Cat Striking Back

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  If that was a murder scene, he’d be glad he made the call. If it wasn’t, if the seeming evidence led to some other scenario that he had not imagined, he would be deeply embarrassed. In all the time he’d been secretly passing tips to Molena Point PD, he had never once given the cops a false lead, to do so would tarnish the perfect record of the department’s most reliable snitch.

  But no fear, he’d smelled human death. And though he didn’t rejoice in knowing that some innocent human had died, he knew, in every perceptive cell of his silver-gray tomcat body, that the evidence would prove him right.

  2

  HURRYING OVER THE rooftops the two blocks to the Chapman house, Joe was careful to carry his gift of mice high enough so he wouldn’t trip on them; at his every leap, his mousy burden dragged him down, thudding against his chest and against the roof shingles. Below him along the street, folks had begun to awaken. He glimpsed a man out walking in the cool early dawn. Two women in jogging clothes strolled along gossiping and exchanging giggles. As he jumped clumsily from tree to tree and over a narrow alleyway, above him the sky darkened even more, and he broke into a gallop, praying the rain would hold off until the cops had a look at the bloody swimming pool.

  He had no question that as soon as he called the department, a squad car would head up there, that a uniform or maybe one of the detectives would take a look at the pool, and get a blood sample. Once forensics had established that that was human blood, which shouldn’t take long, Detective Garza or Davis would cordon off the scene and get to work. He wondered if any missing-person’s report had come in that could be tied to the dead body. He thought the dark glasses lying beneath the bushes were a woman’s, but with the smell of suntan oil on them, he couldn’t be sure.

  Leaping from an oak limb down onto the Chapmans’ roof, Joe backed down a bottlebrush tree and into the heavily layered miasma of crowded bushes, flowers, and small trees that was Theresa Chapman’s garden-a tangle that might be criticized by the neighbors as an unkempt mess but which, to the neighborhood felines, was a jungle of delight in which to hide for a nap or for amusement, to hunt small rodents, and just to play.

  Sheltered among the overgrown flowers and shrubs, Joe headed for the laundry-room window. Leaping to the sill, he clawed open the glass slider, releasing onto the morning air the sharp scent of female cat, the stink of used sandbox, and then the sweet smell of kittens. Apparently the latch was broken. The window was secured by a lock that allowed the pane to open four inches, just enough for Mango to come and go; when Theresa was home, she left the slider open. Quickly Joe slid on through.

  The Chapman house was a remodel that had once, early in the last century, been a poky little summer cabin. Now, with the living room and kitchen enlarged and the addition of deep bay windows throughout the sunny rooms, and new sliding glass doors onto the back deck, the house was a charmer. Even Joe, with a tomcat’s disdain for architectural niceties, found the home appealing. The interior was, in fact, so commanding in its bold lines that the tangles of homey clutter in which the Chapmans liked to live did not detract from its imposing presence. Cluttered house, cluttered garden, but handsome and sturdy home. The mix seemed to suit exactly Theresa Chapman’s two-sided temperament.

  She was a thin young woman with a perpetually delighted smile, as if all the world had been made new for her. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, prominent cheeks that she tried to erase by constant dieting, but which in truth only added to her charm. Her friends and neighbors said she should leave the dieting alone, but Theresa wouldn’t listen. Thin as a rail, still she dieted, seemed almost to starve herself, striving to thin those round, smooth, and appealing cheeks.

  Theresa was a loving friend to every animal she met; she cried easily over lost or hurt animals, and she was giving and loving with her human friends. Only when she took offense at real or imagined wrongdoings did her emotions flare with sudden hurt and rage. Yet Joe and Dulcie and Kit, who overheard a lot of village gossip, some by accident and more on purpose, had never heard anyone say a bad word about her.

  Dropping down onto the counter that held the laundry sink, Joe leaped to the floor and diffidently approached the big cardboard box in the corner where the kittens were nestled with their mama.

