Cat Cross Their Graves

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Leaping off the window seat, she fled to the bedroom and stood in the doorway looking. And her pounding heart slowed at sight of the double lump in the bed, at the scent of their sleep and the lovely rhythm of their breathing. She wanted to leap up and wake them, tell them she was all right, tell them she loved them-but maybe she should let them sleep.

  With uncommon restraint the kit turned away remembering that Lucinda and Pedric were not young and that sometimes they tired easily and that she had likely worn them right out making them search for her. Reluctantly she returned to the window seat and nosed down among the velvet and brocade, making a little nest in the pillows to let the heat build around her. And she thought about the child and wondered where she had gone, and prayed again very hard that she was all right.

  It took only a few minutes until she was warm again, then she leaped to the arm of the easy chair by the phone. Pushing the headset off its cradle, she punched in the number of Max Harper's cell phone. Lucinda was always amazed that she could remember so many numbers. But Kit had trained her wily memory on the ancient Celtic tales, and that delighted both Lucinda and Pedric. Kit had loved those stories when she was very small; they were the only wonder she knew in her miserable life. She had devoured every word the older cats told each other as she listened from the cold outer edges of that swift-clawed, bad-tempered crowd.

  Settled down for the night among the garbage cans in some stinking alley, Kit had soaked up those stories as the only sustenance and the only warmth she knew. She had held the magic of those stories to her until they were a part of her and she knew every word, could repeat them all.

  The phone rang four times before Captain Harper answered. Kit swallowed. She always found it hard to speak to him. "Captain Harper, the man who killed Patty Rose is staying in a cottage behind a house on Dolores. A brown-shingled house with a weedy yard, just south of Tenth. Peeling paint, his car and two other cars parked back at the end of the gravel drive. He is small, like a boy. His car is an old gray two-door Honda, 9FFL497," Kit said, seeing the license plate in her head like a little picture. She knew Harper would be writing it down.

  Was he taping her call? He'd told Wilma once that taping the snitches' calls might be the only way he would ever learn who they were. Wilma had said, "Do you really want to know, Max? Seems to me you have a good thing going. You sure don't want to blow it."

  Now, when Harper had been silent for too long, Kit said, "He had pictures of Patty Rose, Captain Harper. When she was young, a star. In every picture, there was a hole in her head like a bullet hole. And he had newspaper pictures of four men including him, so I think his name is Irving Fenner. After Patty was shot, someone ran away down into the parking garage. I think it was him, but I…" She couldn't say that the fresh scent of a man on the stairs near Patty went down into the parking garage.

  "The pictures are in two brown envelopes, but they're not in the cottage anymore. They're under it. Under the foundation jammed up in the floor joists just inside the front vent."

  So far, Harper had said nothing. But she could hear him breathing. The kit didn't expect him to say anything, and she sure didn't want him to ask questions. But then Harper said, "The cottage behind a brown house on Dolores. South of Tenth. We can retrieve the envelopes by reaching through the vent."

  "The vent's on tight, though. Take some tools."

  "How did you…?"

  "He has a gun, Captain." She started to tell him to look under the bathroom sink, then she knew she couldn't tell him that. He was already wondering how the envelopes got under the house. How could they, when the vents were jammed tight? She had to hope, when they searched the house, that they'd find the murder weapon under the sink but wouldn't find cat hairs clinging to that ragged hole! Or paw prints and spatters of her blood-cat blood. She didn't dare think about a lab report that would show cat blood.

  Pushing the phone back on its cradle and leaping to the window seat, she snuggled down, shivering again, trying to get warm again, and looked out at the slowly brightening morning that, despite the hint of coming sun, was all gray winter colors. Why was the light on in the tearoom? It had been burning when she got home.

  Who was there this early? Against the dancing firelight, she could see the silhouettes of two figures sitting at a little table; the woman had short hair, but the man was more in shadow. Was that Detective Garza, the broad shoulders, the hint of a square jaw? She watched the firelight shift and leap, reflected across the glass china cupboards-and atop the cupboards, a small, dark shape crouched, intently listening. The kit smiled. She could see the gleam of his white markings, too. Whatever was going on in the tearoom, she would hear about it, hear it in detail from Joe Grey.

