Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  “Thanks from our friend,” Lori said, “from Charlie’s husband.”

  Pa smiled and nodded, and looked relieved. Whatever more he wanted to say, he kept to himself, until, Lori thought, they could be back in the family visitors’ room again, where they might not be monitored. She hoped that wouldn’t be long, she hated this, hated being listened to, with no privacy; she hated it more for Pa, even, than for herself.

  THE LAST JACK saw of Lori was her rigid, angry back, angry at the rules, he thought as she and Cora Lee filed out of the visiting room, Lori’s long brown hair shining in the overhead lights. On his side of the glass the line of prisoners marched out, too, and he was wheeled away to the infirmary, his message for Max Harper unspoken. He knew Harper would figure it out when the pieces started coming together, but meantime who knew how much damage Arlie Risso would do? He felt worn out, even with only that short time in the visiting room. With the stress of being unable to talk freely, to let Max know about Risso—about Marlin Dorriss. The doc said it was normal to tire out easily while his body was healing. Well, he didn’t have to like it, he was done in. Not since he’d tried to protect Lori when she was just a little girl had he felt so damned useless.

  33

  CATS WEREN’T OFFICIALLY barred from city council meetings but only because no one had ever imagined that a cat would want to attend. It was Ryan who’d insisted they bring Joe. She’d hung tough until she won the argument, and just for an instant Joe was chagrined to be the cause of the newlyweds’ heated conflict. But if the two had to battle, what more urgent subject was there than the happiness of the family cat?

  “He’ll be good,” she’d told Clyde, fixing Joe with a threatening gaze that made his fur twitch. He’d tried to look innocent, but they all three knew his behavior would depend on the situation of the moment, on his anger as a few biased citizens rose to criticize Max Harper and make trouble for the chief.

  The city hall had begun life, early in the last century, as a village church. The peak of the handsome redwood building rose steeply between two lower wings that now housed a variety of city offices, from administrator to public works and zoning. The gnarled branches of a twisted oak sheltered the deep porch, which was reached by a sturdy ramp to accommodate the occasional wheelchair. Beside the front door stood two ceramic pots of holly bushes heavy with red berries. Taped to the rail were paper cutout Santas and reindeer, hand-colored by the local schoolchildren. Within the wide entry foyer stood a six-foot Christmas tree, thick and dense, decorated with silver and white bells. Deeper in, against a long expanse of wall, the crèche had been arranged, the wise men as tall as six-year-old children, the little Christ child snuggled in his crib. The wooden figures, carved by hand nearly a hundred years before, were still celebrating the traditional spirit of Christmas despite a few hard-nosed citizens who didn’t approve of such sentiments.

  Joe, concealed within the leather tote that Ryan carried, could see only the high, raftered ceiling as they entered the meeting room. Ryan tucked the bag on the seat of the wooden pew beside her, where he listened to the reading of the minutes; he yawned and dozed off during a tedious discussion of city business. He came wide awake when members of the audience began to file up, one at a time, to the little side podium that featured its own microphone. Each citizen speaker stood at the side of the room facing both the audience and the council that sat behind the polished wood barrier: a council of three men and one woman, and the woman mayor, her white hair knotted at the nape of her neck, her navy blazer well cut over a white silk blouse. Each citizen to come forward talked about the home invasions, venting considerable anger toward the police. It was amazing to Joe that the speakers would rant so vehemently about the department’s incompetence when Chief Harper sat not three feet from them, just beside their small podium.

  Max wasn’t there to make a rebuttal, this was a traditional part of the chief’s job. The city charter required his presence to keep order, though there’d never been a fistfight in a Molena Point meeting. Max, in uniform and wearing a sidearm, listened without expression, an enforcer of the law, a guardian against some outbreak of unbridled rage. Hard to imagine, Joe thought, in this small village. In San Francisco or Detroit, matters might deteriorate as had indeed happened in several large cities, one even evolving into a near-fatal shooting. In most Molena Point council meetings, the tomcat suspected, one was more likely to die from boredom.

