Cat On The Edge

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

She left the ladies' room and stood looking out the glass courthouse doors at the bright morning. Clyde's car was gone, the parking space beside the Suburban was empty. The courthouse clock said nine-forty.

  She could be home, get the bankbooks and her purse, stuff her clothes in the car, and be out of there by ten-thirty. Bring the bankbooks back to Harper, then leave town. Drive up to the city, get lost in San Francisco.

  Excited, and scared, she swung out of the courthouse and headed home, walking fast, hoping no one she knew saw her. It hit her hard that she was finally leaving him, but that no matter where she went, Jimmie might find her.

  22

  The sea wind scudded around Wilma's ankles like a seeking animal racing along the wet shore. The dawn sky was gray, the sea was the color of old pewter. She walked quickly, skirting just above the white foam and kicking through thin sheets of water that crawled black and sleek up the sand. Thinking of Dulcie, she felt ridiculously hurt.

  The little cat had come home late last night but she had left again without ever padding into the bedroom to greet her, she had simply eaten and gone away again.

  Around three-thirty this morning a thud had woken her. She had lain listening, wondering if she had a burglar, if someone was in the house. She thought it wasn't the first thud she'd heard; but it took a lot to wake her. As she lay trying to decide whether to get up, she heard the soft thump of the cat door.

  She had expected that Dulcie would eat her kibble, then come on into the bedroom and settle down. She waited for quite a while, then swung out of bed and went to the kitchen. Before she could switch on the light she slipped and nearly fell. Backing up, she stepped on something sharp, a tiny object that pierced her foot like a splinter.

  She flipped the switch, and in the blaze of light she froze, puzzled.

  Chicken bones and greasy food were smeared across the floor. From the trash can protruded the white paper wrapper from the roast chicken she had brought home from Jolly's. And when she looked more carefully into the garbage, there was the stripped chicken carcass, as well as a plastic container that had held some oyster stew, and an empty pie tin. Greasy pawprints were everywhere. She sat down at the kitchen table puzzled, and then amazed. Then shaking with uncontrolled laughter.

  There were two sets of pawprints, of different sizes. Both trails led to the living room, and up onto the desk. There was a smear of cream pie on the phone, and pawprints all over the phone book. The book lay open to the map of Molena Point. She stood at the desk remembering vividly Clyde's description of Joe Grey's telephone style.

  She found a stain of grease on the couch, too, and the blue afghan was matted into a round nest which, when she laid her hand in it, was still warm. She was amused, but she was hurt that Dulcie had been there and gone away without even coming into the bedroom for a pet; and she was embarrassed at her resentment. It was childish and was silly.

  She stroked the afghan where cat hairs clung, Dulcie's chocolate and peach hairs, and Joe's short gray hairs, sleek as silk. She should call Clyde later, at a decent hour, tell him Joe had been there. She sat stroking the afghan, trying to imagine how the two cats had opened the refrigerator. And she was caught again in the haze of childlike astonishment that had haunted her for days.

  But she was frightened, too. She couldn't stop thinking about Lee Wark-Wark and his mysterious interest in cats. Something about the man troubled her deeply. She did not like the pattern which was taking shape.

  She had gone back to bed at last, but she didn't sleep. She rose before six, made a cup of coffee, drank it restlessly, and left the house, needing to walk off the tangle of disturbing thoughts which had descended. Shake them off or try to make sense of them.

  She was well beyond the village, now, where big older homes sat atop the low cliff, their lawns and gardens glistening with sea spray. At the front of most of the houses, a large and well-appointed glass room had been added. Or, in the newer homes, a big sunroom had been integrated into the original design. These provided warm retreats all year from the ever-present sea winds, but offered a wide view of the changing sea. She liked to glance in at the expensive wicker furnishings, at the carefully tended houseplants and the bright fabrics.

  Sometimes she thought she'd love a house out here, if she could afford it. But these beachfront houses ran up into six and seven figures. When a hard storm hit the coast, however, she was glad enough to have her snug stone cottage away from the worst of the blow. And this stretch of beach, open and windy, and busy with running dogs, was not a good place for cats. There wasn't much shelter here, away from trees and the concealing hills, not enough shelter for Dulcie from dogs or from people. Nowhere to hide from Lee Wark, she thought darkly.

