Cat Chase the Moon

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Juana brought salve and bandages; she knelt and began to help Maurita doctor Courtney’s white and calico paws, examining each tiny bone. No shrieks, nothing seemed broken. Maurita found a tissue in her pocket and wiped the heaviest blood from her calico coat, then gently she ran her hands over the rest of Courtney, flexing her legs for injuries, running her hands down her sides while watching the calico’s face for any sign of pain. Maurita’s black hair was tied back in a knot, her bruises and scars were fading. When she looked into the calico’s frightened eyes, she saw the same fear as her own—they stared at each other, the look between them filled with their mutual need for comforting, sharing the distress that would take a long time to heal. Courtney put a gentle, carefully wrapped paw on Maurita’s arm, and the young woman held the calico tighter; she could feel her shivering; they clung close to Buffin, too, his curing strength warming them both.

  When Juana turned away to join Max and the two deputies, the men were smiling, watching the warm scene, and then watching Rock and Joe Grey. The minute Joe bellied out of the leather bag, the big silver dog had been all over his housemate, licking and nibbling at him while Joe slapped at Rock playfully and purred against his sleek coat. Such warm, innocent moments were all too rare in the life of a cop. Tall, big-boned Officer Crowley, looking very tender, rose to stack the breakfast dishes and carry them into the kitchen. Jimmie McFarland gathered up the cups and cream and sugar, still watching the two animals. His short brown hair was neatly trimmed and he was clean shaven, his uniform sharply pressed. “So the lost cat is found,” he said, grinning.

  Max said, “Someone chased the hell out of them.”

  “No wonder they’re scared. I’ve never seen Joe Grey frightened—but where are Dulcie and Kit? Did those guys catch them or did they escape? And what the hell do they want with cats?”

  Max said, “I hope they escaped, and are unhurt. These three got away with a lot of fight, from the amount of blood on them. All the posters about her being lost, everyone searching for her, all that time someone had her locked up, maybe in a cage.”

  Juana said, “What kind of person would do that, yet apparently not harm her? What do they want . . . ?” She paused, staring at the window. They all turned to look. Rock and Joe Grey abandoned their tussle and leaped on a chair nosing at the drawn drapery, at the open corner where, in the soft lamplight, a pair of green eyes shone and a dark tabby face looked in. When Dulcie saw Courtney inside she rose up, meowed softly, and scratched frantically at the glass. As Juana opened the window, Rock stuck his nose in the tabby’s face; gently she nipped the big gray dog and pushed past him, leaping to join her escaped kitten. She wanted to cry, she wanted to praise Courtney. All she could do was meow.

  “Come up,” Maurita said.

  Dulcie landed softly on the blanket between her two kittens and curled down, licking Courtney’s ears. Her child was free. They couldn’t talk, she’d hear the story of Courtney’s escape later. Right now all that mattered was that her child was safe. Buffin put a paw on Dulcie’s face and licked her nose, and she could almost feel him healing her, as he seemed to be soothing Courtney and Maurita; and Dulcie sighed. They were all together, and they were safe. They were secure under the protection of the cops, of friends they could count on and trust.

  Jimmie McFarland watched them with interest, this close and loving cat family. He watched Maurita, her own eyes damp. When she looked up, he handed her a tissue, watched her wipe her tears then wipe remaining blood from Courtney. He hoped most of it was human blood. The way she held and stroked the cats touched Jimmie deep down. This was not the hard-cop part of him, as he thought he should behave. Their eyes met for a moment, Maurita’s dark eyes wide with a sudden surprise as well as with tenderness. McFarland blushed and looked away.

  Earlier, when Kit awakened from her nap in her tree house, she hadn’t gone along the branch that led in through the dining room window, she hadn’t wanted to wake Lucinda and Pedric and get caught up in a long explanation; that could come later. She had left the tree house backing down the broad trunk of her oak tree, racing through the rain, across the yards to where the village roofs would take her to Seaver’s Antiques, on her way to relieve Pan at his watch; it would be dawn soon, the sky in the east was barely turning light.

