Cat On The Edge

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  They cleaned every scrap from the bones of the chicken, then they liberated from the refrigerator a foil-wrapped cube of cheese, a plastic container of oyster stew, and a wedge of cream pie. Dulcie lifted the aluminum pie tin out with her teeth, smearing her nose with cream. Joe hadn't realized he was so hungry. But as soon as the rich supper settled in his stomach he began to feel sleepy, and to yawn. He didn't want to sleep. If they planned to break into the automotive shop before dawn, he didn't need to pass out in a heavy, postsupper stupor.

  He cleaned pie from his whiskers as Dulcie lifted what trash she could manage up into the trash receptacle. They left the floor a mess, but who could help it? They were cats, not kitchen maids.

  They retired to the living room, to the top of Wilma's desk, where Joe pawed open the phone book and committed to memory Kate's number.

  The room was old and comfortable. A worn blue afghan was thrown over the arm of the needlepoint couch. The big rag rug was thick and hand-braided, the desk was a nice rich cherry piece, carved and well polished. "Wilma keeps talking about redecorating,"

  Dulcie said. "She keeps collecting pictures of rooms she likes." She shrugged. "Maybe she will, maybe not." The painting over the fireplace was the best thing in the room, a loosely rendered, painterly study of Molena Point cottages as seen from the hills, lots of red rooftops tucked among rich greens, and a slash of blue at the bottom that was the sea.

  Joe lifted the receiver by the cord, and punched in Kate's number. The phone rang for a long time. He gave up at last, and lifted the handset back. He hoped she had left the village, that she was safely away from Molena Point and out of Wark's and Jimmie's reach.

  At the back of the phone book, in the yellow pages, he found the automotive shop. Then, in the map at the front that the phone company had furnished for newcomers, he located Haley Street. He wondered if the people who had put together the phone book would be pleased that a cat was using their map.

  The automotive shop was a block off Highway One, at the corner of Haley and Ocean. He thought that was near the vet's where Clyde took him once a year to get poked with a very sharp needle. Now that he had a little say in the matter, now that he was totally his own person, he wouldn't be dragged back there so easily.

  The desk clock said two-twenty as they snuggled down on Wilma's blue afghan, pawing it off the couch arm onto the seat, and into a comfortable nest. Dulcie yawned hugely and rolled over, wriggling deeper into the soft wool.

  Joe rolled onto his back, and licked a bit of chicken that he had missed between his claws. "I want to be out of here by four, up and headed for the shop."

  "I'll wake up," she said sleepily. "I always wake up." Four o'clock was the shank of the night, the mysterious roaming hour; the time when her active imagination could soar into moonlit dreams; and, when the mice and small, succulent creatures come out of their burrows.

  The warmth of the afghan seeped into their tired bodies, easing their tense muscles. But as Joe was dropping off, he felt Dulcie shiver.

  He lifted his heavy head. "What? What's the matter?"

  "I'm going to slip into the bedroom for a minute, and curl up with Wilma. Just for a little while, to let her know I'm all right."

  He flattened his ears, hissing.

  "Why not? What harm can it do? She'll be so worried about me. I've been gone for days."

  "She might be so worried she'll shut you in. Maybe shut us both in, and call Clyde. You can bet he's told Wilma I'm gone." He sat up, alarmed. "Who knows what he's told her. Maybe about my phone call."

  Dulcie smiled, and yawned. "So? It wouldn't matter, she won't tell anyone." She raised her head, frowning. "Haven't you thought about going home?"

  "Wark knows where I live-and where you live. Sure, I miss Clyde. But even if I could go home, everything would be different.

  "Life at home couldn't ever be the same as it was. What would we do? Have a beer together? Brag to each other about our conquests? Two crusty bachelors sitting around the living room telling each other whoppers about our love lives?" He stretched out again, wriggling deeper into the afghan. "A few days of that, and we'd both end up in the funny farm."

  "Couldn't you just be yourselves? Why do you have to even think about it?"

