Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  This was what the burglar had come for, she was certain. Someone had been in the house, had stolen her keys, but apparently hadn’t had time to find this envelope before being startled, perhaps. Before slipping away, leaving the job unfinished. This, she thought, smiling, was what they wouldn’t find now, if they did return. By ten tomorrow morning the envelope would be tucked away in a new safe-deposit box, with a key different from the one that had been stolen, and no one would find the new key.

  She’d discovered her extra keys missing the day before, when she’d misplaced her car keys. She’d looked everywhere, then had gone to her desk to get the duplicate set: house key, car keys, safe deposit, and several others which, if she ever lost the originals or her purse were stolen, would supply immediate backup. Opening her big secretary, beside the fireplace in the living room, she’d removed the little stamp drawer to reveal the hidden compartment behind it. Reaching in, she’d drawn her hand back and bent to peer inside. The little compartment was empty. She’d stood there panicked, trying to remember if she’d taken the keys out herself, and knowing she had not. She’d thought, chilled, about someone who now could enter her home any time of day or night, come stealing in when they were sound asleep. It was at that moment that she’d been sure Pearl Toola was in the village, that Pearl had followed her, and had been here in her house. At once Maudie’s plan for Pearl had quickened, the cold, precise path that she longed to follow.

  Whether she’d have the nerve to carry it through was in question, but not because she was afraid. She wasn’t. Not because she didn’t have the means. She did. But because of Benny. No matter how Benny might think he hated his mother, if Maudie took such action, that could be the end of any love between them. Such a terrible betrayal by his grandmother could rob Benny of any hope at all for the years ahead, for any kind of normal life.

  She knew she was courting disaster by not reporting the break-in or the hit-and-run. Maybe she should call Molena Point PD now, tonight, and report them both, certainly report the rifled boxes, the missing keys. Maybe an officer would come out, maybe take fingerprints.

  But was that what she wanted? And it was the middle of the night, what kind of response would she get? If she did report those things, she didn’t want just a cop, she’d want a detective. The person she’d really want to talk to was Max Harper. And before Harper or anyone would take her seriously, she’d have to lay out the whole scenario, explain the significance of what was missing, explain what had gone on in L.A. But even if she did that, what would her word be worth? She stood for some time, conflicted and uncertain, shivering in the cold garage, then turned back into the house. In the warm kitchen she made herself a cup of tea and sat at the table warming her hands around the steaming cup, trying to ease her concerns, putting off any discussion with Max Harper, preferring to deal with Pearl in her own way.

  29

  JOE LOOKED IN through the bulletproof glass door of Molena Point PD, but hesitated. He didn’t demand to be let in, didn’t yowl as he always did to attract the daytime dispatcher. Night dispatcher June Alpine might be young and pretty, but she wasn’t half as enamored of cats as was their friend Mabel Farthy. Now, instead of drawing June’s possible ire, maybe turning her cranky enough to chase him away, he scorched up the oak tree that sheltered the front of the building. Bracing himself on the tiled roof, he pawed open the small window that looked down into the holding cell. With the heavy bars welded across, the glass was usually cracked open—some of these arrestees could smell pretty strong.

  This single cell, facing the main entry and the dispatcher’s desk, was intended to detain prisoners for only a short time, until they were fingerprinted and their identifying information recorded, before they were taken back to the jail that occupied its own small, fenced building just behind the two-story main building that housed the PD, the court and related offices.

  Slipping in between the thick bars, through the open window, Joe dropped down to the cot suspended from the wall below, landing just at the edge to keep the flat springs from squeaking. The thin mattress smelled of throw-up and unwashed human bodies. Padding out through the door’s confining bars, he slipped along close to the base of the dispatcher’s counter where June might not see him as he headed for the hall. He glanced back twice, but both times she was turned away. Except for the lighted conference room, where three officers sat at the big table with laptops, typing up reports, all the offices were dark, the open doors revealed only blackness. Quickly he vanished through Max’s door, into the faint scent of horses that lingered on from years of contact with the chief’s western boots.

