Cat Raise the Dead
Shirley Rousseau Murphy
The third in a charming series of cat fantasy-mysteries featuring Joe Grey, a tomcat who discovers, to his dismay, that he can speak – with humans!
Readers will adore this new installment by Shirley Rousseau Murphy – a treat for fantasy, cat and mystery lovers every-where. Joe Grey was, well, peeved. His human housemate Clyde was trying to volunteer him as a once-a-week Animal Therapy cuddle kitty. And just when Joe was about to nab the cat burglar who was terrifying the coast from Half Moon Bay to Moien Point! But it wasn't up to Joe or Clyde. The "pet-a-pet" scheme was Dulcie's idea, and she was a cat who always got her way. Dulcie needed Joe's help to prove that the old folks' home was hiding more than just lonely seniors. There was a mysterious kidnapper, a severed finger and a very, very busy open grave!
Shirley Rousseau Murphy
Cat Raise the Dead
The third book in the Joe Grey series, 1997
1
Within the dark laundry room she stood to the side of the door's narrow glass, where she would not be seen from the street, stood looking out into the night. The black sidewalk and the leafy growth across the street in the neighboring yards formed a dense tangle, a vague mosaic fingered by sickly light from the distant streetlamp. Pale leaves shone against porch rails and steps, unfamiliar and strange, and beneath a porch roof hung a mass of vines, twisted into unnatural configurations. Beneath these gleamed the disembodied white markings of the gray cat, where it crouched staring in her direction, predatory and intent, waiting among the black bushes for her to emerge again into the night. She stepped aside, not breathing, moving farther from the glass.
But the cat turned its head, following her movement, its yellow eyes, catching the thin light, blazing like light-struck ice, amber eyes staring into hers. Shivering, sickened, she backed deeper into the shadows of the laundry room, clutching her voluminous black raincoat more tightly around herself, nervously smoothing its lumpy, heavy folds.
She couldn't guess how much the cat could see in the blackness through the narrow glass; she didn't know if it could make out the pale oval of her face, the faint halo of gray hair. The rest of her should blend totally into the darkness of the small room, her black-gloved hands, the black coat buttoned to her throat. Even her shoes and stockings were black. She had no real understanding of precisely how well cats could see in the dark, but she imagined this beast's vision was like some secret laser beam, some infrared device designed for nighttime surveillance.
She could only guess that the cat had followed her here. How else could he have found her? Somehow he had followed the scent of her car along the village streets, then tracked her, once she left the car, perhaps by the smell of the old cemetery on her shoes, where she had walked among the graves earlier in the day? Such skill and intensity in a common beast seemed impossible. But with this animal perhaps nothing was impossible.
Earlier, approaching the house, she hadn't seen him, and she had watched warily, too, studying the bushes, peering into the late-afternoon shadows, then had slipped in through the unlocked front door quickly. Not until she had finished her stealthy perusal of the house, taking what she wanted, and was prepared to leave again had she seen the beast, waiting out there, crouched in the night-waiting just as, three times before, it had waited. Seeing it, her mouth had gone dry, and she had wanted to turn and run, to escape.
But now the sounds behind her down the hall kept her from fleeing back through the house to the front; she was trapped here. She was terrified that someone would come this way, step from the brightly lit kitchen, down the hall, and into the laundry room, switch on a sudden light. She could hear the little family, gathered in the bright kitchen, preparing supper, the clang of pans and dishes, the parents and the three children bantering back and forth with good-natured barbs.
Stroking her bulky coat, she fingered the hard little lumps of jewelry and the three small antique clocks, the lizard handbag and matching pumps, the roll of twenties and fifties, the miniature painting, all tucked neatly away in the hidden pockets sewn into the lining. She should be on a high of elation-the day had been unusually profitable. She should not be shivering because a cat-a common, stupid beast-waited for her to emerge into the night. Yet she had never felt so helpless.