  It wasn't coincidence that Lee Wark had spent hours in the library, researching cats. She kept seeing his angry eyes that day, when he looked up and saw her. Why would he be so startled, and so angry?

  He was angry because he knew she belonged with Dulcie. For reasons still unclear, he hated the little cat. Hated her enough to try to poison her. Oh, that poison came from Wark. She was convinced of it. She didn't much believe in coincidences.

  Somehow, Wark had known where Dulcie lived; he must have been watching the house, so probably he had seen her, too. Very likely he saw her leave the night he poisoned Dulcie's food.

  She had found the buried bowl in late afternoon, when she went out to work in the garden. Puzzled by the mysterious ravages to her pansies, she had dug into the flower bed to replant them. Her shovel hit the bowl, hard and ringing.

  When she uncovered it, the salmon was still in the bowl, rotten and stinking. Its smell had gagged her. But there was another smell, too, like bitter almonds. She had shoved the whole mess into a plastic bag, grabbed her car keys, and taken it to the vet.

  Jim Firreti was certain the smell was cyanide, but to make sure, he had sealed up the food, bowl and all, and sent it up to San Francisco for analysis.

  It was then she realized how dangerous Lee Wark was, and knew that she had to find out more about him. Before she left Firreti's office she called Clyde and told him about the poison, then she phoned Bernine Sage and made a date for lunch. Bernine was the only person she knew who might give her a clearer picture of the Welshman.

  She left Firreti's office promising to keep Dulcie in the house, but she had no intention of doing that. How could she? Nor did she need to. Who else but Dulcie would have buried that reeking mess? Dulcie knew very well about poison.

  She just hoped Bernine Sage would give her a clearer picture of the man. Bernine had lived with Wark, she had to know something about him. One way or another, Wilma thought, lunch would be informative.

  The Bakery Cafe had opened five years ago in an old house a block above the ocean, a gray shingle structure with a deep veranda, which was now furnished with small tables. On nice days the veranda tables were all taken before noon. When Wilma arrived at twelve they were full, but Bernine had snagged the last one. She was just sitting down, her red hair flaming like a beach fire above a pale pink blazer.

  Bernine Sage was forty-three, a natural redhead who showed off her coloring with tangerine lipstick, orange sweaters, hot pink silk. Today's cool pink blazer topped a white T-shirt and jeans, and flat sandals. Bernine's face was thin, her smile quick, though it seldom touched her eyes. She was tall, five-eight, and imposing enough to work a room without ever moving from one spot.

  Bernine had left the San Francisco Probation Office at age thirty-eight, with twenty years and a nice pension due her. In Molena Point she had taken a job as curator for the Sentina Gallery, then later had gone to work for Beckwhite. Bernine knew how to run an office smoothly, and Beckwhite had paid nearly twice what Sentina could afford. She was personable, polished, skilled. To Bernine, appearances were everything. And manipulating the facts to enhance her work and her life was as natural as breathing. They had shared a few laughs over Bernine's past untruths, though Wilma didn't go along with Bernine's philosophy.

  They made sm
all talk while they studied their menus. When they had ordered, Wilma kept up the pointless chatter for a respectable interlude before she asked Bernine about Lee Wark. She would have preferred to cut right to the bottom line, but anything direct made Bernine nervous. Bernine liked the oblique approach. After ten minutes of idle conversation, Wilma got around to computers, at which Bernine was a whiz, and then to discussing the on-line system at the library, and the recent addition of the Internet. At last she got around to Lee Wark. Maybe her approach wasn't smooth, but it did the job. "There was an interesting man in the library the other day using the computer, doing some kind of research. I think you may know him. Thin, one of those solemn, hungry, artistic-looking types." Artistic was not the way she thought of Wark. "He had a fascinating accent; I think he may be Welsh."

  Bernine's green eyes went agreeable and expressionless. "That would be Lee Wark," she said pleasantly. "He sells cars to the agency. He's a freelance car buyer, travels all over. What kind of research could he be doing? Something about foreign cars?"

  "I didn't help him. It was his accent that caught my attention. Didn't you date a car buyer for a while?"

