Cat Coming Home

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Jared grinned and rose, and the two men headed into the garage, Benny following. During the next hour, the child insisted on carrying heavy loads for such a little boy, but Maudie didn’t caution or scold, she knew the one thing Benny needed was to feel useful. The two of them had spent the previous afternoon, as Scotty finished up the painting and hardware and locks, baking cherry pies and apple tarts for the Damens’ potluck afternoon and evening that this year fell on the same Sunday as the village pageant. Benny was so excited about dinner at Ryan and Clyde’s house and all the events to follow: the reenactment, in the park, of the journey of Joseph and Mary; the choirs in the village streets; and, most of all, the wagon rides put on by half a dozen village horsemen, who would trailer their horses and haul the wagons into town for the event. The usually silent child had chattered nonstop as together they prepared the cherry filling and peeled the apples. In the warm, spice-scented kitchen, Benny had seemed almost to forget the nightmares that made him wake up screaming and continue shivering as she held and cuddled him.

  In L.A., friends had told her she should take Benny to a therapist, but she didn’t want to do that; she didn’t like the idea of a stranger manipulating the child’s emotions. She would provide all the therapy she could, holding and loving Benny, getting him to join her in household tasks and encouraging new interests. Providing real sit-down meals and as much companionship as an old woman could give a little boy. Benny loved being in the kitchen with her; Pearl’s kitchen had been a cold, neglected place where the child had to make his own sandwiches and hope the milk wasn’t sour. Benny liked being with Ryan and Scotty, too, liked watching them at work. Under the watchful eye of Scotty and of Lori Reed, he was learning the proper use of the simpler carpentry tools, to drive a nail without smashing his thumb, to saw a board straight and easy.

  Jared’s presence in the house was a help, too, and her nephew seemed to have taken a real interest in Benny. That morning, after they’d moved everything into the studio, Jared made sandwiches, packed a lunch, and took Benny with him to run errands, and for an impromptu picnic. She was sorry Jared couldn’t join them at the Damens’. He’d said, making a face, that his mother made it clear she had special plans.

  Maudie, enjoying a little break and a moment of solitude, was sitting at the kitchen table with her own lunch and a cup of tea when Ryan came down the hill, pulling her truck into the drive. She had to smile as Ryan stepped out, and not only the big silver Weimaraner jumped out, but the gray tomcat, too, behaving almost like a small dog. She didn’t know what it was about that particular cat and his two friends, but Benny surely had taken to them.

  Benny had never had a pet. Pearl didn’t like animals; she said they were dirty and that people simply wasted their money on useless beasts. Caroline and Martin had planned to get the three children a puppy for Christmas—another simple joy taken from them. She rose to let Ryan in. “Have you had lunch? Jared made chicken sandwiches, and there’s a pot of tea.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Ryan laid the final bill and the studio keys on the table. “I meant to go home and warm up a bowl of soup, but this is much nicer. You sure you want company?”

  “I’d love the company. Bring Rock in, please.” She needn’t invite Joe Grey in, the tomcat was already stretched out on the stairs. “Rock’s such a lovely dog,” she said, stroking his sleek head. “We had Dobermans when the boys were growing up. Martin …” Her voice caught. “Martin was very good at training them, they had lovely manners. As does Rock,” she added. “Would you prefer coffee to tea?”

  “The tea smells good,” Ryan said, glancing at the steaming ceramic teapot. “You are coming for dinner tomorrow? It will be casual, and there’ll be other children in and out, the younger officers’ children. Just a potluck buffet, and we’ll eat in relays when officers take their breaks or go off duty. The Harpers usually have it at the ranch, but with everyone on extra patrol, it makes more sense to have it at our place, where the men can move out faster.” She watched Maudie pour the tea. “You’re moving into the studio today?”

  Maudie smiled. “The cartons are all moved. I’ve sent Jared and Benny on errands. Sometimes it’s easier to work alone, for unpacking and organizing.”

  “And more satisfying,” Ryan said. “Organizing a creative work space should be a solitary occupation.” She studied Maudie, her green eyes questioning. “You’re upset about something?”

  “I didn’t think it showed,” Maudie said. “This morning, I found a couple of boxes missing from the garage, Caroline’s things that I’d saved for Benny. I thought he might have taken them up to his room, but I’d already been through the room, cleaning. I expect they’ll turn up, but it’s puzzling. I … didn’t mention this to Jared,” she cautioned. She didn’t know why she’d mentioned it to Ryan. The moment she did, she was sorry. “Nothing else is missing,” she said quickly.

  Ryan looked at her sternly. “You haven’t reported it to the police?”

  “I would have,” she said quickly, “if I’d found anything else missing, or found where someone had broken in. I examined the garage door, all the doors and windows. There’s no sign of damage.”

  “The police wouldn’t have to send out a patrol car. If you reported it, it would be on record. That would help in case anything more happens.” Ryan tried not to scold, but this was worrisome. Why this distaste for the police? “The department does have its hands full,” she said, “with these invasions, but certainly they’d take a report.”

  “You’re not thinking there’s some connection?”