The cat moved again shifting among the shadows, and for a moment she saw it clearly, its sleek gray coat dark as storm clouds, its white parts stark against the black foliage. It was a big cat, hard-muscled. The white strip down its nose made it seem to be frowning, scowling with angry disapproval. An easy cat to identify; you would not mistake this one. This cat had no tail, just that short, ugly stub. She didn't know if it was a Manx or if it had gotten de-tailed in some accident. It should have been beheaded.
It was the kind of big, square beast that might easily tackle a German shepherd and come out the winner, the kind of cat, if you saw it slinking toward you through a dim alley, ready to spring, you would turn away and take an alternate route. And the creature wasn't a stray-it was too well fed, sleek, and confident, nothing like the thin, dirty strays her friend Wenona used to feed down around the wharf.
She would not in her wildest dreams ever be a person to get friendly with cats; not as Wenona had. Wenona had seemed drawn to cats. It was Wenona who told her about this kind of beast, told her years ago that there were unnatural felines in the world, sentient animals that knew far more of humanity than they should, knew more of human language and of human hungers and human needs than seemed possible. The tales of those creatures even now terrified her.
Now again the cat's eyes blazed directly at her, its narrow face and hot stare burning into her, shaking her with its strange, unreadable intent. What did it want?
Three times just this last week the cat had tracked her as she approached other houses, had trailed her as she searched for an unlocked door, and had watched her slip inside-had been waiting an hour later when she came out.
The first time she saw it, she assumed it was some neighborhood cat, but days later, when she saw the same distinctively marked tomcat in a totally different neighborhood, following her again, she had thought of Wenona's stories. Oh, it was the same cat, same narroweyed scowl, same narrow white strip down its face, same steely fur, thick shoulders, and heavy neck, same stub tail. Encountering that too-human gaze, she had gone back into the house she had just left, back through the unlocked front door, hoping that if a neighbor saw her, they'd think her a guest who had forgotten something.
And there, in a stranger's house, standing at the front window, she had watched the cat pace the sidewalk waiting for her. She had delayed for more than an hour worrying that someone would come home, had used the bathroom twice, cursing her kidneys, and then at last when she looked out and the cat was gone, when she couldn't see it anywhere, she had hastened away down the street, stricken with nerves, had hurried nervously to her car, scanning every bush and shadow, flung herself into the car, locked the doors, and taken off with a squeal of tires.
But she had not gone back to her room, fearing that the cat could somehow follow her there, she had driven mindlessly down into the village. Parking on Ocean Avenue, she had shed her heavy coat, left it folded on the seat, effectively concealing the sterling flatware, the heavy silver nut bowls and sterling side dishes, gone into a little hole-in-the-wall for a cup of coffee, drunk three cups, nursing them, making them last, all the while longing to be home, longing for the comfort of a closed door and tightly pulled shades, for a quick supper and a hot bath and bed. She stayed in the restaurant a long time before she worked up the nerve to return to her car in the gathering dusk.
And when she reached the white Toyota, there on the dusty hood were pawpri
nts. A trail of big pawprints that had not been there before, prints that led across the hood to the windshield, as if the cat had stood looking in, perhaps studying her black coat.
She had driven away sickened.
Wenona said that if such a cat took an interest in you, it would not be easily discouraged. Wenona's tales had made the back of her neck prickle; never since Wenona told her those stories had she been able to abide cats.
The third time she saw the cat she was just approaching her mark, a house she was sure was, for the moment, empty. Suddenly the same beast appeared two doors down, leaping to a porch rail, watching her, same deep scowl, far too intelligent. Glimpsing its yellow eyes, she had panicked.
Oh, she had gotten through her usual routine all right, stripped the house of what she could carry, but by the time she left again she was shaking. She had refused to return to her car, had gone brazenly to a neighbor's house, had rung the bell and asked if she could call a cab, had said her car was stalled.
