Cat Laughing Last (19 page)

How lonely the house looked. Not even the porch light was on, and no car in the drive.

But no matter, it was home, he just wanted to be inside. Wanted his creature comforts—some supper, and a few hours snooze, and he'd be ready to roll again.

But then, padding up the dark steps, he imagined his home turned into a restaurant with lights burning everywhere and cars filling the street and crowds of strangers shouting and laughing in the rooms that were his own, and he didn't like that scene.

Hastily dragging the envelope, with Dulcie and the kit close behind him, he pushed through his cat door into the welcoming dark and the good familiar smells of home—smells of old Rube, of the household cats, of kibble and spaghetti and furniture polish and Clyde's running shoes, all the comforting mix of aromas that had never been so welcome.

T
he first
thing the three cats saw as they entered Joe's darkened house, even before the plastic flap of Joe's cat door stopped slapping behind them, was the sheet of white paper that had been lodged securely under the foot of Joe's well-clawed lounge chair.

A note? Clyde had left a note?

Warily approaching, Joe saw the familiar handwriting. What could be so important that Clyde would leave a note in the middle of the living room, where anyone could see it? What if Ryan came back with him? That would be cute. How was Clyde going to explain a note left under the leg of the chair? Joe could imagine him rushing into the house ahead of her, snatching up the scrap of paper and shoving it in his pocket.

The message was cryptic enough.
I'm out with Ryan. Goodies in refrigerator. Don't make yourselves sick.

Joe read it twice, looking for some concealed meaning. What uncharacteristic fit of generosity had prompted Clyde to leave treats for them? Probably some leather-hard remnant of an overdone hamburger that he wanted to get rid of.

But Dulcie was pacing and nervous. “Come on, Joe. We have to hide this thing.”

“What about the bookcase? A bookcase is where we found it.”

“Oh, right. In the bookcase where every house-breaker since books were invented has looked for hidden money, where half the doddering old folks in the world hide their cash.”

“Where, then? The freezer, where everyone who doesn't read books keeps their valuables?”

She looked pointedly at his chair. “No sensible human wants to sit in, let alone touch, that monstrosity.”

Joe shrugged. He'd hidden valuables there before, and not too long ago. Had hidden jewels and stolen money during that rash of thefts that accompanied the Patty Rose lookalike contest. What a week that had been, with all those beautiful would-be stars, and the retired movie star herself, all tangled up in two murders.

“Lift the cushion, Joe, so we don't damage the letter any more than we already have.”

Nosing the seat cushion up, shoving his shoulder under it, he watched Dulcie lift the envelope in her teeth and gently slide it into the dark recess, accompanied by the faint crinkle of the bubble-wrap lining.

“That'll do until we find something better,” she said. “Only Clyde would know to look there—and it's a sure thing no one will sit there.” She paused to consider Joe. “No chance he'd be sending that chair to the Goodwill anytime soon?”

“No chance Clyde wants to meet his maker anytime soon.”

When, some months back, Charlie Getz had helped Clyde redecorate his living room, Joe's chair had been a
matter of heated discussion. Charlie had wanted to replace the chair with a new one and had talked Clyde into it, generating an argument so volatile that at one point Joe had had both Charlie and Clyde shouting at him.

Charlie said his chair belonged in the city dump. But she'd apologized later. She had been, Joe thought, truly contrite. Joe had prevailed, outshouting, outswearing, and finally shaming them both into acceptance. He'd had that chair since he was a half-grown kitten, since he first came to live with Clyde. That was the first time he had ever seen Clyde or Charlie promoting an act to hurt a poor little cat, and he told them so.

The Damen living room, in spite of being decorated around Joe's chair, had become, under Charlie's ministrations, a handsome, cozy, and welcoming retreat. Charlie's artful accessorizing had made his chair look more than acceptable. “It is,” Charlie had decided, “the epitome of shabby chic.” She had selected, to harmonize with it, a handsome group of African baskets and sculpture, all done in tones of black and brown. These, with Charlie's framed animal drawings, white-matted against the tan walls, gave the room additional style. And the black-and-brown African throw rugs over the pale carpet tied Joe's chair right into the decor as one more rare and valuable artifact. The carved bookcases and entertainment center and tables had cost a bundle, but Clyde had simply sold another antique car. The room looked great. The humans were happy. Joe was happy. The night Charlie completed the room by hanging the newly framed drawings, she had taken Clyde and the cats out to dinner. Celebrating the fact that they had all been able to agree, she had treated them to broiled lobster in the patio of their favorite seafood café.

