dulcie and Kit wanted to claw his contemptuous face. The silence at the table went on for so long that even Benny began to squirm. Carlene let her gaze settle on the child, honing in coldly on the little boy.

  “Do you like your new home, Benny? Do you have a nice room? Are you in school yet? Tell us about your new school.”

  The child looked down at the table.

  “Can’t you speak to your great-aunt? Tell us what grade you’re in? Do you like your new teacher?” Carlene didn’t have the courtesy to gently draw the child out or to wait for a reply; she went after Benny like a bulldog after a little cat. Benny shifted awkwardly, looking up to his grandmother for help, as if silently begging permission to leave the table.

  “Doesn’t the child talk?” Carlene asked. “Can’t you talk to me, Benny?”

  Maudie took Benny’s hand, shaking her head. His eyes fixed on her, Benny settled down, only the stiffness of his thin back showing his continued discomfort. Carlene’s unkindness made the cats wonder how the Colletto boys had managed to survive in this household; it sure explained why Victor might be in prison, and Kent was so sullen. James Colletto didn’t seem strong enough, the cats thought, to counter this unfeeling woman.

  “Benny hasn’t started school yet,” Maudie said, putting her arm around the child. “He’s been helping Lori Reed, the young girl who works for Ryan Flannery, up at the cottage. Benny—”

  “A young girl works for a carpenter? How young?”

  “Thirteen,” Benny said. “Lori—”

  “But that’s dangerous, that’s against the law.”

  “She has permission from the school,” Maudie said. “She works during certain class hours, and on weekends. Ryan is more than responsible, she sees that Lori’s work is safe.”

  “Ryan can do anything,” Benny said as if the change of subject stirred his confidence. “Ryan saved Grandma yesterday when that truck almost hit her, she—”

  “What happened?” Carlene said, laying down her fork. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “A car swipe!” Benny said eagerly. “Ryan called it a hit-and-run, a car tried to hit Grandma, he came right at her and tried to hit her. Grandma—”

  “It was nothing,” Maudie said quickly, trying to hush Benny. “It was an accident, someone looking the other way, driving too fast—”

  “Nothing!” Carlene said. “A car nearly hit you, and it was nothing? What did the police say? Did they catch the driver? Crime is completely out of control in this village, the police are doing nothing. An assault on my very own sister, after all your suffering over Martin’s murder …”

  “It was an accident,” Maudie repeated. “As to Martin’s death, Benny and I are getting on with life just as he would want us to do.”

  Carlene sniffed with disgust. “And now David’s gone back to Atlanta and left you alone in the house with that wall torn out, so anyone can walk in …”

  “The wall isn’t torn out. The glass slider is far more secure now, with the studio built around it, than it was before. Benny and I are just fine,” Maudie said, smiling down at the child. Benny looked up at her and nodded.

  “I want Jared to stay with you for a while,” Carlene said, “until David sees fit to come back.” She looked pointedly at Jared. “It isn’t safe for Maudie, alone there. I’m surprised David would go on his merry way and—”

  Maudie’s foot was tapping again as if to deflect some of her anger. “You’d have David leave Alison alone, when she’s having cancer surgery?”

  “Alison has family there, they can take care of her.”

  “Alison has one sister with five ch
ildren. You think she wants the confusion of five loud, noisy little kids when she’s just out of surgery?”

  “Jared, go pack a bag,” Carlene said. “You can follow Maudie home, you can stay in that spare bedroom with Benny until David decides to take care of his mother.”

  “I am not an invalid,” Maudie said. “I don’t want a caretaker. You are not to come, Jared. If we need you, I’ll let you know.”

  Jared gave her a little grin and nodded. “Between school and work, I’d be gone a lot. But I’d be glad to come, and I’d sure be there at night, if anyone tried to break in.”

  “You’re working where?” Maudie said, as if to retain control of the conversation.

  “It’s a little used-car lot just up the coast. I do some detailing, painting, cleaning up the cars before he puts a price on them. Mr. Sutter, he liked the way I rebuilt my T-Bird.” Jared grinned at her. “He says it looks factory new.” He glanced at his brother. “Kent works there some, we like working together.”

  Outside in the garden, Joe Grey sat very still, his stub tail twitching with interest as he considered the possibilities of Kent’s work situation among all those used cars.

