Cat Deck the Halls

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Kit hoped so. Charlie’s book was her story, it was based on her own kittenhood, on that frightened and lonely time when she had no one to love her, no one to care if she lived or died.

  When Cora Lee had finished reading the rhythmic Cajun phrases, the child reached up for the book. Hugging it to her possessively, she tucked it beneath the blanket beside Kit, and held both the book and Kit close. This little girl might be mute, Kit thought, but she surely made her feelings known.

  “I wish Donnie were here to share it,” Cora Lee said. “When we were kids, he always read aloud with such pleasure.” Automatically she glanced toward the window, though she could not have seen his car from upstairs. Kit had not seen it when she arrived; there was only Cora Lee’s car at the other side of the drive, and the squad car-though when she’d crossed the drive she’d padded over a cold patch of concrete that the thin winter sun hadn’t yet warmed, where a car or maybe Donnie’s old pickup had recently stood.

  There was no blue van parked in the drive today, so Mavity must be off in the real van, on a cleaning job. Kit had seen Mavity’s ancient VW parked around the side of the garage where Mavity kept it-so as not to offend the neighbors, she said. She said her old car looked like a rusting hulk up on blocks in the yard of some backcountry shack.

  The VW didn’t look that bad to Kit, but probably Gabrielle encouraged Mavity to hide it-it was not a sleek new Mercedes, such as Gabrielle herself drove.

  “You said your cousin Donnie’s family was killed in the hurricane?” Eleanor was saying.

  Cora Lee nodded. “His children, yes. There are a lot of questions about those failed levees, about the shoddy way they were reinforced, and where the federal money went, that was given to the state to do that work. Questions,” Cora Lee said, “that in my view ought to lead to some serious charges. But I guess…I guess I’m getting old and crotchety.”

  Eleanor laughed. “You don’t look like you’ll ever get old. But a bit judgmental? Why not? My daddy told me, ‘If you are not brave enough to make judgments about life, you’ll end up with a head full of porridge.’ My daddy wasn’t big on shady politicians, either, and on the folk who allow and encourage them.”

  Cora Lee smiled. “There’s plenty of that, in New Orleans. Even as a child, I was aware of the ugly stories about the good-old-boy politics.” She stood up when they heard a truck pull in, and moved to the window. Kit could hear a tractor or some kind of heavy equipment, and already the big chocolate poodle and the Dalmatian had charged out of the room and down the stairs, barking and threatening.

  Kit wanted to see, too, but that would appear too strange. Racing to the window must be traditionally left to the rowdy and protective canines. Instead, she yawned and stretched, and made a show of slowly extricating herself from the little girl and from the quilt and pillows. She gave the child a nose touch, then languidly jumped to the sill beside Cora Lee, rubbing up against her as if for a pet, glancing out only slyly, as if she didn’t give a whit what was out there. Behind her, Eleanor Sand knelt to gather up the little girl, perhaps uneasy at the activity below. “I think we’ll move on,” she said quietly.

  “I didn’t know they’d be here so early,” Cora Lee said, picking up Kit and holding her, watching a flatbed truck as it backed carefully up the far side of the drive. It parked well away from Eleanor’s squad car. The forklift ambled between them, to the garage door; and when the two women and the child headed downstairs, Eleanor holding the little girl’s hand, Kit padded down behind them and out the front door.

  She paused on the front porch, watching Eleanor’s squad car pull away, and Cora Lee and the truck driver disappear into the garage. The driver was a big, bald, sad-faced man who resembled a grieving bloodhound.

  In a moment the garage door rumbled open to reveal the bright, many-colored playhouse that nearly filled the interior. Lori and Dillon stood talking with the driver, both girls gesturing and looking as anxious, Kit thought, as two mother cats protecting their kittens.

  But soon, under the girls’ hands-on direction, the truck driver and the skinny, wrinkled forklift driver showed that they could be gentle and careful as they helped the girls separate the house into its three parts. Lori and Dillon insisted on removing all the bolts themselves, but they allowed the two men, under their nervous instruction, to separate and slide each section onto a heavy-duty dolly, and roll it out the door to where the forklift could raise it onto the truck bed.