  But not this afternoon. Despite Max’s disinterested expression, the tomcat would give a year’s supply of deli takeout to know what the chief was thinking as a dozen misinformed and angry diatribes were laid on the council members and audience, and on the chief. Peering discreetly over the top of the bag, he watched the tiny crease at the side of Max’s mouth, just the ghost of a smile. As each speaker questioned the competence of MPPD, the male council members maintained suitably blank expressions; only Pansy Nitonski, her thin face framed by straight, chin-length brown hair, smirked with ill-concealed pleasure at the insults, making Joe want to slash her smug face.

  Well, but nothing would be decided at this meeting, no decision would be made here about whether Max was competent in his job. That issue would be resolved in private session; this display was all smoke and mirrors, because the city council had no final authority in the matter. They were advisors; they couldn’t directly fire Max though they certainly had input with the city manager. He was the one responsible for hiring and firing the chief, often advised by a board of experts that could include police chiefs from other central coast cities—but these accusations were so trumped up they were laughable. Joe burned to leap to the podium and have his own say, tell these airheads just how wrong they were.

  He also would have liked to see how the audience was responding, he could see nothing from the bottom of the damned bag. He’d like to know whether Phelps Leibert was in the crowd, too. Leibert was head of security at the local college and was the man the Gazette was pushing, in its editorials, as a replacement for Harper: a harsh, controlling, egocentric man who would be bad news indeed for MPPD, for the whole village. Most likely, Leibert had had the good sense to stay away from the meeting, not telegraph his punches, not let anyone think he cared what happened. How would it look for him to be there watching Max and the department deliberately trashed, when everyone knew he hoped to replace Max in the near future.

  Natty Bowen had come to the podium, and she sounded nervous as hell. Joe eased up out of the bag for a quick look. The thin, worn woman had dressed for the occasion in a lavender velvet jogging suit that she’d accessorized with enough gold jewelry to serve her as workout weights—gold necklaces, gold choker, gold earrings. Her slim feet were encased in lavender and pink glitter-encrusted sports shoes that looked as if they’d never been out of the box before this very afternoon. Her delivery was nervous but pushy, and she stuck closely to an apparently rehearsed agenda, as did the other speakers: The invasions were terrifying, people were being injured, traumatized, no telling what the lasting effects would be on these poor women, and many thousands of dollars’ worth of property had been damaged. Why were the police looking the other way, not putting a stop to these atrocities? And though Natty might have stammered through her presentation, the next speaker did not.

  Having returned to the bottom of the bag, Joe slipped up again when he heard Arlie Risso introduced. He was straining to see over the top of the seat in front of them when Ryan’s hand forced him back down. Holding him out of sight, she gave him the faintest headshake, as if someone were watching. Subsiding irritably under Ryan’s confining hand, he listened to Risso explain that, being a new resident, he’d been shocked and disappointed when, after buying a home in the village, these terrible invasions began, even right there in his own neighborhood. So disappointed he’d almost decided to sell and move on, find a more amenable environment in which to enjoy his retirement—his tone, and his expensive cashmere sport coat, white silk shirt, and silk tie implied a more amenable environment in which to spend his consid
erable retirement income. His polished delivery was as fake as that of a telephone solicitor asking for your Social Security number. Peering up again when Ryan glanced away, Joe watched Risso make eye contact with each council member, his penetrating look bringing color to Pansy’s cheeks. Risso ended his two minutes with a plea for the law to “Step in and lock up the miscreants and save our lovely village,” making Joe want to upchuck his breakfast. When Risso left the podium, and Ryan let go of Joe’s neck, he slid up for another quick look. Yes, Arlie Risso was the guy in the motel room, slick black hair, neatly trimmed black beard. Before Joe ducked down again, he caught a glimpse of Max Harper’s face, too. Max’s flash of surprised recognition, quickly hidden, made the tomcat smile. The chief had quickly stripped away the black hair and black beard, replaced them with handsomely styled silver hair. This man’s skin was tanned to a darker shade, and even his black-dyed eyebrows sharply changed his appearance. But both Joe and Max knew him as Dorriss: con artist, master chameleon, the slick investor and thief whom Joe had helped Max put in prison a couple of years back. He’d be willing to bet this was the first time Max had seen Dorriss since Dorriss arrived in the village. Dorriss had probably taken great pains to stay out of the way of the cops, either remaining indoors or hiding behind the tinted glass of the Caddy or the Toyota, keeping a low profile, avoiding anyone who might know him. Joe wondered if Dulcie and Kit had gotten a look at Risso/Dorriss from where they crouched outside among the limbs of the oak that overhung the main entry. Risso, standing at the side podium with its auxiliary microphone, appeared totally unaware of Max, as if the chief might be just any rookie cop, even though Risso had had extensive dealings with Max.