  "Because I'm not myself anymore. Not my old self. Because cats don't talk to people. Because cats and people don't have conversations. On the phone, okay. That was an emergency. But not everyday talk."

  "But I… "

  "On the phone, Clyde wasn't watching me talk. To talk to him in person-no way. Think about it. That's more than I could handle. More than Clyde could handle."

  "But I've always sort of talked to Wilma. Roll over to tell her I want petting, scrunch down when I don't feel good. I tell Wilma a lot of things. I don't see… "

  "That's body language. Body language is natural. Petting and stroking, tail lashing and snarling and purring and rubbing against, those are normal talk. But a conversation in the English language, face-to-face talk about everyday trivia, about what to have for supper, what channel to watch-no way."

  She sighed. "Maybe you're right." She rose, prepared to jump down.

  "Dulcie, believe me. If you go in there now, we might never get out of here. Not in time to see what Wark and Jimmie are up to."

  "I suppose," she said, and settled back beside him, into the warm nest. "But I hate knowing she's worried about me."

  He put his paw around her, laying his front leg over her shoulder, and licked her ear. "Do you think I don't feel bad because Clyde's worrying?" He yawned. "Go to sleep, Dulcie. There's nothing we can do about it; they'll just have to worry." He gave her a final lick, a little squeeze, and in an instant he was asleep.

  Dulcie lay awake a long time, listening to Joe's faint, tomcat snoring. She longed to pad into the bedroom and snuggle down with Wilma. She had slept with Wilma ever since she was a tiny kitten, when Wilma brought her home, separating her from her litter because the bigger kittens kept pushing her out and wouldn't let her eat. She had vague memories of fighting those bigger kittens, but she never won.

  She had slept in a little box, lined with something soft. At night, Wilma put the box beside her pillow, and whenever Dulcie woke hungry, Wilma would rise and go out to the kitchen to warm some milk for her. It didn't taste like the regular bottled milk tasted, that they used now. She supposed it was kitten formula, like in the ads on TV.

  When she was big enough so Wilma wouldn't roll on her and crush her, she'd slept right on Wilma's pillow snuggled against her shoulder, into Wilma's long hair.

  That was when Wilma first started reading to her, when she was snuggled on the bed late at night with her head on Wilma's hair.

  She thought warily about the morning to come, when they would break into the automotive agency. She was just as curious as Joe was, about what those men were up to. But she thought she was more scared than Joe.

  She wasn't afraid of dogs or other cats, but people could frighten her; and the automotive shop looked to her, when she hunted near it along the side streets, like a huge prison.

  The idea of getting trapped within those high walls, of being cornered there by Lee Wark, was not pleasant.

  But they had to do it. This was the only way she knew to stop Wark from pursuing them. Get the goods on him. Somehow, get him arrested. Then maybe the police would figure out about the murder, too, and Wark would be locked up for good.

  But she couldn't sleep for thinking of being trapped inside that huge building. She tried to purr to calm herself, but she could only stir a small, uncertain growl. And she didn't sleep-she lay awake until time to wake Joe.

  21

  The Molena Point Police Bureau was in the center of the village, occupying the south wing of the courthouse. It was, like many Molena Point business buildings, a Spanish-style stucco structure with a heavy, red tile roof. The tower of the courthouse rose above it to its right, its peaked red roof the tallest point in the village.

  At the curb before the front, glas
s door into the police station, two patrol units were parked. Identical units filled the back parking lot behind the building. There was a small public parking area directly in front of the courthouse. There, Clyde snagged the last space, pulling his red Packard in next to a rusting Suburban. The morning sun was bright. The time was nine-fifteen. From the number of parked cars in the public lot and on the street, he guessed that court was in session.

  He left the top down, checking to be sure he hadn't left anything of value on the seat or in the glove compartment. There was nothing valuable behind the seat, only old shoes and junk. Anything deposited back there was quickly mixed with the tangle, and might never be seen again. He kept the outside and the front seat of the car clean. The backseat was no-man's-land, but he hardly ever had more than one passenger. He swung out and headed across the parking lot to meet Max Harper.

