Cat Laughing Last (6 page)

Wilma didn't mention that she had some defense, where the others did not. Though if they'd thought about it, surely the ladies would guess that a retired U.S. parole officer might keep a firearm at home, might like the security of being armed. Not all Wilma's parolees were far away; several had turned up in Molena Point, some with no love for the woman who had sent them back to prison.

Gabrielle said, “Wilma, you and the captain are good friends. Can't you find out the identity of the man—so we'll know what to watch for?”

“It's too early for the department to know that,” Wilma said. “Even if they have a lead, it's too early to share that with a civilian, even with me.”

There was a little silence as their waitress brought their breakfasts. Then after some moments, over pancakes and omelettes, the five ladies turned to quietly discussing the kind of comfortable Molena Point house they would like to find, with many bedrooms and baths, a home big enough to accommodate a housekeeper and caregiver when the ladies grew frail—which none of them was, yet—and maybe an extra bedroom or two that could be rented out to pay upkeep and taxes. The women had it all worked out. A private, do-it-yourself retirement home where they would share all expenses and all profits.

Only Wilma remained somewhat removed from their plans. Dulcie's housemate wasn't nearly ready yet for a change in lifestyle. She liked doing her own housework and gardening. She worked out at the gym twice a week and walked two miles a day, intending to hang on as long as she could to her independence. But Wilma said the ladies were to be admired, that too
many women couldn't bear to leave their own homes despite better alternatives, that these ladies were making their own options, and she respected that adventuresome turn of mind.

Though Mavity had no choice, Dulcie knew. She'd have to move when the city condemned her house. As for Cora Lee and Gabrielle, with both their husbands gone, they seemed eager to throw in together. And Susan, too, was a widow, living in the two-apartment home she had bought from her daughter just recently when the daughter's job took her to Portland.

The thought of Wilma moving was unsettling to Dulcie. Moving was easier for a human than for a cat. When people changed to a new home, they took all their familiar possessions with them, all the things that gave their daily lives resonance. A cat couldn't take her treasures. A cat's hoard was places, a nook in the garden wall, the shade beneath a favorite bush, a tree branch that suited her exactly, the best mouse runs. All these formed a cat's world, affording her security and comfort, giving her own life structure. A cat's treasures could not be carried with her.

That was why, when humans moved with their cat, the cat wanted to return. The humans took their belongings. The cat was forced to leave hers. That was why, when sensible folk moved to a new home, they kept their cat inside for a month, gave her time to establish new indoor haunts, discover new pleasures, wrap that new world around herself. They didn't let the cat bolt out the door and head straight for the old homestead—a matter of a mile away, or maybe hundreds of miles. Distance didn't matter to a cat, all she wanted was to be among her belongings.

Well, whatever Wilma did in the future, Dulcie thought, the two of them were together. Just as were Joe Grey and Clyde. Besides, she and Joe and the kit had ties to the whole village; their treasured haunts were scattered all over the square mile of Molena Point—and no one ever imagined that Wilma or Clyde would move away from the village.

The kit's own situation was not quite so secure. Her real home was with elderly newlyweds Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw, but she had moved in with Dulcie and Wilma on an almost permanent basis. Shortly after the Greenlaws were married they had succumbed to travel lust, had begun driving up and down the coast and through Arizona and Nevada and Oregon in their comfortable RV. The kit had a special bed in the RV, where she could look out the windows; she should, with her wild enthusiasms, have relished such traveling. But all that driving caused her to throw up, made the little tattercoat as sick as a poisoned hound dog.

“Could there be,” Mavity was saying, “a connection between Richard Casselrod's snatching that box and the break-in at Susan's house? So strange…two violent, senseless attacks in the same day, at almost the same time, and both to do with buying people's cast-offs.”

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a look, Joe's ears flat to his head, the white triangle down his face narrowed in a frown. Of course it was strange. These elderly ladies, who should be safe and cozy in the small village, had twice this morning been senselessly attacked. Whatever was astir put his fur on edge, made his yellow eyes blaze with challenge.