Now, tonight, she had parked much farther from the neighborhood she had chosen, hoping she could lose the beast.
She didn't usually work at night. The middle of the day was best, on weekends when people were out in back gardening or were out around the pool, leaving the house open. She was in and out quickly, and no one the wiser until hours later.
But tonight, cruising the neighborhood, she'd seen the husband and wife raking the freshly plowed yard in preparation for reseeding the lawn, and she was pretty sure their three elementary-school children would be at the big middle-school ball game-she paid attention to such matters. Parking several blocks away, she'd hoped a change in her schedule might put the cat off.
But again he'd been waiting.
And the irony was, a cat was her alibi. A lost cat. An alibi that had served her very well.
If, in a stranger's house, she was apprehended and confronted, as she had been three times in this village, her story was always the same. She'd been traveling with Kitty, Kitty liked to ride loose in the car, she'd had her dear Kitty since he was just a tiny little ball of fluff, he'd always ridden in the car with her, but this time he'd jumped out and run away. He'd be terrified in a strange neighborhood, she lived a long way down the coast, he wouldn't know where he was, she couldn't bear to think of him lost in a strange town. The story always worked. People were suckers for a pitiful lost cat. But now…
Now her carefully prepared lie had turned on her, had begun to taunt her.
On each job she changed her "lost" cat's description just as she varied other details of her operation, but always she played the tearful, lonely woman looking for her lost Kitty; she'd say she'd heard Kitty crying inside the house, that she thought it had slipped in through an open door and was trapped and frightened, so she had gone in to find him. Her story never failed to generate sympathy, and sometimes she was offered a cup of coffee or hot tea, a slice of cake, and a promise of help in looking for Kitty. It amused her greatly to sit in someone's kitchen drinking their tea and eating their cake, her coat loaded down with her hostess's jewelry and money and silver flatware.
It was Wenona who gave her the idea of using a lost cat as cover. Years ago Wenona, if she was questioned while shoplifting along Hollywood Boulevard, said she was looking for her lost cat, that it had jumped out of her car. People always believed her; people were such fools. Wenona had a good job but she adored shoplifting, loved finding a little something for nothing. Now Hollywood Boulevard seemed very far away. Oh, she did miss Wenona. They had been closest friends, and, though Wenona was twenty years her senior, age had never seemed to matter.
From beyond the laundry room, footsteps suddenly sounded, coming down the hall, and she stiffened, ready to bolt out into the night.
But it was only one of the children crossing to the bathroom. She heard him pee, heard the toilet flush. Couldn't people soundproof their bathrooms? So easy to do-the building-supply houses carried a special sheathing board for that purpose. But maybe they didn't care.
From the kitchen the children's voices, shrill and querulous, had begun to set her on edge. All that togetherness. The smell of spaghetti sauce cooking, its thick, rich aroma, made her stomach growl. The older girl must be setting the table; she was arguing that the knives went on the left. Her small brother whined about a television movie he wanted to watch. The father scolded irritably, his voice bored and quick.
Earlier, while she was still upstairs in the master bedroom, she had glanced out the window, watching the parents working away, diligently putting in the new lawn beneath the bright outdoor lights as if following a farmer's almanac instruction to plant only beneath the light of vapor bulbs. People were stupid to try to grow a lawn on a California hillside; there were hardly any lawns in the village. With the increasing shortage of water and California's frequent droughts, any homeowner with common sense planted some hardy, drought-resistant ground cover like ivy or ice plant.
She'd still been upstairs when she heard the tiller stop and, in a few minutes, heard the couple come in, heard them down in the laundry laughing together. They had left their dirty gardening clothes there-the clothes lay in a pile behind her-had come upstairs naked and giggling. She had slipped into the little sewing room down at the end of the hall, had watched them through the crack in the door as they entered the master bedroom, had listened to them showering together, laughing in an excess of merriment.
