Cat Chase the Moon

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Joe Grey watched four little girls and two women crowd into the café—well, the snooper couldn’t snatch a child from that crowd. Growing restless, knowing McFarland would stay with the guy, knowing that if something ugly happened he’d hear sirens, Joe took off fast, hitting the roofs with determined paws, heading back to Dulcie and Courtney, who would be waiting in Wilma’s office.

  Though he did wonder if by now the chief had returned from the hospital, should have gotten what information he could on the battered woman—if she could talk at all, with that black-and-blue throat. If her windpipe wasn’t torn or collapsed, the tomcat thought sickly; and his mind was on both cases, the nearly dead woman, a beautiful woman and not a sign of ID that he had found; and then the shadowy prowler. If the man was watching one of the children, if he meant to kidnap a child, this was the worst crime of all.

  Or, at that moment, Joe Grey thought it was.

  One Saturday, Joe had seen Jimmie McFarland photograph the guy’s footprints after he’d crossed the polished floor of the front entrance; and both Dulcie and Kit had seen Jimmie taking fingerprints one evening after the library had closed—and Joe couldn’t shake his unease, couldn’t forget the chill gleam in the man’s pale eyes.

  What Joe Grey didn’t see, nor did Jimmie McFarland, was the prowler slip into a men’s shop, casually lift two shirts and several jackets off a rack, smile and nod at a salesman, and take them into a dressing room. No one saw him facing the mirror removing the mustache and his cap with the tangled hair attached to it. They didn’t see him take out a handkerchief and wipe his handsome bald head until it shone, didn’t see him fold the objects of disguise, wrap the handkerchief smoothly around them, and slip the package in his own jacket pocket. Departing the store, he left the new clothes neatly on their hangers in the dressing room. He thanked the nearest salesman, the first one was with a customer. He stopped at the front counter to buy two pairs of socks which he paid for with cash, and he was gone.

  That was why, when Jimmie and his fellow officers kept a watch for the library prowler as they went about their routes, no one ever did see him—or didn’t know that they saw him.

  But now, Joe slipped into Wilma’s office to snuggle down with his family—though he didn’t stay long.

  2

  “Let him go, you can’t change him,” Wilma said as Joe Grey soon raced out the cat door. Dulcie started after him, but then she sighed and turned back. Half of her wanted to follow Joe, to see what he’d find; the other half told her to stay out of it. The guy was interested in children, not cats. Anyway, Officer McFarland was on his tail. And they could shadow him all over the village, from the rooftops, until they picked up a clue or two, until they had enough to call in valuable information that Jimmie McFarland might miss.

  But neither the cats nor Jimmie picked up much more information. Except for what, later, Courtney herself found out, to her dismay.

  Now, Wilma sat down in her desk chair, took the clip from her long gray hair where the children had tangled it, brushed it smooth and reclipped it. Dulcie’s housemate was a tall, strong woman, a retired federal parole officer and now a part-time reference librarian. She loved best reading to the children, just as she read to Dulcie and Courtney at home, just as she had read to all three of Dulcie’s kittens until Courtney’s brothers moved away, starting their own lives.

  Dulcie had lived with Wilma since she was a kitten; she was less than a year old when she discovered that she could speak. Her first words, blurted out without thought, had shocked them both. They had stared at each other in frightened silence. That moment had changed their lives forever.

  They were alarmed and frightened, but then all at once they found themselves talking up a storm, both woman and cat wild with delight at being able to communicate.

  Soon their household was a different place. They shared every thought, every memory. They were like long-lost roommates newly reunited, trading every secret. Or nearly every secret. Dulcie might leave out some of her and Joe’s most frightening adventures, though Wilma eventually learned about most of them and either scolded or laughed at them. Dulcie had learned to read, as Wilma read to her, the pretty tabby picking out the sound of each word, then of each letter. She learned the written word fast, took great delight in that new joy as she learned to pick out words on the computer. Soon Dulcie, listening to her own muse, found her head full of poems that she had to write down, and they were both amazed. The word pictures were simply there, something in her cat nature heard the cadences and had to save them, had to read them back to herself.