  If Max had been there, Joe might have slipped beneath the credenza, out of sight, until he got a taste of what was going on. Now, with the room to himself, he leaped to Max’s desk among the perennial stacks of paperwork, scheduling lists, budget requests, collaterals—enough paper to make the tomcat glad all over again that he wasn’t human.

  The computer stood dark and lifeless, harboring who knew what secrets, making him wish he were as adept at its use as Dulcie, who’d be able to pull up all kinds of secured information. She’d learned in the library, where she was the official library cat, though an often absent one. Wilma was a reference librarian, often sharing her office computer with Dulcie. When she worked late at night she would walk Dulcie through some fascinating bits of research, often exploring the cats’ own history, tied to Welsh and Irish mythology. Dulcie had learned a good deal about their ancestors in this way, though the subject didn’t much interest Joe. He was what he was. A speaking cat with a talent for spying. He didn’t give a damn about his ancestral heritage.

  Now, looking at the dark monitor, he lifted a tentative paw over the keyboard. If he was to really try, could he learn to bring up police reports? Run fingerprints through AFIS? Access mug shots? Oh, right. And get caught in here alone using Max’s computer, and wouldn’t that tear it? Turning away from temptation, into Max’s bookcase, he curled up in a vacant space between copies of the California Penal Code, hoping the chief or one of the detectives would come dragging back in the small hours with some new information. Snuggled between the heavy books, he was soon warm and yawning; soon sleep eased around him like a huge hand offering comfort and safe harbor, all the security of home.

  JOE WAS JERKED awake when the office lights blazed on. He sat up in the bookcase, slitting his eyes against the glare, watched Max toss his Levi’s jacket on the couch. The desk phone was flashing red. The chief sat down in his swivel chair, put his feet on the desk, leaning so far back that his brown, short-cropped, thinning hair was right in Joe’s face. He picked up the headset, didn’t turn on the speaker.

  Leaning out from the bookshelf, Joe eased so close to the chief that his whiskers were only inches from Harper’s ear. It took him a minute to realize that Max was talking with the LAPD. Detective Sam Lakey’s voice was gravelly, he sounded like he had a few years on him, and maybe a bit of extra flesh, as well. “You have our BOL on Pearl Toola?”

  “We have,” Max said. “So far, no line on her. What’s up?”

  “You’ve talked with homicide, here?” Lakey said. “On the murder of her ex-husband and his wife?”

  “Several times.”

  “What we have now might be related, or might not. We’re looking at her in an embezzlement, a new case that just came in. Homicide’s thinking this might be connected, the thefts a possible motive for the Toola murders in San Bernardino County.

  “Beckman Heavy Equipment,” Lakey said. “It’s a contractor’s rental service. Eight hundred thousand dollars missing. Pearl was their bookkeeper, she and Caroline Toola both worked there. They were neighbors, Caroline helped her get the job there some five years ago. Both were still employed there when Caroline died. Pearl left the firm shortly after the murders, told them she needed to get away for a while, too much stress after her ex-husband was shot.” There was amusement in his voice.

  Max said, “And the company’s just now reporting the discrepancy?”<
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  “They just now found it,” Lakey said. “When Pearl left, they were without a full-time bookkeeper; it was a make-do situation for a while, utilizing other office help. When they finally found a new bookkeeper, she not only uncovered the bogus withdrawals, she’s certain it was Pearl. Said most likely Pearl would have kept a second set of books, said you couldn’t pull off that kind of manipulation and keep things straight without your own written record. And of course there’s no way Pearl would have the second set of figures on the computer. Even if she’d erased it, it would still be on the hard drive, could still be found by a pro.”

  “So Pearl rips them off,” Max said, “Caroline finds out, but in some way tips her hand that she knows.”

  “Possible,” Lakey said.