  Theresa had left the yellow tabby shut in the house with her nursing babies for the duration of the Chapmans’ three-week vacation, wanting to keep the little family safe. She had left ample food and water, which the housekeeping service would replace regularly. Of course she hadn’t counted on anyone else, on any strangers, gaining ac cess. But last night, surely after Theresa and her husband had left, Joe and Dulcie found the female locked out of the house, separated from her bawling kits, and with no way to get back inside. They had come upon her yowling and clawing at the back door, frantic to get in, and they couldn’t imagine that the Chapmans had accidentally let her out as they were loading up to leave. Carl Chapman might do that, but not Theresa, not with her responsible and loving care of every cat she knew. They were certain Theresa would have checked on Mango the last thing before leaving. Had Mango slipped out past her at the last minute? That didn’t seem likely, not as careful as Theresa was. Or had someone from Charlie Harper’s cleaning service come in right after they left and accidentally let her out?

  But why would they come in to clean so late in the day? And Charlie’s employees would never be so careless-nor, of course, would Charlie.

  “Those kittens can’t last very long without milk,” Dulcie had said worriedly. “We have to get her back inside.” She had looked frantically at Joe, her green eyes wide, all her maternal instincts on full alert. “Did someone go in there after they left, maybe planning to rob the house?”

  Softly she’d padded up the back steps, approaching the yellow cat, who had backed against the door snarling defensively, guarding her children. The cries of the kittens was heartbreaking, and one of them was clawing determinedly at the door, his mewls loud and demanding.

  Rearing up, Joe had peered between the door and the molding. The dead bolt gleamed back at him, solidly engaged.

  Leaving the frantic female, they had circled the house looking for a way in. If they could gain access, they could open the door from inside-no trick at all for clever paws.

  They had tried all the windows, leaping up, balancing on the sills and clawing at the sliders, but all were solidly locked. They clawed at the knobs of the front and back doors, and at the garage pedestrian door, with no luck, the dead bolts holding them tight. It was when they leaped to the back deck to try the glass sliders there that they’d found the deep, fresh pry marks along the slider’s edges, as if the door had been jimmied.

  If it had been pried open, it was locked again when they tried it. Even with both of them clawing and straining, they couldn’t force it open. Had someone come in this way, burglarized the house, and then carefully locked the door as he left?

  Or had a thief locked it behind him when he entered, the cats had wondered, and was still in there?

  Maybe he had gone into the laundry, frightening Mango so that she fled to another room as she tried to lead him away from her kittens. Maybe then, confused, she’d fled out the open slider. Moving on around the house to the far side, they had found the laundry window unlatched, but closed. The scent of the mama cat was strong around it, and when Joe leaped to the sill, he was able to slide it open four inches. There it stopped, against the auxiliary lock.

  Dulcie leaped up beside him, nosing at the yellow cat hairs caught in the window frame and molding. “An entrance that would be too high for the kittens to reach.” They kept their voices low, always wary of being overheard. “But,” Dulcie said, “if Theresa left it open for Mango, who closed it?”

  “Theresa wouldn’t leave it open while they’re gone,” Joe whispered. “She wouldn’t invite raccoons or possums inside, to get at the kittens. No,” he’d said with certainty, “Theresa left it closed, with Mango and the kits safe inside. Someone else was here, someone let her out. Or drove
her out.”

  Frowning, Dulcie had peered down into the laundry room. “We have to tell Charlie-once we’ve let Mango in.”

  Charlie’s Fix-it, Clean-it service took care of all the houses on this street when the owners were on vacation. One of their specialties was their responsible care of their clients’ pets-and the cats trusted Charlie; she was their close and reliable friend.

  Squeezing in through the window’s four-inch opening, Joe dropped down onto the counter beside the laundry sink, Dulcie directly behind him-before they could open the back door and let Mango in, there was a thud behind them, then a thud on the floor as the yellow female dove past them, streaking to the cardboard box. Her frantic kittens squalled even louder at the cry and smell of their mother. A fifth kitten was still at the back door, yowling and clawing. When he saw his mama, he fled to her, scrambled into the box, and began frantically nursing before she even laid down.