  Even now, trying to ease her fear of the prowler, she padded across the desk to the computer, clenched her paws tight, and gently touching the keys, she opened her own personal document and started a new page—seeking to drown her fear of the prowling man, to calm that fluttering feeling that made her paws tremble. Whatever he wanted, she hoped Jimmie McFarland nailed him, and soon.

  Now, longing to bring back the fairy-tale joy of Narnia, wanting to return to that magical world and drive back the ugly parts of life, she began a poem,

  White witch before the moon,

  Cold witch, cold as moon . . .

  Little animals turned to stone,

  Moonlight on them

  Cold, alone . . .

  But these were frightening words, and no others would come. Despite the fun of the book, the evil in it mixed too well with the man on the balcony, driving the goodness away. She looked at Courtney, expecting to see a shiver of fear in her young daughter’s amber eyes—but Courtney was not upset. Courtney the dreamer was still deep in the wonders of Narnia, still in the ice and snow, still with the magical beavers, hardly thinking of the stranger in the shadows. “Anyway,” Courtney said, reading her mother’s look, “anyway, he’s gone now. And what harm did he do?”

  Wilma, with a glance at Dulcie, took calico Courtney in her arms and they headed out the back door for her car. For home and safety, Dulcie thought. While at the same moment, up on the roofs Joe Grey was streaking for the police department, for his own brand of safety among MPPD’s family of cops.

  The old man, having left his truck parked against the heavy bushes beside the grocery, was coming out of his lawyer’s office feeling better. Maybe he wasn’t as old and half dead as he’d thought. Finally getting his will and trust in order, signing the last papers. Wiping out everyone but little Mindy and the two trustees he had chosen, leaving her the house and land, the two horses, the tractor and haying machines, and what money he had—which was more than his three sons knew—he felt more like the old Zebulon Luther once more. He figured no one would take better care of Mindy than Police Chief Harper and Charlie, his redheaded wife. He lived close enough to the Harper ranch to ride over there sometimes, or to see Charlie riding by on her sorrel mare, to stop and talk with her for a while or ask her in for coffee. Sometimes Charlie would bake a carrot cake or bring him a bag of oatmeal cookies. He and Mindy kept that secret, the two hiding them and sharing them alone. Yes, Charlie and Max would make fine guardians, if it came to that. Zeb knew a lot about Max Harper, and all of it good except for what Thelma and Nevin said, and that translated easily into the real truth.

  His attorney, Eric Lock, was an easygoing guy raised in Montana, and about Zebulon’s own age. It was mighty nice of him coming into the office on a Saturday. He insisted on getting the Harpers’ written permission before finalizing the trust. It didn’t give Zeb custody but it gave him a leg up, to take better care of his granddaughter. Lock took care of it all, and Zeb, leaving his office, felt pretty good.

  He pulled back as Thelma and Mindy passed by, headed on down the block. He was so excited to see his granddaughter he started to run over and grab her up and hug her. Instead, he pulled deeper into the shadows of a camera shop, stood watching her sadly as she disappeared.

  He could see a black stretch limo parked down the street and he got a glimpse of the driver, crew-cut white hair as his third and oldest son straightened his cap. What was De
Wayne doing here in the village? He’d thought he was on the East Coast. Zebulon hadn’t seen his oldest son in more than three years and he never heard from him, never a call or a letter, nor did he expect any. DeWayne dressed the best of the three boys, was the slickest. Had a fancy girlfriend, everything he did was to act big-time—but Zeb never saw the boy. DeWayne had e-mailed the girlfriend’s picture to Varney, not to his own father.

  DeWayne was in South America for a while, then returned to drive limos for a small company in San Francisco. Even when he came down here, he never called or stopped by.

  Well, he was here now. Zeb guessed with the car show, with all the tourists in town, more limos had been hired.

  Or did DeWayne’s presence mean something more? In this crowd, he could sure figure a way to pick up some loose cash. DeWayne had sticky fingers even worse than his brothers.