  She imagined Captain Harper going to retrieve the envelopes, and that warmed her. She thought about the child and was thankful they'd found each other-without her, the child would still be tied up. Without the child, she would still be locked in there, too, with that insane little man. And the little girl-who knew what would have happened to her? She wondered where the child had gone, all alone in the night and so frightened. She prayed he wouldn't go looking for her, prayed she had a place to hide. She wondered, if Irving Fenner found the pictures missing, if he would think the little girl had taken them, and that could make everything worse for the child. From her window she watched an escaped newspaper twist and flap along the street like a live thing, then a flock of blowing leaves skitter; the hastening wind carried scraps of debris dancing and teasing and making her paws twitch-and the wild need to chase sent her leaping down again and racing for the bedroom.

  She stopped at the doorway, looking in. The room was dim, the draperies still drawn. Lucinda hated closed draperies during daylight. The two lumps beneath the covers didn't move. Alarmed, Kit leaped up.

  But the minute she hit the bed, Lucinda woke with a cry.

  "Kit! Oh, Kit!" The old woman grabbed her, hugging her so hard that Kit couldn't breathe. Pedric woke and threw his arms around them both. "Oh, my," Lucinda said. "Oh! So good to have you home. To hold you safe! Where were you? We were all so worried. Where have you been?"

  "I found something," Kit told her. "And then I got trapped in the bathroom and I was afraid he'd come back and find me and I…"

  Lucinda laughed. "Slow down. You're not making sense." The old lady set Kit down on the bed, and rose, pulling on her robe. "Come on, let's make some coffee, Kit, and warm milk, while Pedric gets dressed."

  Sitting on a kitchen chair at the tiny table, in the little bar/kitchen, lapping up warm milk and devouring leftover steak, she told about the man. Listening to the shower running and knowing she would have to tell it all again, and not caring, she told Lucinda about the pictures, the gun, the tied-up child. With the smell of coffee filling the apartment, and Lucinda dressed in her quilted robe with yellow buttercups on it, Kit told her all about the man who had killed Patty and how she'd followed his trail and lost it and found it again, and about the pictures of Patty with the holes in them and how she'd called Captain Harper. When she'd finished, Lucinda hugged and hugged her.

  "It was a courageous thing to do, Kit. To chase him like that, to keep on until you found him and then to slip into that cottage behind him. Oh, I do love you." She held Kit away. "And I do worry so about you. It was a courageous, dangerous, foolish thing to do. I'm so very glad you and the child are safe. Without that child…" Lucinda wiped at her eyes. "Without the two of you together, neither one alone might have left that place."

  Kit felt very warm, deeply content. Tucking her face down in the crook of Lucinda's arm, she pressed against the old lady purring so hard that her reverberating body shook them both. But after a while, Lucinda got up and laid some logs in the fireplace and lit the starter, then carried her coffee to the window seat. Picking up the phone, she called Charlie. "I hope they're awake," she told Kit as the phone rang.

  Kit crawled into her lap, listened to three rings, and then Charlie picked up.

  "She's home," Lucinda said. "T
he kit's home."

  "Oh, Lucinda. I'm so glad. Tell… Tell Pedric I worried all night about her." Lucinda grinned down at Kit. Max must be right there, listening, not guessing at the disguised message meant for Kit. Charlie sounded as if she'd just woken up. They talked for only a few minutes, then Lucinda went out to the veranda to fetch the morning paper.

  She spread it out on the coffee table as Kit lay across her lap yawning, watching the fire blaze up. Very soon now, Captain Harper would have the evidence that she hoped would fry Irving Fenner, fry him good. It was lovely here in their beautiful suite-so different from life when she was a kitten, before she knew that humans' houses were wonderful, when she'd thought that all of life, for a cat, was dirty alleys, mean dogs, broken glass, jagged, empty tin cans, and mean boys with rocks. When she was little, running with that wild clowder of feral cats, she had thought every cat in the world grew up on the street scared and hungry and cold. That was the way life was. The big cats took the only warm sleeping places, and snarled and slashed when you tried to eat. She'd stayed with that wild band because they were the only cats like her, the only speaking cats she knew of. She'd stayed because she was little and alone and they were better protection than nothing. She'd run with them until they found their way to Hellhag Hill. But there she'd discovered Lucinda and Pedric, and life was suddenly all different. Now, as Lucinda read the paper, Kit snuggled closer. "What?" she said, looking up at the thin old lady. "What's so fascinating?"