  Bernine waited a moment, assessing her. "I dated Wark, a few years back. He used to bring me cactus candy from New Mexico, pralines from Atlanta, stuff he bought in the airport gift shops." She laughed. "I broke it off, it got too fattening."

  Wilma smiled. "You were bored with him?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I'm not sure I understand about the car buying. Can't the agency buy the used cars it needs locally, with so many foreign cars in the village?"

  "Molena Point people don't buy as many new cars as you think. Many of the BMWs and Jags and Mercedeses you see were bought from us used. And remember, Beckwhite's doesn't serve just Molena Point. We do two-thirds of our business with Amber Beach customers and with people all up and down the coast."

  "And Wark ships the cars to you?"

  "He ships them by truck, or sometimes he trucks them himself. He has a couple of trucks and trailers, those long, open ramps that you run cars up on."

  "Interesting work. I guess he does this full-time, travels and buys cars?"

  Bernine watched her carefully. "Wark travels maybe nine months a year. What's this about, Wilma?"

  "Idle curiosity." Wilma laughed, sipped her tea. "What does he do the rest of the year? Didn't you vacation with him?"

  "I'm over twenty-one," she said defensively. Then, more pleasantly, "He has a place in the Bahamas. He-it's very nice, very tropical and pretty."

  "Sounds like a perfect relationship. He's not here often enough to get tired of him, and he takes you to a nice vacation resort. What made you break off with him?" She paused while the waiter set down their order, a chicken sesame salad for Bernine, a small saute of crab for herself. She knew she was pushing Bernine, but Bernine, for all her bristling, would give in, if one kept at her.

  But now Bernine seemed wound tight. When the waiter had gone, she said, "If you'd tell me why you want to know…"

  Wilma just looked at her.

  Bernine sighed. "I broke it off because Wark was-so strange. Maybe it was his Welsh upbringing." She sipped her water.

  "Strange, how?"

  "Whatever this is about, Wilma, I really don't mind talking about him. Why should I?" She widened her eyes a little. "But I wish you'd tell me."

  "I would if I could, Bernine."

  Bernine sighed more deeply. "He made me uncomfortable. I never told him why I didn't-why I ended it. He has some really weird ideas."

  "Ideas like what?"

  Bernine nibbled at her salad. "It sounds crazy."

  "Try me."

  "I wish you'd tell me what you're after. Are you doing some kind of investigative work?" Half the retired probation officers they knew did some private investigation.

  "I'd be breaking a confidence, Bernine. I can only tell you it's important. What was it about Wark that put you off?"

  "He… It was the cats."

  "Cats?" Wilma swallowed back an excited little bingo. She tried to sound and to look puzzled. "Why would cats…" She shook her head as if not understanding. "Cats, as in house cats?"

  "Yes, cats. He'd get on the subject of. cats until I could scream, I got really bored with it. Sometimes he scared me, the things he said and did."

  She tossed back her flaming mop of hair. "I don't much like cats, but he was… We'd be walking down the street, he'd see a cat. He'd stare at it. Right there on the street he'd sort of-stalk it. Would look and look at it, follow it, stare at it, try to see its eyes."

  "How very weird. Did he ever explain his actions?"

  "When he did explain, his ideas made my skin crawl. Superstitious ideas. He was really afraid of them, fevered."

  "It's a phobia," Wilma said. "Some people have a terrible fear of cats."

  "With Lee, it's more than phobia. He has this idea that some cats are-I don't know. Possessed. He thinks that some cats can-that they have, like a human intelligence or something."

  Wilma laughed and shook her head. "He sounds very strange. Where would he get such ideas?"

  "I don't know. His family was full of those stories."

  "Family stories," Wilma said. "And he grew up believing them?" Then, "How does he get along with the men in the shop? I don't imagine he talks to them about his fixation."

  "I doubt it. I guess the men like him well enough."

  "How about Beckwhite? Did they get along?"

  Bernine's salad fork missed a beat. "They got along fine, as far as I know."

  "I heard there was tension between Beckwhite and Wark, some difficulty."