T
he kitchen
counter was cold, the tile icy beneath Joe Grey's paws. Beyond the closed shutters, the glass radiated a sharp chill. Turning his back to the night, he watched, beneath the yellow kitchen lights, as Clyde worked at the table laying out the snacks for a poker game. Clyde's muscular frame showed clearly his addiction to the weights and bench press. His dark hair was freshly cut, sporting a thin line of pale skin around his ears. At forty, he might pass for thirty-five, Joe thought, if the lights weren't so bright.

The tray he was arranging was impressive: thin slices of roast beef and turkey, three imported cheeses, and deviled eggs done up fancy with ruffled tops and sprinkles of paprika. No grocery store deli tonight, served up in their paper wrappings. Joe studied his housemate. “Who's coming? How many ladies?”

Clyde laid out slices of imported Tilsit fanning one atop the next. “What ladies? Poker's a man's game.”

“Right. And for a couple of guys you're wearing a new polo shirt and freshly pressed chinos? New Birkenstocks instead of those grungy jogging shoes?”
Joe reached to snag a slice of Tilsit from the open wrapper. “Smoked Alaskan salmon instead of sardines? George Jolly's world-class shrimp salad instead of grocery store potato salad? Hey, for Max Harper, you serve from cardboard cartons. So who's coming?”

Clyde fixed a small plate for Joe, heavy on the roast beef. “This is to avoid problems later in the evening.” He fixed Joe with a look. “To keep your big feet out of the platter.”

“That is so rude. When have I ever touched your fancy buffet—in front of guests? So who's coming?”

“Charlie and Detective Davis are coming, if it's any of your business.”

“It's my house, too. Charlie's my friend as well as yours. What's the big deal?”

Charlie Getz was, in fact, Joe's very good friend, one of the four humans who knew his and Dulcie's secret and with whom the cats dared speak. Until recently, Joe had hoped that Clyde and Charlie would marry, but then she got cozy with Max Harper.

Joe had briefly considered Detective Kathleen Ray as a wife for Clyde. It was time Clyde got married; he was getting reclusive and grouchy. And Kathleen was a looker, slim and quiet, with nice brown eyes and sleek dark hair. But then Kathleen had taken a detective's job in Anchorage, where her grandfather had grown up. She'd packed up and moved practically to the north pole, surprising everyone.

“I miss Detective Ray,” he told Clyde, slurping up shrimp salad. “She was a real cat lover. You think she's happy in Alaska?”

“How do you know she's a cat lover? I never saw her make over you and Dulcie, or even notice you.”

“No one said you were super-observant. Kathleen had her moments—a pretty glance, a gentle touch, a little smile.”

“Well, aren't you the ladykiller.”

“She's happy in Alaska?”

“Harper says she loves it. She sends him e-mail messages every few days telling him how great it is. I think she has talked him into going up there on vacation.”

Joe snorted. “Max Harper hasn't taken a vacation from Molena Point PD for as long as I've known him.”

“Harper and Charlie. They'll take the cruise, spend a month with Kathleen.”

Joe stared at Clyde. “You are so laid back about this. Charlie was your girl. Your girl! I never saw you as serious about anyone. Now Harper takes over, and look at you. Couldn't care less. You actually seem pleased with the idea. What, were you glad to dump Charlie?”

Clyde glared.

“Well, of course, now that Kate Osborne's in the picture…”

“Kate is not in the picture, as you put it. We are merely friends.”

“I like Kate all right. But I like Charlie, too. I thought you and Charlie might get married.”

Clyde stopped dishing up shrimp salad into his best porcelain bowl. “Why do you always go on about my getting married? What earthly business is that of yours? Why do you always have to—”

“Keep in mind,” Joe said, “that Kate can't repair the roof or fix the plumbing. Charlie can do those things. I don't even know if Kate can cook.”

Clyde wiped the rim of the bowl, licked half the spoon, then held it out for Joe. “Who I marry is my
business.
If
I get married. And in case you're interested, one doesn't marry a woman because she can fix the plumbing.”

“You have to admit, it's a nice perk. With the cost of plumbers and carpenters, Charlie's skills shouldn't be sneezed at.”