  Only after Risso had his say and took his seat again did two speakers point out that if citizens weren’t prepared, if they had no alarm system or did not call 911, then patrol units could only arrive after the fact, after the harm was done. While Joe was grateful for these sensible folks, what he wondered was, after the meeting, would Max Harper arrest Risso? Did he have enough evidence to hold him? Or would he put a tail on the man, wait to apprehend him at the next invasion attempt and, in Risso’s words, Step in and lock up the miscreants?

  SHE LEFT THE city council meeting never looking in Arlie’s direction. She had debated whether to come, had waited in the shadows of a shop across the street, and then had slipped in among the crowd of locals, taken a seat way in the back. She’d almost turned and left again when she saw the police chief sitting up front in some kind of official capacity. Why would a cop be at a city council meeting? In this little burg? This wasn’t L.A. or New York. Nervously she’d sat down behind a tall man, hoping to be out of Harper’s sight. Though he couldn’t know her, couldn’t have any interest in her, he made her nervous. The speakers from the audience had been entertaining—angry, accusing, just what Arlie wanted. It had come off very well, and she knew he’d be in a good mood later.

  When that part of the meeting was finished and the council moved on to other city business, she’d wanted to leave, but couldn’t without attracting attention. She’d wasted an excruciatingly boring hour before she could vanish within the crowd. The streets were growing dark, and the sea wind was cold. Walking up the street, turning right at the first side street, and then left, she headed up the eight blocks to the new motel room she’d checked into—it was a drag to move, but something about the first place had made Arlie nervous. Hurrying through the little lobby and down the hall, into the darkening room, she sat down to wait for him. It had been a successful meeting from his standpoint, a waste of time for her. This had nothing to do with her, except that she enjoyed the drama, she liked seeing Arlie at work.

  Her involvement with the invasions had started as a favor, a trade-off that had ended up entangling her more than she liked. Now she was sorry she’d connected up with Arlie; she wouldn’t have if she’d known that he and the Colletto boys knew each other, that Arlie had been in prison with Victor. Talk about coincidence—this was an ugly one.

  She’d thought she could spend some time with Arlie in San Francisco, now that he was out on parole, that she could bring back some of the excitement of their weekends in Vegas, and then come on down here alone to the village, take care of her business. But it hadn’t worked that way. Well, she was moving toward what she wanted. But she was being sucked in deeper than she liked by Arlie’s affairs, and away from her own objective. It angered her that he was paying out hard cash for these break-ins but wasn’t paying her, that he figured her help was for old times’ sake.

  Whatever compensation she got would be from Maudie. Meanwhile, she had to admit, she liked the excitement of the invasions, getting in and out fast, the quick violence, terrifying those soft little women. The invaders were always the winners, and that was how she liked to play. And now, with David Toola gone, Maudie was just as easy a mark. She’d soon have the papers and, when she was done with Maudie, she’d have the money that was rightfully hers, would be out of California headed wherever she chose.

  34

  THE OAK TREES outside Maudie’s bedroom windows were barely visible when she woke, the sky deep gray, just beginning to lighten. Rising, she pulled on her warm robe and slippers and headed downstairs, glancing into Benny and Jared’s room to make sure the two slept soundly. She liked her early mornings alone, she liked the solitude. Today she would move into her new studio and she could hardly wait to get started; she wanted to do what she could before Jared came down to help her, wanted to do it her way. She felt like a kid at the prospect of her new work space, was nearly giddy with excitement.

  In the kitchen she made a pot of coffee, and while it brewed she stepped into the dark studio, enjoying the clean smell of new lumber and fresh paint. Beyond the bare glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows the twisted oak branches loomed black and remote against the predawn sky. It was still too dark to see if anyone stood among the trees, looking in—but Pearl wouldn’t be prowling this early in the morning, she needn’t be prepared for her at this hour, Pearl was a late sleeper.