  “Probably not,” Ryan said shortly. On the floor by her feet, Rock rolled over, sighing. But on the third step, Joe Grey watched Maudie with such keen interest that Ryan gave him a warning scowl.

  Maudie said, “That’s why I didn’t call the police, because they are busy. I saw this morning’s Gazette … I wouldn’t have started taking it if I’d realized just how one-sided the paper is.” She passed the sandwich plate, seemed pleased when Ryan took another quarter-cut morsel. “I don’t remember this newspaper being that way, all the summers our family spent in the village when the boys were small.”

  “The paper was sold recently. No one I know likes this new approach—though I haven’t heard of anyone canceling their subscription,” Ryan said wryly. Glancing around the big kitchen with its glass door into the studio, she was acutely aware of how open the house was, kitchen, living room, and entry open to one another with no way to shut any room off, open stairway leading to the bedrooms, no way to secure the second floor. “You haven’t considered an alarm system?”

  “I thought about it, but they’re such a bother, always having to remember to arm and disarm them, and then sometimes they go off for no reason, throwing everyone into a panic. I keep the doors locked, the windows locked except when I’m right in the room. Unfortunately,” she said, “I’ve misplaced my second set of keys, and that’s worrisome, but they’ll show up.”

  Ryan remained quiet. She couldn’t understand, as vulnerable as Maudie was here alone, and with the shooting so recent and raw in her emotions, how she could be so unconcerned. She had started to speak, to ask more about the missing keys, when she caught Joe Grey’s eye, the tomcat’s look so intense that she had to look away.

  What was he telling her? But then almost as if he’d spoken, Ryan knew. It was the one question Joe had asked her about the shooting, the one element of that double murder that Maudie had never made clear, that she seemed to have carefully skirted, the few times the subject was mentioned.

  On that black night, on that dark mountain road, with only the thin flicker of moonlight Maudie had described, had she seen the face of the killer?

  If she’d seen the shooter and had told the police, wouldn’t she have been encouraged to stay in L.A., maybe with a guard, until the shooter was arrested and she could identify him? If she was the only witness, surely the LAPD wouldn’t have wanted her to move away. Ryan could conclude only that, most likely, Maudie hadn’t seen
the shooter. And yet the woman’s unease when she talked about the shooting, something apart from the horror and pain of the murder, made both Ryan and Joe Grey wonder.

  “That night,” Ryan said, “the night of the shooting—did you see the killer? See anything you could tell the police?”

  “Nothing,” Maudie said quickly. “The sheriff questioned me while I was in the hospital. Later when I got out, when David took me home, the L.A. police questioned me. I guess they were doing some kind of …” Maudie paused, searching for the word.

  “Collateral investigation?” Ryan asked.

  Maudie nodded. “But no, that night—so black … Hardly any moon at all. It had been a hot day, was still hot and we had the top down. Suddenly the pickup loomed beside us, seemed to come out of nowhere, racing along next to us, and the next instant the gunshots, the noise, and those three explosions of light blinding me, the car spinning out of control and going over …” Maudie said, telling more than she’d been asked, more than was needed.

  Ryan said no more. She glanced at Joe Grey, feeling the same uncertainty that gleamed in the tomcat’s eyes. At that moment, woman and cat were caught in the same sure sense that Maudie wanted only to divert Ryan, that she was surely holding something back.

  Had she lied to the L.A. detectives? Maybe lied so she’d be free to leave L.A., so the police wouldn’t press her to stay in the city, under their protection? Or if Maudie was the only one who could identify the killer, would she lie to protect herself, so the killer wouldn’t come after her?

  But this was all conjecture. Probably in the dark night, Ryan thought, Maudie had seen nothing more than the flashes of the gun, she was most likely telling the truth, had told L.A. everything she knew. After all, who more than Maudie would want to see the killer pay for those brutal murders?

  35

  IT WAS HARDLY light when the first good smells of party food filtered up to Joe’s tower from the kitchen below. The tomcat woke, yawning, drinking in the scents of frying meat and onions. Ryan and Clyde would be putting together the tamale pie, and probably the taco fillings, for the Christmas party. Out across the roofs, long streaks of sunrise bloomed beneath a cover of heavy gray clouds. But it wouldn’t rain, he couldn’t smell rain in the offing. No matter what the weather gurus might think, Joe knew better; he knew the sky would clear before the day’s festivities. Rising from among his pillows, his mind on the feast to come, he headed in through his cat door onto the heavy rafter. Dropping down to Clyde’s desk, he hit the floor and galloped down the stairs.

  Clyde was just setting the last of five huge casseroles on the counter, to be baked later. Joe reared up, looking. “You leave any for my breakfast? I’d be happy to lick the pot.”

  “It isn’t fully cooked yet,” Clyde said, glancing at the casseroles.

  “It’s cooked enough for me.” He leaped up to the counter as Clyde, having indeed saved some back, set down a small plate of the half-cooked delicacy for him. Besides the tamale pie and tacos, there would be all manner of food for the buffet, a ham, chicken pies from Jolly’s Deli, and a variety of salads and casseroles that their friends would bring, all carefully packed in Styrofoam coolers. Dinner would go on all afternoon in a marathon buffet as officers came and went, taking their hasty breaks. Every available officer would be on duty. With all the events scheduled, this could be a perfect time for an invasion—not a pleasant end to a happy holiday celebration, to return home in a happy mood and find unwelcome visitors offering a dark side to the usual Christmas greetings.