  “The good thing,” Jared said, “he lets me work pretty much the hours I want, depending on school. The accounting classes aren’t real demanding, but sometimes there’s a lot of history or English homework, and I can choose my work time. When he needs extra help, Kent can get in more hours, too.”

  “The money helps out,” Kent said in a bored tone. As if he really didn’t give a damn about the money, or about working anywhere. Joe watched him, and then suddenly rose, flashing Dulcie and Kit a look that had them on their feet, too, and the three took off around the side of the house. Joe was in such a hurry, and the lady cats racing to keep up, that they never once glanced above them into the branches of the overhanging oaks to see the yellow tomcat crouched above, peering down watching them.

  17

  SUCH A STRONG hunch drove Joe as he raced for the Collettos’ garage. Maybe his idea was off the wall, but who was to say he wouldn’t find the old truck in there, the rusted truck that had nearly hit Maudie? The scenario was such a nice fit: angry Kent Colletto—angry at the whole world, it seemed—with access to any number of old vehicles that might later be painted and sold and never found. Those small car lots up the coast, tucked in among the fishing wharfs, had some really decrepit wrecks. He’d often gone with Clyde to look at some rusty “collector’s” treasure, a relic that Clyde would end up towing home, give it a pristine restoration, and quadruple its value. Only as he crouched to leap to the windowsill of the closed garage did Dulcie’s incredulous look stop him. “You don’t really think …” she began.

  “It’s worth a shot,” Joe said impatiently.

  “No way,” Dulcie said. “What could Maudie have possibly done to make even skuzzy Kent Colletto want to frighten her that way? A joke, a sick joke? I don’t think so.”

  But, convinced he was right, he leaped and peered in, getting cobwebs in his whiskers.

  Nothing. No truck. Only Jared’s shiny blue T-Bird, and a tan Ford sedan that was probably the family car. Dropping down, he looked at Dulcie, embarrassed. He’d been so sure, such a strong feeling. But she only grinned at him. “Good try,” she said, giving him a whisker kiss. And soon the three cats parted, Joe and Dulcie each heading home to their own supper, Kit dawdling along behind, puzzled perhaps by some faint scent, looking back over her shoulder.

  Joe’s thoughts, as he raced over the rooftops, remained on Kent Colletto. The night was balmy around him, the soft breeze heavy with the smell of the sea; as he neared home, the breeze picked up the heady aroma of spaghetti coming from his own house, making him forget Kent Colletto and race faster, urgently licking his whiskers.

  From his own roof, Joe looked down at the drive, surprised to see it crowded with cars. Clyde’s yellow roadster and Ryan’s red Chevy pickup stood in the carport; Dallas Garza’s tan Blazer and Charlie Harper’s red Blazer parked behind them; and on the street, Wilma Getz’s car parked behind a squad car. Was something wrong? He remembered no talk of everyone getting together for supper. Given the longer shifts the department had been working, there’d been little time for their usual impromptu gatherings.

  But emergencies didn’t call for spaghetti; and as he hurried up the front steps and through his cat door, he heard only relaxed voices and easy laughter. Trotting through the living room to the big kitchen, he found them all at the table, Max and Charlie, Dallas Garza, Charlie’s Aunt Wilma, Ryan and Clyde, and Officers McFarland and Blake, both in uniform. The table wasn’t laden with spaghetti and French bread as he’d expected; supper was over, though the spaghetti pot still sat on the stove. The table was cluttered with poker chips, cards, loose change, and dollar bills. He guessed this was just an impromptu supper, Max and Dallas on call, and maybe Officers McFarland and Blake just getting off their extended shifts. He paused in the door to the kitchen listening to the familiar mix of disjointed remarks, aggressive bets, requests for cards, and a few good-natured put-downs; then he padded on in. No one seemed to notice him. In the far corner, the big silver Weimaraner was curled up fast asleep in the flowered easy chair, the little white cat asleep between Rock’s front legs, one white paw draped over Rock’s shoulder. Turning, Joe fixed his gaze on Ryan.

  When she ignored him, her eyes on her cards, he gave a strident mew. Across the table, Dallas watched her, waiting to see whether she would see his raise or fold, his solemn Latino face never changing expression. Wilma Getz folded, laid down her cards, and sat with an amused expression watching Joe as he tried to get Ryan’s attention. Wilma wore a red sweatshirt over a white turtleneck, her long gray-white hair done up in a knot at the nape of her neck. She grinned at Joe as he leaped to the kitchen counter, but then she gave him a questioning look—clearly asking where Dulcie was.