Glancing up at the kit, always amused that her black-and-brown coloring fit so perfectly into the room, Joe though it would be a pity to even think of selling this house, now that it was looking so good.

With the envelope safely hidden, the three cats headed for the kitchen, the responsibility of Catalina's ten-thousand-dollar letter weighing heavily on Joe. What, ultimately, were they to do with it?

They could make a discreet phone call to Max Harper or Detective Garza, then leave the envelope at the back door of the station. That would put the ball in their court. Except, with carpenters and painters still busy on the premises, the fate of a lone envelope could be uncertain.

They could drop the envelope at Dallas Garza's cottage door; or they could tell Clyde about it. Let Clyde take over, though this suggestion was totally against Joe's nature.

Maybe, after all, he'd just leave it where it was, wait to see what developed.

Standing on the kitchen counter hooking his claws in the refrigerator door, Joe pushed backward, wrenching it open. He caught it with a fast paw, before it swung closed again.

On the bottom shelf lay a take-out tray glistening with clear wrap to keep it fresh. This was no collection of dry leftovers, this was a work of art, an elegant and expensive party tray, a concoction from Jolly's Deli, meant for true indulgence. This was their little snack? Joe wondered if he'd read the note right.

But the tray had been placed in his personal area, on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.

“To what,” Dulcie said, “do we owe this? Has Clyde not been well?”

They removed the tray carefully and laid it on the linoleum. “Maybe he's trying to make up for past cruelties,” Joe said, clawing at the plastic wrap. The tray contained an assortment as fine as any George Jolly had ever put together. There was imported Brie, Beluga caviar, Alaskan smoked salmon, king crab, shrimp salad, cold mushroom quiche, spinach soufflé, four small cannoli, and brandy-flavored sponge cake, a treat that most cats would give up eight of their lives for but would find dangerous to their digestion. Enough party food, in short, to give the three cats heartburn for a month if they did not employ some restraint. The two older cats tried to eat slowly, savoring each bite. But the moment the wrap was off, the kit plowed in as if she hadn't seen food in weeks, slurping, guzzling, smearing the floor and her whiskers.

Joe glanced at Dulcie as if she ought to teach the kit some manners, but Dulcie was too busy enjoying her own supper. When at last they were sated, they pawed the plastic wrap back over the uneaten portions and, like the good cats they were, they put the tray back in the refrigerator. In case Clyde would like a bite later.

With their bellies full, they curled up together in a heap on Joe's chair, atop Catalina's hidden letter. They were asleep in seconds.

They barely woke when Clyde came in, didn't hear him go to bed. They slept until the small hours called to them, the bright and imperative predawn summons that routs all night predators long before the sun appears—that shot of psychological adrenaline that has belonged to cats since the world began. This was the witching hour, the hour when the village was its most silent and when, on the hills, the succulent little rabbits danced.

But tonight, they hunted human prey.

Pushing out through Joe's cat door, they galloped across the village watching for marauding raccoons and the occasional coyote that might wander the village streets. Overhead, every star that ever burned seemed to crowd the rooftops. They had chosen five locations where the man in the tan Infinity could be staying, all houses with rooms to rent and with the requisite eucalyptus tree and pyracantha bushes. They separated before they reached Ocean Avenue, Joe heading for a cottage to the south, the kit for the one nearest the shore, and Dulcie for a motel just beyond the courthouse. The kit had been given specific instructions and stern warnings about what not to do.

Many villagers didn't like eucalyptus trees, those handsome, aromatic imports from New Zealand that had so changed the face of California. In a high wind, their trunks broke too easily; and their wood was so full of oil that they created considerable hazard in case of a nearby fire. But other villagers loved them; and to a cat, certain varieties were excellent to climb, with open spaces between their wide-reaching branches, and clumped foliage that could conceal. And tonight those landmark trees might lead them to Susan Brittain's thief and maybe to Fern's killer.

Dulcie, trotting away from Joe and the kit, galloped by the courthouse, looking ahead to the tall, rangy eucalyptus that thrust above the cypresses and pines, its silver foliage pale against the night. Beyond it stood a small, old motel of ten cottages surrounding a patio. The softly lighted sign read,
No Vacancies. No Pets
. The only parking, besides the street itself, was around back, four spaces; first come, first served. Trotting
across the neatly tended patio garden between massed blooms of geranium and lavender, and watching for the motel cat, who, being elderly, was probably still asleep, she scrambled up the six-foot gate. Perched atop the fence, she looked down at the bare-dirt parking strip.