  Bernine's eyes turned steely, then softened. "There's always some little difference of opinion, that's human nature." Her smile didn't hide an almost-frightened look. "You can't work in an office without differences. What is this? What are you into?"

  Wilma poured the last of her tea. "I wish I could tell you. You know me, I'm incredibly curious." She looked at Bernine blandly.

  The waiter took their plates, and offered the dessert menu. They ordered a flan to share. When he'd gone, Wilma asked her about procedures at the shop.

  Bernine, looking resigned, gave her a concise rundown of the routine for the newly arrived cars. Each vehicle was cleaned in the work yard behind the main building. Trash and forgotten personal possessions were removed; the car was washed, the interior given a cursory vacuuming, then it was sent to Clyde Damen, for a tune-up, for any needed repairs or replacements, and for steam cleaning of the engine. The last operation was a final wash and wax, more careful cleaning of the interior, and touch up to any small mars in leather or paint: a final cosmetic detailing before the car went to the showroom. Beckwhite's handled Shelbys, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, the newly resurrected Bugattis, as well as Mercedeses and BMWs.

  "They treat every one like a baby," Bernine said.

  "Who does the original cleanup, when the cars are first brought in? Different employees?"

  "Are you writing a book about shop management? Jimmie Osborne does the cleanup."

  "Well he's a nice young man. We were on the city council together one year."

  Bernine sighed again. "I have to run, my dear. It's nearly two, I have a hair appointment." She glanced at the bill, but Wilma picked it up.

  When Bernine had gone, Wilma sat for a long while, wondering exactly why her questions had so harried Bernine. Wondering why Bernine had seemed afraid.

  23

  During the hours of darkness, the outer perimeters of Beckwhite Automotive Agency were well lit. The one-story stucco complex occupied nearly a full square block at the corner of Haley and Ocean. It stood three blocks above Binnie's Italian, and just across from a beautifully landscaped Ocean Avenue motel. Backing on Highway One, which gave it easy access to buyers arriving from other coastal towns, Beckwhite's occupied a prime location at the upper perimeter of the village shops.

  The drive-in entry to the maintenance shop was on Ocean. The agency's showroom fac
ed the side street, its brick parking area separated from the street by a wide strip of bird-of-paradise plants. In the predawn dark, they shone waxen in the strong glow of the security lights fixed to the side of the building.

  The front of the building was primarily glass. The small portions of white stucco wall were freshly painted, below the slanted roof of curved red tile. Twin bougainvillea vines, heavy with bright orange blooms, flanked the glass entry. The streets were silent, no car moved on Haley or up Ocean. The time was four-forty. The two cats stood up on their hind legs beside a bougainvillea vine, their paws against the clean glass, looking in.

  The showroom was immense. Its pale walls provided an effective and contrasting background for the six gleaming imported cars which stood bright as polished jewels within the enclosure. "That red car at the end," Joe said, "is a new Ferrari. Clyde was reading an article about the new model just the other day; he left the magazine open on the kitchen table. It called the car sensuous and artful." Joe grinned. "Those guys who write about cars really take this stuff seriously. Said the Ferrari was sleek and curvy and provocative."

  "It is," she said, cutting him a sly glance. "How would it be to drive something that elegant? Or that little blue, open job, careening down the highway?"

  "Yeah, right. With the wind whipping your ears down flat and tearing through your fur."

  Far to their left was a closed door with a small, discreet sign which indicated that it led to the drive-through entry and the automotive shop. Straight ahead behind the sleek foreign cars, along the back wall, a row of open glass doors and glass partitions defined the sales offices. Each was furnished with a handsome ebony desk, an Oriental rug, and three soft, leather-upholstered easy chairs.

  They had already circled the complex, trotting along the dark sidewalk, crouching against the building when the lights of the occasional car approached. They had climbed up onto the roof, as well, in order to see the entire layout.

  Behind the main building was a large, enclosed work yard surrounded by secondary buildings, some of which were open sheds containing various pieces of unidentifiable equipment and a few cars in different states of beautification or repair. To the left of the yard, Clyde's repair shop was closed off by a wide metal door. At the end of the shop, facing the showroom, a second garage door led to the drive-through. This door was closed. And the drive itself was enclosed by two chain-link, padlocked gates.