  Then Pearl killed Caroline not only out of jealousy, the tomcat thought, but to silence her, keep her from blowing the whistle? Joe was frowning down at Max’s notes when he heard Kathleen’s voice from up at the front desk, and immediately eased back between the hard volumes. He was curled up again pretending to nap when Kathleen’s footsteps came down the hall. She stopped in the doorway, looking in. Max motioned her on in, motioned for her to pull up a chair, and turned the speaker on.

  Lakey was saying, “Beckman’s new bookkeeper spent several days going over the books, to familiarize herself with how the company operated and to get a jump on tax season. When she began to find the discrepancies, she called in Mr. Beckman. He took one look, and they got in a second accountant to help her. They traced the problem backward, contacted a number of customers to have a look at their statements—which didn’t match the copies in the Beckman files. The thefts, and the bogus entries, stopped after the murders. Six weeks later, Pearl left the company.

  “She told Homicide she was moving down to San Diego for a while because of the stress, that she’d be staying with a friend. When Jimmie Beckman was sure the books had been doctored, he called us, called in his lawyer, and filed charges.

  “San Diego said Pearl never arrived at the address she gave, and didn’t contact the friend. That was late June. Then when Maudie moved to Molena Point, homicide thought Pearl might follow her up there. You’re the best lead we have,” Lakey said. “You have a file on her?”

  Max nodded. “Fingerprints. Photographs. Thirty-seven years old. Five ten, about 140 pounds. Jet black, straight hair. Shoulder length, in a forties-style pageboy. Unusually white skin. Lean, bony face. Dark brown eyes, almost black. Some ten years ago, she worked the blackjack tables at Harrah’s, in Vegas. California driver’s license, no rap sheet.”

  Listening to the description of Pearl, Joe grew as edgy as if he had ticks in his fur. Tall woman, thin, bony face. How long had that tall blonde been at the motel? How long had she been in the village? In his opinion, if this was Pearl Toola with a bleach job, a short haircut, and a permanent, she hadn’t improved her looks much. He thought about the photographs of Benny’s lean, sour-looking mother. Why hadn’t he recognized her tonight, after having looked at Maudie’s album? Why hadn’t he known the sharp-faced blonde at once, despite the straw-colored hair?

  Max said, “Pearl embezzles nearly a mill, keeps a second set of books, and before she skips she kills the one coworker who might know enough to turn her in. She already hates Caroline, for presumably stealing her husband, so she does a thorough job of it, and kills them both.”

  When Max and Lakey hung up, Max filled Kathleen in.

  “So Pearl,” Kathleen said, “thinking Maudie might have seen her the night she shot them, follows Maudie here.”

  “But why didn’t Caroline blow the whistle on Pearl at once?” Max said. “Turn her in when she first found out?”

  “Because of the child?” Kathleen said. “Because with the trauma of the divorce, she didn’t want that dumped on the kid, too? To know his mother was a criminal and was in jail? Maybe she meant to wait until the missing money was discovered, and then hand over the evidence?”

  “Or was Caroline already blackmailing Pearl?” Max said. “And that was why Pearl killed her?”

  On the bookshelf, Joe Grey was thinking that the only thing the two hadn’t nailed down—and he felt sure they were right on target—was Pearl’s connection to the invasions. If that really was Pearl in the motel, if he wasn’t imagining the likeness. Had Dallas picked up any prints in the motel? But Pearl had no record, so there’d be nothing on her in AFIS. And why would Pearl, arriving in Molena Point following Maudie, take part in a series of attacks that seemed to have nothing to do with the murders or the embezzlement? What exactly was her connection to the invasions?

  But that was puzzling only until he remembered that Pearl knew Kent Colletto. That she’d been coming up to the village every summer for years, with Maudie’s family, ever since Benny was a baby, that Pearl had known the Colletto boys from the time they were little kids. The tomcat, sandwiched among the volumes of the California Penal Code, sat thinking.