“If I get married, I will pick the woman—without quizzing her on her skills as a handyman and without any help from a cat.”

Joe licked shrimp salad from his whiskers. “Your face is getting red. Have you had your blood pressure checked lately?”

“Marriage is serious business.”

Joe gave him a hard, yellow-eyed stare. “Has it occurred to you that Charlie Getz knows all about me and Dulcie?”

“So does Kate.”

“But Max Harper doesn't.”

“So?”

“If Charlie and Harper are as serious as they seem to be, and if they get married, what then?”

“What
what,
then?”

“It's hard to keep a secret when you're married. Every time Harper gets an anonymous phone call from me or Dulcie, he gets edgy. If the tip is something no human could easily know—like when we found that killer's watch way back in that drainage pipe where no human could have seen it, he gets really nervous. If he finds cat hair at the scene of the crime, you can see him wondering. That stuff really upsets him.”

“So? What are you getting at?”

“So, how is Charlie going to handle that? Seeing him upset like that, when she knows the truth? Don't
you think she'd want to let him in on the facts, so he could stop worrying?”

Clyde turned hot water on the spoon, dropped it in the dishwasher, and turned to look at Joe. “You think that would stop Max Harper from worrying? Charlie tells him that a cat is the phantom snitch? That Clyde Damen's gray tomcat is messing with police business and placing anonymous phone calls? That is going to ease Harper's mind?”

“If she explained it to him, if he knew the truth…”

Clyde's look at Joe was incredulous. “That information, if Charlie could prove it to Harper, could make him believe it, could put Harper right over the edge. Drop him right into the funny farm.”

“Come on…” Joe said, trying to keep his whiskers from twitching. Clyde did rise to the bait.

“Cops are fact-oriented, Joe. Harper couldn't deal with that stuff!” He looked hard at Joe. “Anyway, Charlie has better sense, she knows what that would do to Max.”

“Pretty hard to keep her mouth shut when she's crazy in love and sees him suffering, and when she wants to share everything with him.”

“Who said she's crazy in love?”

“She would be, if she married him. Don't you think—”

“I think you should mind your own business. I think that would be a nice perk in my life. And for your information, Max Harper is not constantly puzzled, as you seem to believe, about a few anonymous phone calls.”

“More than a dozen arrests and convictions,” Joe
said, “thanks in part to our help. Harper's record of solved crimes has made a big impression on the city council.”

“Talk about an overblown ego. You take yourself way too seriously.”

“Such a big impression on the city council that the one bad egg on the council tried to ruin Harper's career, set Harper up to be prosecuted for murder. Tried to get him off the force big time—get him sent to prison on a life sentence.”

Clyde slid the platters of meat and cheese into the refrigerator, with the bowls of salad, and busied himself arranging crackers.

“Who found young Dillon Thurwell when she was kidnapped—when all the evidence pointed to Harper? Who helped her escape?”

“Harper would likely have found her.”

“Right. After she was dead. That woman was going to kill her.”

“All right,” Clyde said. “I have to admit you and Dulcie saved Harper's skin on that one, and maybe saved Dillon's life. But you two have come to believe that Harper can't solve a crime without you, and I call that really insulting. You two cats think—”

“I never said he can't solve a crime without us. I said we've helped him, that we've offered some positive input—the way any good snitch would do. Why can't you enter into a simple discussion of the facts without getting emotional? Without getting your back up, to use a corny and inappropriate colloquialism!”

Clyde sat down at the table and put his face in his hands, shoving aside the rack of poker chips and two
new decks of cards. He didn't say, What did I do to be saddled with this insufferable, ego-driven animal? But it was there, in his silence, in the slump of his shoulders.

“And,” Joe said, “when you do marry, you'll be in the same position as Charlie is with Harper. You marry anyone but Kate or Charlie, marry a woman who doesn't know what kind of cat you live with, you try to hide the truth from her, there's going to be trouble. It would never work. I'd have to move out, find another home—or you'd end up telling her about me! Sharing my fate with a total stranger. Compromising and endangering my life, and Dulcie's. Putting us—”

Clyde swung around in his chair, his face decidedly red. “If you don't get out of this house now, and stay out until we're done playing poker and everyone has gone home, I swear I will not only evict you and nail your cat door shut, I will take you to the pound. Shove you in a cat carrier and leave you at the animal shelter. See you locked in a metal cage forever—because no one would want you. No one would adopt such a bad-tempered tomcat.”