  But when she got there, she couldn’t find Pan. Dropping down to the sidewalk by way of a potted bush, she peered in the windows of the closed store looking for Courtney. Not finding her, she climbed the tall pine at the side of the building and went across the flat roof, looking in the second-floor apartment. No sign of her kitten. Circling the apartment on the window ledge, she didn’t find Pan crouched outside in the sheltered corner where he had chosen to keep watch. But when she padded along the ledge back to the alley, she smelled blood. Human blood and cat blood. Courtney’s blood?

  She could see no one. Scrambling down the ivy vine to the alley she found spots of Courtney’s blood glistening on the wet macadam. She could smell both the calico’s and Pan’s fresh scents, and the trail of Ulrich and Thelma. But the smells that alarmed her were where they were all mixed together: Courtney’s blood, Joe Grey’s and Pan’s scents and the two humans, tangled with the lingering smell of fear and of rage, a fighting stink that sent Kit racing away to the rooftops again following where the three cats had fled, and Thelma and Ulrich had climbed after them.

  Earlier, looking down from the roofs, she’d thought she glimpsed DeWayne Luther for an instant. A tall man with a touch of white hair under a floppy cap—but no, this man smelled like a gas station. He had a mustache, his service jacket was stained with grease, and his shoes were filthy. Anyway, DeWayne wouldn’t be here in the village when there was a warrant out on him. And why would he care about Seaver’s crazy plan? DeWayne Luther ran to high-toned robberies, to the most exclusive stores, to jewelry worth millions, not to stealing cats; and why would he care about ancient, ragged tapestries and old fairy tales surrounding a stolen cat?

  Had that been DeWayne back there despite his looks and smell? Had he been part of the chase? Pan said she had too much imagination, that her wild ideas sent her flying off into tangents.

  But right now she wanted to know if the three cats had escaped, and where they had gone, she had to find them. Following their scents over the roofs to the station, she could smell several men’s, and Thelma’s, trails along the shingles, they crossed back and forth then separated. Thelma and Ulrich had gone down some steps to the street. But Kit followed the path of Courtney and Joe and Pan past where the humans had turned away, followed them toward the PD. When she found the cats’ scents strong on the bars of the holding-cell window, she sighed with relief.

  But when she looked down into the cell, no one was there. Not even a drunken prisoner—then, looking across the roofs, she saw Joe Grey at Juana’s condo, leaping out a slightly open window. Juana and two officers stood behind him. For an instant, Joe turned back to rub his face against Juana’s hand then he was gone, heading over the rooftops toward home looking very happy. As if, for the moment, his job was done. Kit raced over the roofs and branches for the window, mewling and mewling at Juana before she closed the glass. She burst into the room, into the detective’s arms, and was amazed at the gathering.

  She looked shyly at the chief and the two deputies, flicking her tail in a demure greeting. She thought at first the dark-haired woman on the couch was Detective Kathleen Ray snuggled with Courtney, Buffin, and Dulcie; then she saw the woman’s scars, the bruises, the stitched-up ear: the lady from the grave. And Kit found it hard not to speak right out, to shout out her surprise and her joy.

  24

  The rain had eased. Low in the east, thin, orange streaks of dawn shone into Joe Grey’s tower, waking Mindy. She felt around among his pillows and found she was alone, Joe was gone. She pushed up and looked out the open window. Yes, earlier in the night the tomcat had raced away chasing her mother’s car, heading into the village.

  Why would a cat want to follow Thelma? Why woul
d a cat care where she was going? When she looked across toward her room and down at the street, she eased back deeper among the pillows out of sight. Her mother was home. Even in the first whisper of dawn, Thelma might glimpse her dark silhouette up here in the tower.

  How would she explain how she’d gotten over here on the Damens’ roof and why? Thelma’s Volvo was parked behind Varney’s Toyota. She didn’t want to go home; if Thelma caught her coming in she’d fuss and haggle at her for being outside and she’d ask a hundred questions.

  But maybe her mother would go right up to bed and wouldn’t know she was gone, wouldn’t bother to check on her. Varney hadn’t, when he came in. It would be nice to have a mother who looked in on her after she’d been left alone all night, someone to just glance in and see if she was okay, if she hadn’t been abducted or murdered.