The three children had come in soon afterward from the ball game-she'd watched from the sewing-room window as they piled out of a van packed with kids. They had come directly upstairs, the older boy grumbling about losing the game. While they were in their rooms and their parents had not yet descended to the kitchen she had come down the stairs, lifted the miniature painting from the wall in the entry, and slid toward the back of the house and into the laundry. She had her hand on the doorknob when, through the half glass of the door, she saw the gray tomcat waiting in the gathering night, his eyes blazing up at her.
She wanted not to be afraid of the cat. She was quite aware that only crazy people had fears such as she was experiencing. Last week, coming out of the Felther house up on Ridgeview, with her inner coat pockets loaded with a lovely set of Rose of Erin sterling and a fine array of serving pieces, when she saw the gray torn watching from atop a black station wagon and she faced him and swore at him, his eyes had flared with rage.
Sentient rage.
The kind of violent anger you see only in human eyes.
She shivered again and touched her coat pocket where the miniature painting rested, wondering why she had lifted it. The primitive picture of a black cat seemed, now, a very bad omen, a symbol of her luck turned awry-as if she were goading fate.
She thought of leaving the painting on top of the washer but decided against doing so. It might give too much away.
She never took large paintings, of course; she took nothing she couldn't conceal beneath her coat, but she could not resist a miniature. Her fence in San Francisco had some good contacts for stolen art, and the village of Molena Point was famous for its small private collections as well as for its galleries. There was, in fact, a good deal of quiet money in Molena Point, a number of retired movie people, their estates hidden back in the hills, though she avoided these. With a household staff in residence, who knew when you'd bump into an unexpected maid lurking in one of the bedrooms, or come face-to-face with the butler in the master's study placing cigars in the humidor as in some forties' movie.
The middle-class houses were better for her purposes, affluent enough to have some nice antiques and silver and jewelry, but not so rich as to include live-in help. And the occasional alarm systems she encountered were usually turned off when people were about the place. Her usual routine was first to slip upstairs into the master bedroom, take care of the jewelry, clean out a purse or billfold left lying on the dresser. She had taught herself well about gems, and could usually tell the real thing.
Looking out through the dark glass, she saw the cat rise su
ddenly. He flashed her one intent look his stare so insolent that all of Wenona's lurid stories came back to her. She was, for an instant, almost crippled with fear.
He looked, then moved away into the blackness beneath a neighboring porch, only his white parts still showing, like bits of discarded white paper.
Why was he so persistent? Why did he care about her? Why would a cat-any kind of cat-care what she stole?
So far, the cat seemed the only living presence that had guessed her scam. The Molena Point Gazette didn't have a clue; its little reports of local burglaries hadn't printed one word about a woman looking for her lost cat. And, as far as she could tell, the Molena Point cops were equally ignorant. They seemed to have made no connection with her successes up and down the coast- Santa Barbara, San Jose, Ojai, San Luis Obispo, Ventura. Of course the minute the papers blabbed her cat scam she had moved on, checked into a new town, and the furor in the old town quickly died, at least in the press.
She tried to hit each town quickly, work it for just a few weeks, then get out again. Montecito had given her some really nice hauls. She'd chosen its smallest cottages among the extravagant mansions and had made some rare finds. She was amused at herself that she'd saved all her newspaper clippings, like some two-bit actress saving stage reviews-some of them were a real hoot.
But those towns down the coast had been practice runs. Molena Point was the real gem. This village had never been properly worked, and she was enjoying every minute. Or she had been, until the cat showed up.
As she fingered the heavy gold jewelry and stroked the nice fat roll of bills inside her coat, outdoors the gray cat rose again and came out from beneath the porch. And now he didn't so much as glance at her. He turned away, trotted away purposefully up the side street as if she didn't exist, moved off toward the front of the house, prancing insolently up the center of the sidewalk under the streetlight, his stub tail wiggling back and forth, his tomcat balls making him walk slightly straddle-legged. And he was gone, not a glance backward.
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