  Kit watched, hiding a smile, as Lori and Dillon shepherded every move, Dillon’s short red hair rumpled every which way, her old blue T-shirt torn and stained. Lori’s long dark ponytail had come loose from its ribbon and hung in a tangle, and her own T-shirt was stained with red and green paint.

  The girls might look scruffy, Kit thought, but their finished creation shone perfectly groomed and impressive. They were so excited about the contest, and so afraid some accident would mar their work, that they gripped each other’s hands, white-knuckled as each piece was loaded onto the flatbed. Kit could see, inside Cora Lee’s car, where the bright turquoise and blue and red floor pads waited, along with the rope ladder neatly piled on top.

  The two men were tying padding around the three sections when Donnie’s old truck pulled in, the truck he had bought used in the village when he’d arrived by plane from Texas. The tall, slim, graying blond man swung out, grinning. “Looks like you’re all set to go.”

  “We’re going to have some pie and milk first,” Cora Lee said. “The girls need fuel before they get to work putting the house back together.” She put her arm around Donnie. “Come join us.”

  She looked at Lori, who was fidgeting to get started. “We’ll be up there, Lori, by the time the truck is in place. The men will have to wait in line at the gate and be directed in, and there’ll be a mob waiting.”

  “We’ll be in, in a minute,” Lori said, “as soon as they’re finished tying down.”

  “Sometimes,” Cora Lee said as she and Donnie headed up the steps, “watching the girls, I feel like I’m a child again, too. The way we used to be,” she said, heading for the kitchen. She turned to look at Donnie. “Fifty years. We’re totally different people, now. And yet…”

  “And yet,” he said, “we’re the same people. We’re the same two kids we were. Only the packaging is different.”

  Cora Lee laughed. “A bit frayed around the edges?”

  Kit padded into the kitchen behind them, watching Cora Lee set out the pie and begin to cut it, while Donnie started the coffee.

  “You’re proud of the girls,” he said.

  “They’ve worked hard on this project, and with such excitement. They did a huge amount of library research into architectural styles, surveyed every kind of structure and style from French Country to African huts to those Dutch-influenced hex-sign details from the Caribbean-and put it all together in their own way.”

  “Including the hex signs,” he said. “I like that.” The hex signs were no more than big, primary shapes-triangles, circles, rectangles-painted on the shutters and walls in bright, contrasting colors.

  “I so hope the girls will win,” Cora Lee said. “But whether they win or not, they should realize a nice profit. That money would give Lori a leg up for college, with her father in prison. And Dillon…her folks can pay for college, but she wants to contribute as much as she can. Dillon has come a long way since the bad time she had when her parents nearly divorced.”

  “I understand a lot of credit goes to the police chief?”

  Cora Lee nodded as she dished up the pie. “Teaching her to ride and handle horses, to be responsible for an animal, that has steadied her. As has Ryan’s training.”

  “Ryan Flannery?”

  “Ryan hired Dillon as a carpenter’s gofer and then helper. She had to get special permission from the school. Between the two experiences, Dillon’s a different person now, much more sure of herself and what she can do. Much more responsible.” She changed the subject when they heard the girls coming.


  “We read the Cajun Night Before Christmas, today,” she told him. “Do you know the book? We were grown, when it came out. But it was so like the Christmas stories that your dad used to tell.”

  Donnie gave her a faltering glance, as if he wasn’t tracking. Then, “You read it to Lori and Dillon? A picture book?”

  Cora Lee laughed. “No, to the little girl who was found in the plaza. Where the murder was reported. An officer brought her up to visit-they just left. I’m sorry you weren’t here, you’d love her. She’s so solemn, and so hurt, Donnie. I wish you could have read some of the book to her; I used to love to hear you read.

  “But maybe later. I’m sure one of the officers will bring her back.” She looked up when Lori and Dillon came in, and asked Lori to give Kit some milk and a few crumbs of gingerbread.

  “Those were happy times,” she said to Donnie, “those hot summers when we’d play in the walled garden after supper and lie on the grass, and you’d tell a story or read a book to me.”

  Donnie was quiet, turned away to see to the coffee. When the phone rang, Cora Lee picked up. “Yes, he’s here. Just a moment.” She handed him the phone.