  But why should Thelma care, any more than Varney did? Or than her own father had cared, after he’d been out all night, stealing? He’d never checked on her, never pulled up her covers like fathers in movies did.

  Well, her father wasn’t out stealing now, Nevin was in county prison in a barred hospital room, maybe never to get out again. Never to rob again, never to steal anymore. And why did she care what he did with his life?

  All she did care about was Grandpa in the hospital. He was coming home today, she thought with excitement. He’d be here by noon, home with her, and she could take care of him because Mama sure as hell wouldn’t.

  So he’d demand to go to his own house. So he’d make a big scene. So what? Maybe she could figure out a way the two of them could go home. She could order groceries delivered, they had chickens and eggs at home, they had flour and cornmeal; she could cook as good as Grandma—well, the simple things Gram had taught her.

  A streak of moonlight shone low in the west as the clouds shifted away. And in the east the touch of dawn returned, so light shone within the tower. If Thelma looked out and saw her, there’d be trouble. Slipping out the tower window, she didn’t head for the wobbly overhanging branch to sneak back home as if she’d never been gone. She crawled along the Damens’ roof to the far end, above their driveway where Ryan parked her truck.

  Yes, the big red truck was there, ladders chained on top, locked cupboards along the sides for building tools. It was pulled up close to the house to make room for Clyde’s two cars, his Jaguar and an old car he was working on. She pulled off her slippers, tossed them down to the driveway. She slid down to the top of the truck’s cab, from there to the hood and then to the ground next to the Jaguar.

  The truck’s hood was warm, so the engine would be, too. It wasn’t really light yet, and she wondered where they had been.

  When she looked up, Ryan was standing in her open front door, a soft light behind her, her short, dark hair curlier than usual from the damp air. Her work boots stood by the door. She was wearing worn jeans, a gray sweatshirt, pink fuzzy slippers, and a flowery ruffled apron. She looked drawn, as if maybe she hadn’t slept; or as if something was wrong. Mindy would wait to ask. She could smell coffee, hot syrup, pancakes and bacon. She looked down at her thin pajamas and realized how cold she was without the warmth of Joe Grey and his pillows.

  “Mindy, it’s wet and freezing. Come in, I’ll get you something dry.” Ryan picked up Mindy’s slippers and the child followed her inside. Ryan got her a long T-shirt, a pair of her own wool socks, then wrapped her in a long, fuzzy sweater.

  The kitchen was warm and homey, with a flowered, overstuffed chair at the far end beside some inviting shelves of books. Clyde was already eating. They both looked worried, and as if they had been up most of the night. But Clyde was freshly shaven, she could barely smell his aftershave, and was dressed in sharply pressed chinos and a pale blue shirt. Ryan poured pancake batter for Mindy, and a cup half of coffee and half of creamy milk. Mindy added sugar. Clyde didn’t ask why she was up before dawn or what she had been doing on the roof. After three pancakes and two slices of bacon she sighed, her hunger slaked; she looked at the handsome couple who made her feel so welcome. “I slept with Joe Grey in his tower. I was scared in the house alone. Mama and Uncle Varney were both gone. Usually I push the dresser against the door but I fell asleep and then something woke me. I thought it was Varney or Mama getting home but it wasn’t and I wanted out of there.

  “When the noise stopped, a kind of creaking wooden sound, I looked across at Joe Grey’s tower and he was there; the rain was mistier and a little moonlight shone through. Joe Grey was sitting up among the pillows looking across right at me. Could a cat see me, in the dark bedroom? He looked so warm and cozy I climbed out my window into the oak tree and up to our roof. I crossed over the street on that spindly pine tree to your roof and into Joe’s tower and cuddled up with him. We were nice and warm and I felt safe. Until later, when lights in the street woke us, and the sound of cars.

  “Mama and Varney were parked in the middle of the street in opposite directions, their engines running, their windows open so they could talk. Varney handed her a thick package. She said something about going to Seaver’s, something about a locked safe . . .”