  Hastily the female settled in among her little ones, all the time scowling at Joe and Dulcie, her ears back, her slitted eyes never leaving them. To a queen with kittens, the presence of a tomcat wasn’t comforting; many tomcats would kill those little babies. All five kittens piled onto her, greedily sucking and pushing as if surely they were starving.

  A big bowl of kibble stood at the end of the laundry counter, and there was a large bowl of water in the sink, high off the floor where the kittens couldn’t climb in and drown. Theresa had left the tap dripping into the bowl, and the sink drain open to avoid an overflow. It was Theresa who would have done this, no one thought Carl Chapman cared that much about Theresa’s cats. Joe didn’t think he cared about much of anything, even including the delightful Theresa.

  “She made it as safe and comfortable for them as she could,” Dulcie said softly. “She even unplugged the washer and dryer so the kittens wouldn’t chew on live cords. She wouldn’t leave the window open, Theresa would never leave the mama outside.”

  “And why,” Joe had muttered warily, “would she leave the door open from the laundry room to the rest of the house? Leave the kittens to roam where the electric cords are still plugged in?” Standing on his hind paws, he had peered from the laundry room through the kitchen to the living room. “I can see two lamps plugged in. No, someone’s been in here. And maybe still is?”

  Dropping from the counter to the linoleum, the cats headed through the kitchen to inspect the rest of the house. Behind them, the female growled, but she didn’t follow. They had searched the three-bedroom house from one end to the other but could see nothing obviously missing. The plasma televisions were in place, the nearly new DVD and CD players. There was a plasma computer monitor in the little home office, a checkbook on the desk, items that surely any thief would take. It was hard to know, in the comfortable clutter of the Chapman home, whether anything else might be unaccounted for. When at last they returned to the laundry room, they managed to pull the kitchen door closed with their paws beneath the crack. Again the yellow cat hissed and yowled and this time she left her box, stalking them, stiff legged and threatening. To avoid a confrontation, Joe leaped to the counter and directly out the open window. Dulcie had followed and, balancing on the sill, they’d slid the glass closed behind them, leaving the mama cat safely confined. It would be a long three weeks for her before Theresa would be home to love and comfort her.

  “Charlie will give her plenty of attention,” Dulcie had said, dropping down into Theresa’s tangled garden. “She’ll find out what happened, she’ll know if anything’s missing.”

  That had been last night. When Joe got home, pushing in through his cat door, when he told Clyde and Ryan where he and Dulcie had been and what they’d found, Ryan had risen at once to call Charlie, but Clyde stopped her, his hand gently on her arm. They’d been sitting in the living room reading after supper, Clyde in an ancient pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, his dark hair rumpled. “What’s she going to tell Max? Who’s she going to say was in her clients’ empty house this time of night, to find a break-in?”

  While Charlie knew that the cats could speak and were quite capable of using the phone, Max certainly didn’t. If Charlie suddenly went charging out at night to check on a burglary, he’d start asking awkward questions, and one didn’t brush off Max Harper’s probing.

  “Maybe he isn’t home,” Ryan said hopefully. “Maybe he’s still at the station.”

  The hours of a police chief could be long, and Max was no exception. “She’ll think of something,” Ryan said confidently, gave Clyde a green-eyed grin, and punched the single button for the Harpers’ number.

  The upshot was that Max was indeed working late. Charlie had left the two big dogs guarding the ranch house and barn, and had come down the hills to have a look. She’d called back afterward, once she left the Chapman house. She said she’d found nothing more amiss besides the pry marks on the sliding door, that the mama and kittens were fine, and that she’d check again in the morning. Of course she hadn’t reported the problem. That was the one glitch in Charlie and Max Harper’s marriage, that Charlie was forced to keep information from him. This upset her considerably, but it would distress her a lot more if Max learned the truth. If he were forced to believe the vital role that three unnatural felines played in the workings of Molena Point PD -and Joe was mighty glad Charlie was fully committed to keeping their secret.