Joe Grey smiled, leaped to the center of the table, and lifted a gentle white paw to Clyde. “You are becoming very creative. If you even tried such a thing, I would spill it all to Max Harper. I would break out of the pound—no trick for yours truly. I'd go straight to Harper. Sit down face-to-face with him and tell him my entire story. I would lay it all on him, every corroborating fragment of proof, every tip, every detail of past phone calls. Proof that I—I alone, not Dulcie—am his phantom snitch.”

He thought Clyde would laugh, but Clyde's brown
eyes blazed with anger. “If you ever did such a thing, I swear, Joe, I'd kill you.”

Clyde shoved his face close to Joe's. “Do you remember the night at Moreno's Bar, after Janet Jeannot was murdered, when Harper tried to tell me his suspicions about certain cats being involved in the case? About certain mysterious phone calls? And you were eavesdropping under the table? Do you remember how shaken Max was?”

“Come on, Clyde…”

Clyde glared. “You so much as whisper to Max Harper, and you're a dead cat. Finished. Comprende?”

“You are so grouchy. You really need to get your life in hand.” Joe dropped down to the linoleum, stalked through to the living room, pushed out his cat door, and crept under the front porch. He'd never seen Clyde so irritable.

He really did have to blame Clyde's mood on pretty, blond Kate Osborne. Clyde and Kate were old friends, but now that Clyde had really fallen for her, she'd turned standoffish. Wouldn't come down from San Francisco, hadn't been down for over a month, didn't want Clyde to come up. Something was going on with her. Clyde didn't know what it was, and as a result, he'd been fierce as a goaded possum. Maybe it was Kate's search for her unknown family, maybe she was totally wrapped up in that, didn't want to think of anything else. Though that project, in Joe's opinion, could lead her into more grief than she'd ever wanted.

Looking out through the cracks between the porch boards, he saw Charlie coming down the street, walking the few blocks from her apartment—and looking very pretty, her kinky red hair tied back with a calico
ribbon, her blue-and-white striped dress as fresh as new milk. When she had hurried up the steps above his head and gone inside, he slipped out of the musty dark to the porch again and sat down beside his cat door, his face to the plastic flap to listen.

“Hi! Clyde, you there? Am I the first one here? You in the kitchen?”

Her cheery greeting met silence. Joe heard the kitchen door swing. “Hi! There you are. I brought some chips.”

No answer.

“What?” Charlie said.

“Can't you knock? Since we're not dating anymore, you could at least—”

“Well, pardon me.”

Again, silence.

“Where's Joe?” she said. “You two have a fight?”

A longer silence.

“Well?”

“No, we didn't have a fight!”

“So where did he go to sulk? And you're sulking in here, in the kitchen. Were you fighting about the house again, about selling the house?”

“No, we weren't fighting about selling the house.”

Charlie said no more. Joe heard one of them open the refrigerator and pop a couple of beers. Charlie knew how to handle him; Clyde's moods didn't bother her. And she was partly right. The problem about the house did make him cross.

Ever since construction had begun on Molena Point's new, upscale shopping plaza—ever since its two-story, plastered wall had risen at the boundary behind Clyde's backyard, blocking their view of the sun
rise and the eastern hills, Clyde had been entertaining offers from realtors. The mall hadn't affected the property values, not in Molena Point, where village lots were so scarce that a buyer would pay half a million for a teardown. And this latest offer to Clyde had topped all the others. It was not from someone wanting a home or vacation cottage, but from a restaurateur planning to open an upscale café—a perfectly understandable plan, in a village where the businesses and cottages were mingled, many shops occupying former residences.

The offering realtor said the house would remain, along with the house next door, which the buyer had already purchased. The two buildings would be converted into dining and kitchen space and joined by a patio whose tile paving would run back to the two-story plaster wall, with outdoor tables and umbrellas and potted trees.