  A noise from upstairs stopped her; it sounded like the flap of the cat door that led inside from Joe Grey’s tower. Last night she had looked through it down into the master bedroom. Now she imagined Joe stepping inside onto a bedroom rafter, maybe dropping to the desk below. She had seen a stairway leading down, and the next instant they heard him pounding down the steps, racing for the kitchen. Who knew a cat could make so much noise just coming downstairs, even a heavy tomcat?

  Joe flew through the kitchen door, took one look at Mindy, and landed on the table beside her empty plate. He was frowning, too. Mindy looked at him, puzzled. Who knew a cat could frown so hard? They all three looked miserable. What had happened? Ryan was pouring pancakes for Joe, and she looked a question at Mindy. “More?”

  “Maybe two,” she said, fascinated that they let a cat on the table, even this very nice tomcat. She had begun to think of Joe Grey as a special cat, the way he’d looked across at her last night, his yellow eyes wide, the way he’d welcomed her into his tower among his warm pillows, and then later his strange behavior when he raced off following her mother. That was a puzzle: why would he care where Thelma went? And now, whatever worried the Damens worried Joe Grey, and how could that be? When Ryan put a place mat down for Joe, Mindy had a hard time not laughing—and Ryan and Clyde had a hard time, with Mindy present, not to ask Joe a hundred questions they hadn’t asked when they were out looking for Maurita.

  Joe, too, needed badly to ask questions. Could he keep quiet until Mindy left? When across the street a car door slammed, and another opened, Mindy stepped to the living room window, standing out of sight.

  A light was on in the apartment kitchen, the front door was open, and Thelma was outside looking in Varney’s car and then again in her own car, searching among a tangle of sweaters and jackets.

  “Looking for me,” Mindy said. “Can I go out the back door? Maybe I can slip in behind her, get back in bed before she searches the house. If she finds me over here, she’ll throw a fit.” She grinned at Ryan. “Thanks for the pancakes.” She petted Joe Grey, gave Clyde a loving look as he walked her to the door—but Thelma heard the door open and came flying across the street, her hair a tangle, her black shirt torn, her heavy jacket gone. Her arms and face were scratched, the wounds long and deep like cat scratches. Ryan and Clyde looked at Joe, and at the disarray of his own fur; Joe Grey looked back at them with a studiously blank expression. Clyde took Mindy’s hand and stepped out into the street. The child followed reluctantly. He pulled her close to him and, on her other side, Ryan put a protective arm around her.

  Thelma was in such a temper they didn’t know what she would do. She was reaching for Mindy when a car came down the street, a squad car, its headlights on though the morning was beginning to grow light. Max Harper stopped and got out, looking at the little scene, looking Thelma over. He looked at the two parked cars. He got out and
felt their hoods. Joe Grey followed him, no more nosy than usual. Both cars were warm and still smelled of exhaust. Max looked at Mindy, at her solemn, frightened face.

  “Were you alone in the house all night?”

  She looked at the chief. She couldn’t be afraid of Max Harper but she could be plenty afraid of what Thelma would do if she admitted she had been alone there. Even when Harper looked angry, somehow she wanted to hug him. “Yes,” she said softly. “I got scared and I came here. I slept in Joe Grey’s tower. He didn’t mind. When Ryan got up, I came downstairs. She made pancakes.”

  Max’s eyes held Mindy’s, amused and caring; but not caring when he turned on Thelma. “Where’s Varney?”

  “In the house, probably already asleep,” Thelma said, having watched Max check the heat of both car engines.

  “Was he out all night? Where was he?”

  “I have no idea.”

  As the two faced each other, both angry, Joe Grey slipped behind Ryan and Clyde into his own yard, behind the bushes.

  “Of course you know where Varney was,” Max said. “I know where you both were, and the other three.”

  Thelma suddenly looked like she wanted to run.

  “I’m not going to cite you,” Max said. “I could arrest you, take you in on several charges. Child neglect. Robbery, several counts. I could leave you in jail, or the judge could put you under house arrest. For now, I want to see how you two respond to a serious warning. And how you do when we bring Zebulon home, how well you take care of him.”