  3

  NOW AS JOE carried his gift across the rooftops, the sun had slipped away again and the smell of rain filled the morning. Leaping to the sill of the Chapmans’ laundry-room window, clinging with sharp claws to the ledge, Joe slid the glass back with one armored paw. Moving inside, he clawed the window closed again behind him, dropped to the counter and then to the floor, the mice swinging. When he looked up at the female in the box, among her kittens, expecting her to be charmed by his mousy present, she laid back her ears and glared and hissed at him.

  Before approaching, to drop the mice at her feet, he turned to the closed door that led to the kitchen. Pawing at the throw rug that lay before it, he pushed it into the crack, hoping to keep the mice from escaping into the rest of the house.

  There was little he could do about the washer and dryer. Nothing was as frustrating as having a mouse escape beneath a washing machine, where you could see its beady little eyes peering out but it was safe from your reaching paw.

  He scanned the room, and with a stroke of genius he leaped to the counter, knocked the plastic dishpan off, pushed it across the room with his shoulder, depositing his little gifts in the deep receptacle. The whole time, the yellow cat growled and hissed. Pausing beyond the reach of her claws, he stood for a moment staring down into the dishpan where the mice crouched, confused and dazed. He hoped the little beasts would remain sufficiently stunned not to jump out before Mango could snatch them up.

  He expected her to eat most of them-Dulcie said she needed more than kibble when she was nursing kits. But he hoped she’d save a couple, to start training the kittens. Dulcie had laughed at that, had said those kits were too young to train, that to give them a mouse would be like buying a tricycle for a human baby. But Joe wasn’t so sure. That one tom kitten, who had clawed so boldly at the back door, seemed plenty aggressive despite his tender age.

  Joe thought about his own kittenhood. He could hardly remember his mama, she had died or run off shortly after he was weaned, long before she was able to teach him much of anything. Certainly she hadn’t taught him to hunt. He’d had to figure that out for himself, had to teach himself how to catch a mouse in San Francisco’s mean alleys, how to avoid the bigger stray cats, how to avoid the city’s wharf rats that would kill and eat a kitten-had had to figure out, alone, how to stay safe and keep from starving.

  With these matters sharply in mind, he felt strongly that kittens should be introduced early to the basic skills of life. The hunting and survival skills, mastered when one was young, would never be forgotten. Without those talents, life was twice as hard and one might never grow into a strong and self-sufficient adult-might
never grow up at all.

  Watching the yellow female, Joe backed away from the dishpan hoping she would approach. She twitched her nose at the mousy scent but didn’t move, she was too wary of a tomcat near her kittens. Only when he turned away, to press against the door that led to the kitchen, did she step out of the box and approach the dishpan to peer in-as the mice scurried around the dishpan scrabbling at the slick plastic walls, her ears came up and her eyes widened. Staying between Joe and the kittens, she reached a paw in with keen interest. Smiling, Joe left her to them. Pushing open the door to the kitchen, he slid through fast and shut it behind him, leaving the bunched rug in place and leaving mama to her feast. Hopefully, inviting a first session of training for the little tomcat.

  Now, with access to the rest of the house, what he wanted was a phone so he could reach the dispatcher before the rains began, washing clean the swimming pool. The kitchen was done all in white, white cabinets, a white tile floor, a small oak breakfast table with white pads on the chairs, and a deep bay window above the sink. When he reared up to scan the tops of the counters, he spotted the wall phone hanging just to the right of the window-hanging in plain sight of anyone walking up the drive.

  Warily he leaped up and looked out, making sure he didn’t have an audience. Knocking the receiver off, he eased its fall with a quick paw and punched in 911. He was crouched low, his nose to the speaker, when the window brightened above him and he looked up to see the clouds blowing more swiftly, revealing a widening hole of blue sky-maybe the rain would hold off. Sniffing the air, he was unable to make out much in the closed room. He flinched, startled, when the dispatcher picked up.