  Zeb had tried for years to change them but they wouldn’t listen so what was the use? He and Nell had done everything they knew to keep them straight; their crimes were never anything too bad, as far as he knew: misdemeanors like minor stealing, shoplifting. He and Nell had ended up not prying into their business, life was easier that way. To talk about it only made Nell sicker.

  He turned away when Charlie Harper and that young female building contractor, Ryan Flannery, came out of the PD and, some distance behind them, the chief. Max Harper was in uniform today, not in his usual jeans and boots.

  He waited until Max had pulled out, and Mindy and Thelma had gone on. He didn’t want Mindy to see him here in town and shout “Grandpa!” and run up to him making a fuss, no matter how much he missed her. Heading back down the street for his truck, he felt in his pocket for his grocery list. Lonely old man shopping to cook for himself like so many single “seniors” in the village, left to waste alone; and his cooking never tasted as good as Nell’s had, or even Thelma’s, after she took over. Glancing back once at the courthouse, he saw a cat on the roof behind him but paid little attention; except he wondered if he should get a cat. For the mice. And, to be honest, for the company, a warm, friendly animal to cuddle down with at night.

  From the roof of Molena Point PD, Joe Grey hardly noticed the old man; he seemed vaguely familiar, some local Joe had seen around. The tomcat had backed halfway down the oak trunk by the department’s glass door when Charlie Harper and Joe’s own housemate, dark-haired Ryan Flannery, came out, her tousled bob lightly flecked with sawdust, her carpenter’s tools still hanging at her belt. Charlie Harper’s red hair was tied back with a pink scarf, she was wearing a pink T-shirt, new jeans, and sandals. Looked like she’d meant to go out to lunch with Max and had been stood up by some emergency or official appointment. Too bad. Some distance behind them, the chief appeared, dressed in uniform as was Detective Dallas Garza, the two heading for the chief’s squad car. Max turned to wave to Charlie, and she blew him a kiss. He glanced at Joe, frowned, and the two cops were gone, turning out into village traffic—and Joe would have to wait until they returned to get any information about the woman he had found, or about the library snooper. Maybe they’d have something soon, with McFarland tailing the guy.

  He could slip in the station and prowl Max’s desk. But eavesdropping when the detectives were present was better than snooping alone through the chief’s notes and reports. Listening to Max and his staff toss a problem around while Joe himself sat reading Max’s handwritten notes and scanning the computer screen usually added up to a bundle of facts worth waiting for.

  Now, he dropped on down the oak tree and followed Ryan and Charlie who looked like they were headed for lunch. Ryan had just come from work, khaki shirt and work pants, and heavy boots. When she saw Joe, she grinned and beckoned to him. He followed them down the sidewalk and into the flowery little tearoom that Ryan had said no cop would ever be caught entering. As the door swung closed Ryan caught the heavy glass, Joe slid through, and they made for an isolated corner table, passing the elderly tearoom cat asleep on the window seat. The old fellow hardly stirred, hardly opened his eyes when he caught a whiff of Joe Grey. There were no other cats in the room at the moment, though most of the tables were taken.

  Joe leaped into the corner chair between Ryan and Charlie, and Ryan ordered for him, Joe’s ear twitch of agreement at a smoked-salmon sandwich, hold the bread, and a crab salad, hold the mayo. When the waitress had left, Charlie launched softly into a discussion of facts that Ryan must already know, thus telling Joe what he hadn’t had a chance to hear in the chief’s office where he’d been headed.

  Charlie said, “Max meant to get to the hospital early, see that battered woman again that the medics picked up, then have a quick lunch. But he’s running late for some meeting, he stayed at the hospital quite a while. She’s in bad shape, the guy almost broke her neck. She was lucky someone found her.” She didn’t glance down at Joe but she stroked him lovingly—and Joe could feel her shudder, as he did himself, thinking of the woman nearly buried alive. He looked up at Charlie and rubbed his head back and forth against her caressing hand.

  “She’s still on life support,” Charlie said. “She can hardly speak, her throat is so injured. Looks like she speaks Spanish more easily, maybe one of the Latin American countries. Dallas will sort out what the other guys miss.”