A line of pyracantha bushes bordered the drive, and on the narrow space, parked two behind two, were a Ford convertible, a white Olds coupe, a blue Chevy S10 pickup, and a black Jaguar. No Infinity, tan or otherwise. And nothing of that description was out on the nearby streets when she circled several blocks looking. She gave it up at last, and went to meet Joe and the kit. Joe, meanwhile, was trapped in the bedroom of a young woman.

The lady had woken suddenly when Joe jumped to the dresser, though he'd made only a tiny thump. Looking sleepily around the room, she had pulled the blankets up against the early dawn chill, but then had risen to shut the window, effectively trapping Joe inside, unless he could slide the glass up again. She hadn't noticed the hole in the screen, or that it was un-latched. She had apparently been too sleepy to notice a cat blending into the shadows around the dresser. Joe wondered if all the young women of her generation slept in oversized T-shirts with pictures and statements of a personal nature stenciled on them. This lady liked champagne, diamonds, and hot cars. The room was on the first floor of an old, brown, shingled rooming house sheltered by a large eucalyptus. Joe had found the Infinity parked behind, license 2ZJZ417. Oily leaves stained its sunroof, and from the pyracantha bushes that grew along the drive, green berries were crushed beneath its wheels.

Sniffing along the edge of the driver's door he had detected the scent of a man, of shoe polish, and of sugar doughnuts. He had followed the trail to the front door of the building, which of course was locked. A small, demure sign by the door said Do Not Disturb Resident. This meant, in village jargon, that the owner rented out a room or two, possibly illegally, a common practice in Molena Point, where any kind of housing was at a premium. He had tried the first open window, had smelled sugar doughnuts within, and had entered.

He'd found the doughnut bag wadded up in the trash, and only the young woman in residence. Had Prey been here, visiting her, and already left? Joe waited until she was breathing deeply again, then fought the window open a few inches. He heard her stir, but he was out before she saw him.

Leaping to the next sill, peering in through the glass, he listened to ragged male snoring. Even through the closed window, he smelled the same male scent as on the car, as well as the sugar-sweet doughnuts. Maybe the two tenants had shared a little snack.

He could detect no smell of dog—but the guy had dumped the dalmatian. Maybe the dog had caused trouble with the landlady, maybe dogs weren't allowed. Maybe the guy had tried to smuggle it in and got caught, so he left it somewhere.

What kind of a man would abandon a nice dog? Couldn't he find some other solution? Board the animal? At least take him to the pound if there was no alternative, not just dump him, frightened and hungry.

The man slept naked in the single bed, the sheet thrown back, one arm draped over the side. Enough
starlight washed into the room so Joe could see his face clearly. Thin cheeks, muddy-brown hair, pale brows and lashes, his ears set close to his head. His nose was long and thin, with slightly pinched nostrils. His forehead was high, for such a young man, rising into a widow's peak. A fresh scar burned across his brow, red and puffy, pushing up into his hair just where Susan Brittain's intruder had been wounded.

The window was locked tight, Joe could see where the bolt had been thrown. But above him to his left, the high, narrow bathroom window was cracked open, the occupant assuming correctly that no human burglar could get through that small opening.

Scorching up a bottlebrush tree that crowded against the house, Joe jumped to the sill and hung, scrabbling onto the narrow ledge. Clawing a hole in the screen, he unhooked the latch and slipped inside.

He balanced for a moment on the sill, looking, then dropped to the cluttered sink among a jumble of shaving gear, antiseptic bottles, adhesive tape, and oversized Band-Aids. A tangle of wet towels hung on the two rods. The walls smelled of mildew. Slipping silently down to the linoleum, without his usual heavy thud, he moved into the bedroom.

The mismatched furniture was scarred and old, possibly purchased from the Goodwill with just this rental in mind. A calendar of the Grand Canyon hung above the bed, a stone landscape without any hint of plant or animal life, so dry looking it made Joe's paws feel parched. A half-eaten doughnut lay on the dresser next to the guy's billfold. Leaping up, Joe nosed the billfold open and had a look at the driver's license.