  Lucinda turned the paper so Kit could see. The expression on her face was both sad and fascinated. "You'd better have a look, Kit. I knew this yesterday, but until now, I didn't… Not until you told me about the little girl did I think there might be… more to the story." Lucinda picked Kit up and held her on her knee so she could see the page better.

  Old Graves Found in Village Garden

  The graves of two young children have been discovered in the village, the first yesterday morning by Cora Lee French as she dug in the backyard of the home she shares with three other Molena Point women…

  Kit read the article, and read it again. Yesterday while she was trapped in that house, Captain Harper and the detectives were all looking at the graves of those poor children. Surely Joe Grey and Dulcie were there, they would have been right in the middle. The article said that no one knew who the children were. It didn't say they'd been murdered, but why else would someone bury them in secret? She looked up at Lucinda. "You knew all about this, while you were out hunting for me, you knew all about the dead children. Could the same man have done it, that Irving Fenner?"

  "The man who we think killed Patty? But these bodies aren't new, Kit, they've lain there a long time. Well," she said, "I guess anything's possible."

  "How could humans murder little children? That man will burn in hell, Lucinda," Kit said, with no doubt in her mind.

  Lucinda stroked Kit until Kit felt a little easier. "You don't think," Lucinda said, "that that killer should be forgiven?"

  "No," the kit said, hissing. "I don't imagine that." She looked up intently at Lucinda, at the old woman's wrinkled face and lively blue eyes. "No, Lucinda, I don't think that. Nor do you and Pedric."

  23

  "When Patty's daughter ran," Dallas said, "could you tell me more about that?" The tearoom fire had burned low, the pastry plate was empty save for one lone cinnamon roll, the coffee in its thermos getting cold.

  "Because Marlie had testified against Craig and Irving Fenner," Dorothy said, "Patty was afraid for her. She got Marlie out of the country, had a driver take her to Vegas. Marlie flew out of there under an assumed name, headed for Canada, for Calgary, where Patty's secretary had arranged for a new car to be waiting, and an apartment and a job. Marlie went to work as a secretary.

  "Craig was in prison and would likely be executed. And Irving Fenner was in custody, awaiting trial. But Fenner was so enraged by Patty and Marlie's testimonies, and so vindictive. Patty was convinced he would send someone to find Marlie and try to kill her. Patty didn't worry too much about herself, she always had people around her.

  "Everything was fine for about a year. Marlie stayed in Canada, working. Fenner was convicted and serving time. Then one night, when Marlie had taken a weekend to drive to Alberta, her car went over a cliff in the rain. She died in the wreck.

  "Some people said she'd committed suicide, that she hadn't been able to deal with life after Craig killed Conner. Patty knew different, she knew her daughter. She was certain that Irving Fenner had had Marlie killed.

  "It could never be proved. No witnesses, no evidence that would hold up. When Fenner was released, Patty was more angry that he was free than afraid of him. Her friends convinced her to hire a bodyguard. She finally did; she kept him for about a year, then gave it up. Convinced herself that Fenner had left the state. Another of the group was already out, Harold Timmons. She heard rumors that he stayed in California, but she never found out where."

  Dorothy finished her coffee. "I don't know, Detective Garza. I seem to be going on about this and I'm not sure I'm helping. I don't know if those cases are connected to Patty's murder. I just…" She snatched a tissue from the pack, a fit of weeping silencing her.

  When Dorothy's crying had subsided, Garza rose. She stood up and was pulling on her jacket when Garza's cell phone rang.

  He answered, and talked for a moment, growing very still. A slow smile touched his dark eyes. "Hold a minute, Max."

  He shook hands with Dorothy and hastily thanked her for her time. "Will you let me know when you're leaving and how I can get in touch?"