  Entering the glass door of the police station he passed the fingerprinting bay on his right, beside which stood a stack of boxes labeled copy paper. An office boy was loading the boxes onto a handtruck, three at a time. He saw Harper at the back of the big room, past a tangle of desks where officers, coming off duty, were doing their paperwork. Harper motioned him on back, and rose to fill two Styrofoam cups from the coffeemaker that stood on a table against the wall. Clyde eased back between the desks, stepping over several pairs of rubber boots and around crammed wastebaskets. Who knew why they needed rubber boots in this weather? He wasn't going to ask.

  Max Harper was tall and lanky, his thin face prematurely wrinkled, his expression habitually bleak. Though he was no older than Clyde, he joked that he could pass for Clyde's father. They had worked together for two summers, when they were still in their teens, on a cattle ranch north of Salinas. And for several summers they had ridden bulls in the local rodeos, raising a lot of hell, drinking too much.

  Clyde reached the back of the room. They talked for a few minutes, then he picked up his coffee and followed Max down the hall toward one of the three conference rooms, where they could speak privately.

  In Clyde's parked car, the cream-colored cat leaped up to the back of the driver's seat and clung, crouching. Looking out past the windshield of the big open car, she watched Clyde head for the police station. She hadn't expected to see him going in there; she had imagined something quite different. She had imagined a clandestine meeting in a back booth of one of the darker bars, or perhaps two cars meeting outside the village on some lone strip of highway. When he disappeared inside, she jumped gingerly out of the car to the blacktop. The jolt hurt, but not as it had last night, when she woke in the vet's cage. She was convinced that there were no broken bones, but only trauma and deep bruises.

  Trotting across the parking lot, she stood to the side of the glass front door, peering around the molding to look in.

  The room was full of officers, most of them occupied at their desks. Near the front, behind an official-looking counter, two male and one female officer were bent over a book or ledger. She knew from Clyde that Captain Harper wanted to redesign the station, give the separate operations more privacy and security. But Molena Point's mayor was a hard man to deal with, stubborn and shortsighted. Though, from the talk she heard, the mayor was sure to be replaced, come the next election.

  She could not see Clyde inside. She backed away from the door and slipped into the bushes that flanked the solid brick wall of the building.

  She waited a long time. A woman went in, but she seemed nervous and kept glancing at her feet. A young couple entered but he held the door for her. There was no way a cat could slip past him, unseen.

  Finally two officers entered arguing, swinging the door wide and hurrying on in. She nipped in behind their heels and slid behind a stack of brown cartons.

  Concealed, out of sight of the preoccupied day watch, she peered out across the floor, studying the tangle of feet and desks and wastebaskets. The metallic bark of the police radio was low, but jarring. She thought communications was in a room to the left. Now she spotted Clyde, she got just a glimpse of him at the back of the room. He was moving away down the hall beside a uniformed officer.

  She thought his companion was Max Harper, but who could see much from this angle? Everything was desk legs, human feet in black regulation shoes, and wastebaskets. She studied the room, weighing her options.

  She could make a dash between the desks, hoping the preoccupied officers wouldn't notice her. Or she could go around through the courthouse, and in through the back hall. She had used that route from the courthouse the last time she renewed her driver's license. She watched an office boy making his way toward her, pushing a metal handtruck. As he approached the boxes, she hunkered low.

  He stooped right beside where she was hidden, not an arm's length from her, and began to load boxes. She crouched, waiting.

  When he had loaded his truck and headed toward the back, she fell in behind him, following at his heels. The boy, intent on his cart and on avoiding the room's clutter, had no clue a cat was following. She stayed close, but he hadn't quite reached the hall when she felt eyes on her. Warily she glanced around.