  Joe blinked and washed his paws and tried to look at ease, to convey to her that Dulcie had gone on home. He knew Wilma would have left a hearty snack for Dulcie, as she always did. He guessed Kit had headed home, too, where, no matter the hour, her two humans would fix a hot supper for her. Lucinda and Pedric would probably by now be doing up the supper dishes or sitting before the fire reading to each other, the tall, thin octogenarians pleasantly tired after a day’s ramble up in the hills or along the coast. Still watching Ryan, Joe shifted from paw to paw. Couldn’t she see he was starving?

  “Raise two,” Ryan said, “and two cards.” When still she paid no attention, Joe gave her a series of bloodcurdling yowls that made young McFarland jump and then laugh, made both Max and Dallas scowl at him. Ryan paid no attention. Crowley said, “Ryan, feed your cat. I’ve won this hand anyway.”

  Joe stared at Ryan until she won the pot and raked in her money; then at long last she rose. “Deal me out,” she said, turning away from the table, fixing her gaze on the tomcat. “You needn’t be so bossy.”

  Unable to reply, he could only glower. Moving to the stove, she dished up a serving of spaghetti and slipped it in the microwave for a few seconds. Setting the warmed plate on the counter before him, she scratched his ear, winked at him, then turned away, returning to the table. Joe was still slurping spaghetti when Charlie raked in the next pot.

  “That makes me feel better,” Charlie said. “If you’re still stewing about Nancyanne Prewitt,” Max said, “forget it. Don’t pay any attention to that stuff.” “I can’t help it. I’m surprised anyone reads the Gazette anymore. It isn’t fit to wrap fish.” When Ryan looked up questioningly, Charlie said, “She cornered Wilma and me coming out of the plaza, and she really laid it on.”

  Wilma laughed, and put down her cards. “I had trouble not punching her in the face, right there in front of Tiffany’s.”

  Joe hid a smile, imagining Wilma punching out that overdressed airhead reporter. Wilma could do it, too. Her self-defense skills had been well honed over her twenty-year career as a federal officer. But it was true, the pressure from this new editor an
d reporter and from a few sour citizens, as well as from two city council members, had to be wearing. Particularly on Max, on everyone in the department. Max Harper had served this town well for his entire career. MPPD had one of the lowest crime rates, and one of the highest rates of arrests for crimes reported, of anywhere in the state. But now suddenly the villagers, goaded by misinformation, seemed to have forgotten the high performance of their police. And the invasions weren’t over yet.

  So far, the evidence that Detectives Dallas Garza and Kathleen Ray had logged in wasn’t adding up to much. Every set of footprints, whether photographed or in the form of a cast or taken by alternate light source, was different: different shoes, different sizes. The threads and fragments of cloth they’d bagged didn’t match one another, nor did the few strands of human hairs. They had picked up no fingerprints but the victims’ own or those of family members or neighbors. Their canvassing of neighborhoods and the fingerprinting of neighbors were time-consuming and costly. The department had taken men off patrol to help interview, and even the descriptions the victims gave were varied, from two tall men, to a tall man and a blond woman, to a short, stocky man. And to top it all off, the department’s three unknown snitches, who normally would have come up with some useful information, hadn’t even checked in.

  The faint fish scent that Kit had found was the first clue the cats had that the cops didn’t. And how could their supposedly human snitch report an elusive smell that no human would easily have discovered? Did a human snitch go around sniffing at doorways?

  The invasions hadn’t occurred in any geographic pattern, either, that anyone had been able to figure out, though they were all within the city limits. There was no time pattern. No economic or ethnic or gender or age pattern. Detective Ray had tried correlating all the various elements—time of day, day of the week, sex, age, profession, and ethnicity of victims, locations—into various computer charts, attempting to get a fix on some master plan, but so far she’d come up with nothing. Kathleen Ray might sometimes be a bit too empathetic with the victims, but she was sharp and quick, and was a genius at the computer. The tall, dark-haired beauty had, surprisingly, left a promising modeling career, disenchanted with the people she had to work with. She’d gone back to school and, after graduating from the police academy in San Jose, had signed on with the department as a rookie cop and was fast turning into a capable detective. Now, with Detective Juana Davis on vacation, Harper was relieved to have Kathleen on board.