  “What made her attacker leave so suddenly?” Ryan said softly, looking down at Joe Grey. “Lucky for her someone came along. I’ve seen enough grisly murders, but to be buried alive . . .” She leaned down to hug Joe Grey and kiss the top of his head. It embarrassed him for her to kiss him, even when they were home alone. She said, “I wish I’d learned Spanish when Dallas was living with us.” Ryan’s two uncles had moved in with her dad and the three little girls after their mother died. Dallas was her mother’s brother, the Latino half of the family, with his dark hair and nearly black eyes. Ryan had the dark hair, but her green eyes were like her dad’s, Mike Flannery, and his brother Scotty’s. The Scots-Irish part of the family. And tempers to match, Joe thought, smiling.

  “And then later this morning,” Charlie said, talking to Ryan as she filled Joe in, “another street robbery. Victim was carrying a canvas bag with cash, another bank deposit.”

  That brought the tomcat to attention. He’d heard nothing about this. He must have been lolling with the kiddies at story hour when that went down. Maybe that was where the siren they’d heard was heading.

  “It was out in the valley,” Charlie said. “That victim’s in emergency, too.”

  “I think . . .” Ryan paused, looked startled as the front door opened and their new neighbors, the brown-haired little girl and her plain, unhappy mother, came in. Mindy spotted Charlie and took off running. She threw her arms around her redheaded neighbor, who often rode the trails with her—but Thelma grabbed the child, pulled her across the room, and sat down with their backs to them but where they could see out the window. Mindy looked around at Joe as if she would grab him, too, but at her mother’s look she sat still.

  Joe just looked at her. He had had enough of the Luther family since Thelma and Nevin and Mindy moved in with Varney. Nevin was the youngest, Varney the middle brother. He’d moved into the rental across from Joe Grey’s house about six months ago. Neither Joe, Ryan, nor Clyde had had a full night’s sleep since the other three joined him. The two brothers were always at it, shouting and arguing over nothing. Joe, when he was in at night—which wasn’t often—had slept in the kitchen with Snowball and the big silver Weimaraner where they couldn’t hear so clearly; the aging, loving, nonspeaking little white cat considered the Weimaraner her protector. She slept nearly buried between the big dog’s chest and paws. Joe Grey would lie draped over Rock’s flank, their gray coloring so similar it was hard to tell cat from dog.

  “I keep wondering,” Ryan said softly, “if there’s a connection between the battered woman and the street robberies. I don’t know why there would be, except that during the car festival there’s big money around. And these last three robberies, two of them just before the bank clos
ed, were all large cash deposits from restaurants that are crowded to the hilt. Bar owners getting rid of their surplus cash.”

  Restaurant bars usually got rid of what cash they could before the crowds gathered. Dinner customers most often paid by credit card, while those at the bar shelled out greenbacks. Joe knew that from slipping into any number of village restaurants, watching the crowd from some dark corner as he spied on a suspect, collecting information that he could pass anonymously to Max Harper—if he wasn’t tossed out by the maître d’, thrown unceremoniously out in the parking lot, angry and clawing. Ryan glanced at him, a teasing look in her eyes. “This latest robbery just after the bank closed, no sign of a witness, even the phantom snitch missed the action. But then, that was clear up the valley.”

  “But there was a witness,” Charlie said, looking at Ryan. “That robbery, after the Mid-Valley Bank closed. Though the witness didn’t see much, she couldn’t run after him. She was way pregnant and pushing two kids in a stroller—Max said so pregnant that if she’d chased the robber she might have delivered right there on the street. She whipped out her phone and called the dispatcher, but the small squad working that area was clear up the valley, and the guy got away.

  “She called the medics, too,” she said, laughing. “Baby boy, born on the medics’ stretcher before they even got her in the ambulance.

  “She said the man was dressed in dark gray and a tan jacket, old jogging shoes, cap pulled down over dark shaggy hair. She didn’t see his face, he fled around a corner and she didn’t see or hear a car.” Charlie pushed back her red hair. “Max was mad as hell that they lost him.” She lowered her voice when a black limo pulled up in front of the tea shop, the driver in black uniform, black cap; they could see someone tall slumped in the backseat, only a shadow behind the dark glass.