  He answered, listened; then, “I’ll take it in Gabrielle’s study,” he said. “Would you hang up for me? The connection seems faint.”

  Gabrielle’s bedroom and sewing room/study were just across the hall from the kitchen. Cora Lee waited until she heard him pick up. When she heard his voice, she reached to hang up. Donnie was saying, “Fine, she’s just fine.” Cora Lee didn’t know what made her pause. She wanted to hear more; she listened for only a moment, then hung up guiltily. Who would be fine? Was he talking about Gabrielle? But there was nothing wrong with Gabrielle.

  Or maybe he was talking about her, because she had rehearsals and then the concert. But who would he be talking to, about her? She wished she’d had the nerve to listen to the rest of the conversation-if the girls hadn’t been there, she might have. Something in Donnie’s voice, as well as his words, left her puzzled.

  But then, seeing the girls’ impatience, and that they’d hastily finished their milk and pie, she called to Donnie that they were leaving, and headed for the car.

  Opening the front door, she was startled at the brush of fur across her ankle, but then she smiled as the tortoiseshell kit raced past her and up a pine tree. As the girls headed for the car, Cora Lee stood a moment watching the kit vanish across the rooftops, delighting in the cat’s bright and eager nature, and wondering where she was headed. She’s such a strange little cat, Cora Lee thought. So inquisitive and so wildly impulsive.

  28

  S AUNTERING INTO Molena Point PD behind tall bony Officer Crowley and little Officer Bean, Joe Grey endured the two officers ’usual joking remarks about freeloading cats, and leaped up onto the dispatcher’s counter, where he lingered for a session of Mabel’s skilled ear scratching. Mabel Farthy had cats of her own, she knew what a cat liked.

  “You are a freeloader,” she said softly. “But what would the world be without a few bums-charming bums,” she said, seeing his sudden glance. “Sometimes, Joe Grey, I could swear you understand me.”

  And sometimes, Joe thought, I need to be more careful, not telegraph my thoughts just because I like someone! Mabel turned away when three calls came in on a fender bender. And Joe, thankful for the diversion, dropped off the counter again, leaving Mabel to her phones and radios.

  Strolling on down the hall to where Harper’s office lights were burning, he could hear Max and Dallas talking. The room smelled of leather and gun oil. Behind his desk, Harper looked up when Joe entered, a twisted smile starting at the corner of his mouth-a smile he reserved for cryptic jokes and nosy tomcats.

  Leaping to the desk, Joe gave Harper a preoccupied but friendly look, then stepped boldly past the chief’s shoulder into the bookcase as if this office were his space, as if he, Joe Grey, ran the show here.

  Harper turned to look at him, the wrinkle in his cheek deepening, then he continued with what he’d been saying. Joe looked at Harper, and down at Dallas, with bored annoyance, as if hoping they’d shut up and allow him to have a nap. Harper was saying, “…came in to bring me a set of prints.” He explained to Dallas how Lucinda had gotten the clay shards, that she had seen the woman drop the pot, and when the woman left, she’d retrieved it. “Wearing clean gardening gloves,” Max said, grinning. “I got a positive from AFIS right away.”

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  “Prints belong to a Betty Wicken. One conviction for attacking a police officer with a butcher knife as he arrested her brother. This was in Eugene. Ralph Wicken was arrested for attempted kidnapping of a nine-year-old girl. Kid snatched his car keys, slashed him in the face with them, and ran. Dropped the keys in a storm drain.”

  Dallas smiled with appreciation.

  “Ralph got a year,” Max said with disgust. “A year earlier he’d kidnapped a ten-year-old girl. She was rescued within hours, and wasn’t molested. Parents dropped the changes.”

  The officers looked at each other and shook their heads, that silent, disgusted look that Joe knew well. Of all the crimes on the books, the molesting of a child was the most heinous; and when people withdrew charges or tried to protect such a criminal, they joined in the guilt and cruelty.

  “Ralph has a dozen arrests for trespassing and loitering around school yards,” Max said, “but no convictions. One arrest for enticement on the Web, that never went to trial. Reports say the guy isn’t too bright. Apparently the sister intercedes wherever she can, tries every way to keep him out of jail, keep him from getting in trouble.”