  Behind the nearest desk, an officer was watching her with a little twisted grin on his round face, and one eyebrow raised. He was young and pleasant-looking, pink-faced. Just the kind of man, she thought, who might pick a cat up and make a fuss over her. She didn't know whether to move on quickly, or to get out of there. She sure didn't want Clyde to see her.

  At the next desk a dark-haired woman officer had stopped work, too, and was looking, a dimple playing at the corner of her mouth. In a minute the whole room would know a cat had sneaked in.

  But both officers remained silent, glancing at each other amusedly. Maybe she was the best laugh they'd had that morning.

  She daren't look behind her. Who knew how many cops, by now, were watching her four-footed progress? But maybe no one would feel the need to pet the nice kitty, or to chase her away. What had made her think she could walk past a bunch of cops without every eye on her? She held her breath, and moved on quickly.

  Catching up to the boy, she pressed so close to his heels that his pant legs brushed her face. And then ahead she heard Clyde's voice coming from the last conference room.

  She swerved away from her companion and slipped inside.

  Clyde sat with his back to her, at a conference table. She nipped under a line of straight chairs that marched along the wall.

  Max Harper stood beyond the table, copying something on the Xerox. She backed deeper into the shadows, watching his lean back, his long sun-weathered hands delicately flipping over each page of Clyde's notebook and placing it carefully in the machine.

  When Harper finished, he handed the notebook across the table to Clyde. She felt deeply relieved that Clyde wasn't into this ugly business with Jimmie, that Clyde had come to Harper.

  Clyde dropped the notebook in his pocket. "Could you get to those four before they're sold? While they're still in the shop?"

  "I'll call San Francisco this morning, see if we can get a man down here. If we can make those four, we'll start contacting everyone on the list."

  "You can't keep it in the department, to save time?''

  "We can check out the VIN numbers, but we can't check for any change in the motor numbers. We need a man from the National Crime Information Bureau for that. They won't tell anyone-not even law enforcement-where the numbers are on the various cars and models."

  Harper grinned. "Just as well. Let that information leak out, and the punks start using acid on the motor numbers, and it all hits the fan."

  Clyde said, "Can you give me a few more days before you contact them? Another week? I still think there's something more."

  "If you had one shred of evidence, Clyde…" Harper leaned back, lit a cigarette. He exhaled such a heavy reef of smoke that she had to press her nose against her leg to keep from sneezing. "You know I need sufficient cause for the judge to give us a warrant. If you had some indication of hidden cash, of laundered money…"
<
br />   A jolt shook her. Laundered money. As in foreign bank accounts.

  Clyde shook his head. "I've searched Beckwhite's office. Nothing. Nothing in Osborne's office. But I still think I'm right, that there's a money trail."

  She waited while they discussed a deadline for Clyde, settling on three days, and finished their coffee. She could hear no sound from the hall, except the police radio. When they began making small talk about Harper's horse, which he kept up the valley, she nipped out, careened down the hall into the adjoining hall and through the inner door to the courthouse.

  Crouched in the courthouse hall behind a concrete cigarette stand, hating the stink of stale ashes, she waited until two secretaries entered the ladies' room. She slid in behind them; and in a booth, she changed to Kate.

  She came out of the booth straightening her shirt. She checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothed her hair. She wished she had a comb and some lipstick. She patted the checkbook and keys in her pocket, and stood staring at herself, thinking.

  She could go back into the station now, as soon as Clyde left. See Max Harper, tell him about the foreign bankbooks. Take him home with her, get the evidence he wanted.

  But probably Harper would have to ask her questions, and right now she didn't want to answer any questions. Who knew, maybe he'd need a search warrant to take the bankbooks, even if it was her house. She wished she knew more about the law. The bankbooks weren't hers-they were Jimmie's property.

  Or were they community property? By being married to Jimmie, was she somehow involved in his crimes?

  And if Harper's questions and police red tape slowed her, the whole thing could take hours. She didn't want to stay in Molena Point, even for a few hours. She needed to get away, as far away from Jimmie as she could, away from the village.