  "I will." She gave him a watery smile and left the tearoom.

  "Okay, Max. I'm in the tearoom, Dorothy just left." Garza sat down at the table and, listening, poured the last of the coffee into his cup and picked up the last cinnamon roll. Above him atop the china cabinet, Joe Grey peered over, his silver ears sharp with interest, his claws silently flexing, every nerve in his tomcat body on alert. Harper had something, something was happening. He wished he could hear Harper's side of the conversation.

  Garza smiled. "Yes, I know the cottage, I'll be right there. It takes two of us to collect evidence?" He listened again and shook his head. "Our woman snitch this time. Well, maybe she had a cold. How far in from the vent, did she say? Some of these old foundations-"

  He was quiet, then, "I have tools in the car. I'll be there ASAP." Rising, he gulped the last of his coffee, wolfed the cinnamon roll, wiped some sticky sugar from his lips, and headed out. Joe didn't know where Harper was going, but he didn't intend to be far behind. There was no question, Harper's caller had to be either Dulcie or Kit. Very likely the kit, who had just rushed home in such a swivet. He stared across the patio to her third-floor window, but he didn't see her. As he leaped from the china cupboard to the table, he heard Garza's car start, out front. Hitting the cold tile floor, Joe was out of there, pushing open the tearoom door, heading across the patio for the bougainvillea vine that would take him, faster than any stairs, up to the Greenlaw penthouse. Where was Garza headed? Under what house? If Dallas Garza and Max Harper were about to crawl under someone's house, presumably without a search warrant, he sure didn't mean to miss the entertainment.

  Dulcie watched Lori leave the garden with Cora Lee, the child slipping through the gate as warily as if she expected that any minute someone would snatch her up. Dulcie looked after her, frowning. If Lori was in danger from more than a bad-tempered father, why hadn't she told Genelle and Cora Lee what more was wrong? Probably, Dulcie thought, because the stubborn little kid didn't want anything to do with the police. When they'd gone, Dulcie approached the terrace, watching Genelle Yardley with interest.

  Genelle, pushing back the breakfast dishes, had spread out the front page and was reading about the little graves. Something drew Dulcie to the old woman, something about the way Genelle kept looking up the garden at her. Such a knowing look, so secretly amused. Shivering, Dulcie padded nearer, but she stayed beneath the bushes. This woman couldn't know what she
was, that wasn't possible. But yet… Why that secret smile? Too many people knew already. Though those who shared the cats' secret in friendship would never tell, the more who knew, the more chance there was of some unintended slip.

  Genelle looked up from the paper, her faded blue eyes widening. Dulcie remained very still as the old woman studied her where she crouched in the bushes, looking straight into her eyes.

  "Good morning," Genelle said in much the same way she had greeted Lori.

  Dulcie's heart dropped. Warily she trotted across the bricks and smiled up at Genelle, as friendly as any neighborhood cat, waving her tail as if longing for a nice gentle pet and a bit of breakfast.

  "You are Wilma's cat, the library cat. I think your name is Dulcie?"

  Dulcie purred and rolled over, waving her tail, pretending that she was used to people talking to her, carrying on one-sided conversations.

  "You can speak to me, Dulcie. I know who you are." The old woman smiled gently. "And I know what you are. You live with Wilma Getz. Oh, Wilma doesn't know that I know the whole story. Wilma took you home from this garden, Dulcie, when you were very small."

  Dulcie tried not to stare at her.

  "She had no idea what she was getting when she took one of our litter of kittens. Nor did I, I wasn't sure. I only knew that my own dear Melody, your mother, was a very unusual cat, that she could speak," Genelle said softly.

  "Melody and I had many talks here in this garden, many long and fascinating discussions in this house. She was with me until she died," Genelle said sadly.

  Dulcie looked at the old woman as blankly as she could manage, dropping her ears as if she were shy or frightened. Genelle paid no attention; she kept talking.

  "I didn't know how her one litter of kittens would turn out, nor did Melody herself. She said that none of her six brothers and sisters could speak." Genelle reached out to stroke Dulcie, but Dulcie backed away.