  Max rose to refill his coffee cup, and returned to his chair. “Greenlaws’ intruder was back in the house, this morning. Lucinda went down and talked with her.”

  “She didn’t,” Dallas said, shaking his head.

  Max laid out the tale that Evina Woods had told Lucinda, the events in Arkansas, Evina watching the Eugene rental then following the Wickens to California. Evina’s stubborn belief that Leroy Huffman had either abducted or killed her niece.

  “We have only Evina Woods’s story,” Max said. “I called the sheriff in Arkansas. When I finally got him on the phone, he was less than friendly, pretty noncommittal. Said the niece, Marlie James, disappeared, but a body had never been found. He didn’t say they looked for her. Said she was eighteen, of legal age, which seems to be stretching it a bit. Said the story around town was she’d run off with some guy. He said she was pretty loose.

  “That’s not how Lucinda told the story, not how she said Evina described the girl. Evina said a missing report was filed with the sheriff and then with the D.A. I have a call in for the D.A.” Max leaned back in his chair. “So we have no warrant on Leroy Huffman. And no outstanding warrant for Betty Wicken, and nothing outstanding on her brother.”

  “Not enough to arrest him as an unregistered molester?” Dallas said.

  Max shook his head. “We have enough, with those photographs of the Home and children, to bring him in on suspicion.”

  “Where’s our Jane Doe?” Dallas said.

  “Sand and McFarland took her up to the seniors’. McFarland is watching the place, keeping out of sight. There’s no connection yet between Ralph Wicken and the little girl, but this makes me uneasy.”

  Dallas nodded. “You want me to talk with Evina Woods? See if I can turn up anything more?”

  “I think…” Max began, when the dispatcher buzzed him.

  “Captain, there’s a call on your line you’ll want to take,” Mabel said. Harper pressed the speaker button. When a woman’s voice came on, Joe went rigid, thinking that Dulcie, after all, was calling Harper about the blue van. But then, listening, the tomcat hid a smile.

  Evina Woods wanted to come in. She told Harper she’d only take a few minutes, maybe half an hour, but really needed to talk with him. Joe didn’t know what had changed her mind, but he eased deeper into the bookshelf, intending to hear it all. Max told Evina to come on ahead, and it
wasn’t five minutes later that he rose from his desk and went up to the front to meet her.

  He escorted her back to his office, walking behind her, asked her to take a seat, and offered her coffee. She refused the coffee, sat rigidly on the edge of the leather chair, laying her purse on a small table near her right hand. Both officers watched the purse and watched her movements. Joe, sharing their wariness, leaped down and wandered around the table, taking a good sniff at the handbag.

  He smelled lipstick, orange Life Savers, old leather that was the purse itself. No gun oil. Nothing that smelled to him threatening. Strolling under the credenza, he lay down, well aware of Dallas Garza’s puzzled glance. Rolling over on his back and rumbling a purr, he dangled all four paws in the air-a pose of amusing and beguiling charm that the tomcat had learned from Kit and that, for some reason, always made humans smile. Eyes closed, he could feel the officers study him for a moment before they turned back to Evina.

  “This is about the break-and-enter?” Max said.

  “The Greenlaws…” Evina gave the chief a direct look. “They’ve given me permission to stay there for a few days. Lucinda…both of them, they’re really nice people, more than nice. Lucinda loaned me some towels and a cot, and told me to turn the heat up so I’d be comfortable.”

  “Lucinda came in, this morning,” Max said. “She told us what you told her, about the Wickens, and Leroy Huffman.”

  Evina nodded. “I came in, now, because I just talked to my sister. Beryl called my cell phone, about half an hour ago. So strange,” she said, “here I am way out here on the opposite coast, and we don’t call long distance. It’s all local.”

  She looked at Max and then at Dallas, and her voice went quiet. “They found…Arkansas Bureau of Investigation found my niece last night. Found her body.”

  She was silent a moment, swallowing. “An ABI agent found Marlie in the woods, five miles north of town. She…” She had to stop again, to get control.