  So far, the police had no reason to compare the blonde’s prints—provided they’d found any—with the prints on L.A.’s report. No reason to connect the invasions to Pearl, no lead to Pearl in AFIS. The tomcat fidgeted with his need to join the discussion, to suggest to the chief they compare Pearl’s prints to the woman in the motel. And the only way he could communicate with the chief was by phone, unseen, unrecognized. He thought about the dark, empty offices opening along the hall, all those unattended phones so quickly accessible. He had only to slip into any office and place a call to Max.

  Right. As far as he knew, all these phones were on one central system; he’d never heard an officer mention a private line. The minute he pressed the speaker button, June Alpine would see the light flashing up at the front and, knowing the offices were empty, she’d pick up to see who was there.

  No, he’d have to hightail it back to Wilma’s house. Or go on home and hope everyone was asleep, that he wouldn’t have to listen to one of Clyde’s lectures. Sometimes he wished Max would discover he could talk, so he could stop breaking his butt trying to find a phone. Yawning, attempting to look bored, he dropped from the bookshelf to the floor. He guessed Max had known he was there, because the chief didn’t look surprised. Joe sat lazily washing his paws, trying to calm his pounding heart, then sauntered sleepily past the desk to the door and padded away up the hall.

  At the dispatcher’s counter, the problem was how to get out of the building. If Mabel Farthy had been on duty, she would have risen from her desk at his first yowl, would have let him out at once, complaining with good-natured amusement. He glanced toward the holding cell, but that ten-foot jump from the bunk across the room up to the high window was different from dropping down; that leap would be a killer. He could imagine himself falling flat on his face on the concrete, splattering like a cartoon cat.

  Yowling stridently at June, he fussed and paced until at last she scowled over the counter at him, rose, and let him out. “You keep up that kind of behavior, the chief’ll nail your hide to the wall.”

  No he won’t, Joe thought smugly as the petite young dispatcher opened the glass door for him.

  “Go catch a mouse,” she said flippantly, “cats don’t belong in a cop shop.” As she locked the bulletproof glass behind him and flounced back to her desk, Joe Grey ran like hell, heading for home and a phone.

  30

  IN THE DAMEN kitchen, the sun’s first light shone through the bay window brightening the granite counter and warming Joe Grey’s back, where he sat watching Ryan flip pancakes. She was dressed in work jeans, a yellow sweatshirt, a frilly apron, and fuzzy pink slippers, her heavy boots waiting in the living room by the front door. The smell of pancakes, frying bacon, and warming syrup was so strong it made the tomcat drool. The table was set with three places, two with the conventional mats, napkins, and silverware, one with Joe Grey’s plastic place mat printed with a motif of running mice, a gift from Ryan that might be a bit cutesy, but that amused the tomcat. Clyde, in their bachelor days, had never thought to offer him a place mat.
Except maybe the want ads, which neither of them ever read. Across the room on the flowered easy chair, little white Snowball lay curled up alone, purring with the warmth of the cushions into which she had burrowed, waiting for her can of gourmet cat food to be served up. Beside her chair Rock waited, too, held in place only by Ryan’s earlier command to “Down. Stay.” His pale yellow eyes never left the stove, his sighs were frequent and dramatic.

  “Don’t forget the kippers,” Joe told Ryan, licking a front paw. “Pancakes are nothing without kippers.”

  She turned to look at him. “Pancakes with kippers are as disgusting as it gets. You’re lucky Clyde and I put up with the smell of fish first thing in the morning. And what about poor Rock? You know he loves kippers, and you know he can’t have them. I think you eat them just to tease him.”

  “Rock understands,” Joe told her.

  “He doesn’t understand at all. He thinks it’s unfair that you get treats that he can’t have. It’s hard enough for him to deal with a cat giving him orders, without tormenting him with your dietary indulgences. Don’t you ever think how he feels?”