  As soon as Ryan and Clyde had opened up the big round table in the kitchen and laid out the napkins and plates and silverware, Ryan disappeared into the guest room. Joe followed her, leaping up onto the wicker desk among boxes of Christmas cards and unwrapped gifts. Though their tree was up, filling a corner of the living room, and Clyde had mailed his cards to favorite clients, Ryan hadn’t started her own cards or wrapped her gifts. “Why the hurry?” Joe said. “Christmas is a whole week away.”

  “I don’t need the sarcasm,” she said, scratching his ear. The bed was covered with boxes and bags from her favorite village shops, and with rolls of red and green Christmas paper. Beneath the wide windows, the wicker game table held boxes of Christmas cards, stamps, and sheets of computer-printed address labels. She had set up a folding table nearby, where her scissors and tape and fancy tags were lined up awaiting a frenzy of gift wrapping. A box of tall red Christmas candles stood on the nightstand, scenting the room with bayberry. “I was supposed to start the new house up on Third next week,” she said. “I put them off until after New Year’s. Between it and our own remodels, I’m lucky to have even a start on Christmas. I hate being stressed during the holidays.”

  Joe looked at the organized start she’d already made, and thought about the nine houses she’d remodeled just this last year, and could only admire Ryan’s efficiency. If she’d been a cat, she’d be a skilled mouser, every move keenly planned—the little beasts wouldn’t have a prayer. Rubbing against her hand, he said, “Thanks for loaning us the phone. And for not asking questions.”

  “What’s the point in asking? You’ll tell me only what you want me to hear.”

  What he’d told her was that he needed to borrow a cell phone, just for today. She’d looked at him for a long time. He’d be around the house today, so why would he need a phone? He could use the house phone, could find privacy upstairs if he needed to make a call. And who would he call? Dulcie and Kit would be right there, as well as half the department, the chief, the detectives. But now, too curious to remain polite, she did ask.

  “Is the phone for that yellow tomcat?”

  Silently Joe looked at her.

  “I’ve seen him on the roofs. I thought … the way he acted …” Her eyes widened, then she laughed. “So he is like you!” And then she couldn’t help it, that one question burst into multiple questions. “Where did he come from? He has to be new to the village. He’s not part of the wild clowder from up in the hills?” She shook her head. “I said I wouldn’t ask, but …” She looked down at the table, feeling shy suddenly, and spread out the first sheet of bright wrapping paper.

  Joe watched her with a crooked smile. Ryan was as curious as a cat herself, no wonder they were friends. Sitting on the desk watching her wrap Christmas gifts, he told her what he knew about the yellow tomcat, about Misto’s journey from Soledad prison hiding in Jared’s T-Bird. Told her what Misto had learned in prison about Maudie’s nephew, Kent, and about Marlin Dorriss. “Right now,” Joe said, “Misto’s watching Maudie’s house, that’s why he needs the phone. She’s had one mysterious burglary, and her keys have vanished. If a burglar has them, he need only unlock the door and step in.” He couldn’t understand why Maudie hadn’t changed the locks, he didn’t think that was an oversight. Made him wonder if Maudie wanted someone to enter, perhaps when the house was empty or in the small hours, unbidden. “I don’t know what this is about,” he said uneasily, “but with no one home, with Maudie and Benny here for dinner, and Jared with his family, it can’t hurt to watch the place.”

  The phone Ryan had stashed on the cottage roof was an old, discarded model that the local electronics shop had taken in trade, to pass on to old folks in home care facilities. The shop owner was a friend of hers, she’d done some carpentry work for him. The phone had a new battery and was in good working order, and she’d set up a temporary account for it under an assumed name. She’d added to its convenience by keying in one-digit operation for the Damens’ house, Wilma and Dulcie, Max’s and Dallas’s cell numbers, and her own cell. And now, to cheer the old cat while he was on watch alone in the branches of Maudie’s oak tree, she said she’d take him a plate of selections from the buffet, leave it on the cottage roof.

  “Where did that cat come from before the prison?” Ryan said. “Is he all alone?”

  Hopping from the desk to the table among the tangle of bright Christmas wrappings, Joe sat down on the gold paper she was folding around a box. “I
don’t know the whole story, but you can bet Kit will find out.” He went silent when he heard Max’s voice just out in the hall, and then Dallas. They were talking about day patrol, the voices coming from the alcove just beside the stairs. Other voices, from the front door, cut in as more guests arrived, and then Max was saying, “… to know why she checked out of the motel. Maybe you made her nervous.”

  Dallas laughed. “I’ll check the other motels. Long shot, though, that she’s registered under her own name.”

  “I had a call from L.A.,” Max said, “just as we were leaving the house. Detective Lakey. He said they went over the Beckman offices again, found a false compartment under the center drawer of Pearl’s desk. Pearl’s prints were on the metal plate that holds the false bottom in place—and so were Caroline Toola’s.”