  She was so anxious to get settled, to stack her bolts of bright fabric neatly on the shelves, to arrange her quilting frames, quilting table, and cutting table, to have them all in place beside her computer and sewing machines. Once she got to work, she’d feel that she was really home.

  Working here would be like working right in the garden, she thought, in her own small Eden where her invented patterns would vie in color with cascades of garden flowers. Martin would have liked the new studio, she told herself, trying to put away the heaviness that surrounded every thought of him; he would have approved of their moving back to the village.

  Quickly she returned to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it into the chill garage, propping the door open behind her. Setting her cup down on a carton, she pulled the lightweight office cart over to a stack of boxes and began sliding the smaller ones onto it, using her good arm. Jared and Scotty would help later with the heavy ones, and the furniture. She worked for nearly an hour, trying not to think about Martin. Thinking about Benny, and about Pearl, her emotions swinging from sadness to rage, to a cold need to see Pearl punished, to make right this one terrible wrong in the world. Wheeling her loaded cart into the studio, she opened the boxes, began to stack fabric neatly on the shelves, to arrange her spools of thread and small equipment in the new drawers that Scotty had built. When she had put away all she could, she returned the empty boxes to the garage, stacking them in one corner. That was when she realized that some of the packed boxes were missing: two bankers’ boxes containing Caroline’s personal papers and the mementos and photographs that she was saving for Benny. They had been right here just days ago, when she removed the sealed envelope from the kitchen box.

  She wondered if Benny might have taken the boxes up to his room. But no, she’d cleaned in there late yesterday, had dusted under the beds and in the closet. Would the child hide them somewhere? Did he think she might throw them out when she moved everything else, that she’d
decide she didn’t want to store them? She had said she’d be glad when the garage was cleared out, when she could pull the car in. Did Benny think she’d give Caroline’s things away, after she’d gone to the trouble of packing and moving them three hundred miles from L.A.? But who knew what scenario might occur to a child whose first seven years had been filled broken promises?

  No, she thought. Pearl had returned, but when? Had she, not finding the ledger pages, taken the boxes to allow time for a more leisurely search? Maybe she thought Caroline had secreted the papers among her tax files or medical records, where one would have to go through everything to find them? Anger filled her that Caroline’s family photos were gone, and the mementos of Benny’s few short months with his stepmother that the child so valued, as well as Caroline’s marriage certificates, Benny’s father’s enlistment papers, and the official notice of his death. She didn’t like losing Caroline’s tax records, either, which she’d agreed to send on to Caroline’s sister along with a clutter of old family recipes and letters, and copies of a family genealogy that Caroline had saved for her own children, too many heavy items to take on the plane when she had the two children and their suitcases. The bigger cartons, containing the rest of the children’s clothes and books and toys, seemed undisturbed, nearly hidden beneath Maudie’s own cartons. She stood in the cold garage sipping her cooling coffee, feeling both frightened and energized, her hand straying once to the comforting weight hidden in her robe pocket. Now, with the whole village edgy over the invasions, who could fault her if she was prepared to defend herself and protect her grandchild?

  It was six-thirty when she heard Jared getting up, heard the shower running. Rousing herself, she hurried back into the kitchen to heat the waffle iron, to get out the big pitcher of waffle batter she’d made the day before, the butter and syrup, and to put bacon on the grill. In the downstairs bath she washed her face, gargled some mouth-wash, and ran a comb through her hair. When Jared came down, she said nothing about the missing boxes. Just as, days earlier, she hadn’t mentioned the missing keys. Jared appeared in the kitchen showered and scrubbed, dressed in a fresh blue sport shirt and Dockers. Benny straggled down behind him yawning, still in his sailboat pajamas. They ate in comfortable silence, Jared reading the sports page, Maudie scanning another ugly editorial about the invasions, then turning to the home section, while Benny carefully distributed the butter and syrup evenly into each well of his waffle. He ate each quarter with equal concentration, as if even homemade waffles were a special treat. It was seven-thirty and they’d finished breakfast when Scotty arrived, parking his truck at the curb. Coming in, accepting a quick cup of coffee, he stood at the counter to drink it, avoiding the syrupy mess at the table, which made Maudie smile. Scotty’s bright blue work shirt made his red hair and beard blaze like flame. “Wanted to get in an hour’s work or so, before we begin pouring cement up at the cottage,” he said.