Cat Playing Cupid (17 page)

Wilma wiped her hands on her apron, her look stern, her eyes never leaving Joe. Dulcie was silent, watching the two of them, thinking that over the years Wilma had grown as acerbic as Clyde—though she knew very well that, in the end, Wilma would join them in hiding the box of stationery.

The upshot was that Wilma put the black package in a shoe box and hid it at the back of her closet until the cats chose a more opportune time to deliver it to the law. Then, returning to the kitchen, she fixed them a snack of crackers, Havarti cheese, and deli turkey. “I have,” she said as she added a plate for herself and poured a cup of tea, “I have something to tell you.”

It was now that Sage woke and came hobbling out to the kitchen, encumbered by his cast and bandages. Kit padded sedately beside him, quiet and responsible, quite unlike herself. When Wilma lifted Sage into a chair, Kit leaped up beside him.

Wilma set the cats' plates on their chairs. “While Charlie sat with Sage and Kit this afternoon, I did some research in the library.” She looked very pleased with herself.

“I looked first in the computer index of local history, and then went to the microfilm reader. My arm's sore from cranking through back issues of the
Gazette.
I thought I'd find it in the society pages, hoped I would…”

She paused to sip her tea. “And there it was,” she said with excitement.

“There what was?” Dulcie and Kit said together, lashing their tails with impatience.

“A picture of the same rearing cat.”

“In the society pages?” Dulcie said.

“The society pages. I thought I remembered it. I had an idea about what year it was from helping a patron research Molena Point in the 1920s. And there was the picture, just as I remembered. A photograph of Olivia Pamillon, a close-up of four women dressed for a charity ball.”

“And?” Dulcie said, fidgeting. She hated it when Wilma dragged things out, and she knew Wilma did it on purpose.

“She was wearing the bracelet,” Wilma said. “The rearing cat was quite clear.”

“Then that
is
Olivia's body,” Dulcie said. “But why would they bury her in that little courtyard and not in the family cemetery?”

“That I haven't found out,” Wilma said. “I did find her obituary, and it says she's buried in the family plot.”

“Did her family change their minds at the last minute?” Kit said. “Why would they?”

“Or,” Joe said, “did someone move the body?” The tomcat looked around at their unlikely little group, four cats in chairs and one human with her silver hair looping out of its ponytail. “Or,” Joe said, “is that
not
Olivia, in the grotto? Is that not Olivia, wearing her bracelet?”

I
T WAS LATE
the next morning when Clyde and Ryan returned home from their honeymoon. Joe Grey was napping in the sun on the roof outside his tower, taking a little personal time after facing off with Ray Gibbs the night before. He woke at the faintly familiar sound of the car slowing, and looked over the edge of the shingles.

The sight of the Damen entourage pulling up the street was so amazing that he nearly rolled off the roof. Standing with his front paws in the gutter, taking in the scene, he wished Mike were there to observe the newlyweds' spectacular homecoming—talk about a pair of nutcases!

Early that morning Mike had gone off to the station, having cooked breakfast for Joe, a more than adequate omelet—though he had offered no imported sardines, a condiment the tomcat considered essential with his breakfast eggs. Joe couldn't talk to Mike, couldn't demand sardines. Sometimes he didn't know how he'd survived before he discovered he could speak. All that incessant meowing
just to get his message across and half the time people would stare blankly down at him with no clue at all, looking incredibly mindless.

Though he had to admit, despite their communication problems, Mike was fairly responsive—and he did make a pretty good omelet. This one was with sausage and goat cheese, a combination that Joe intended to bring to Clyde's attention.

He wondered if Ryan would be making the omelets from now on. Not likely—she'd made it clear she'd rather repair the plumbing than cook a meal. But now…

The SUV had pulled into the drive, his family was home, and what a laugh. He couldn't see much through the vehicle's tinted windows, but it was so heavily loaded that it rode way low on its axel, and the tangle of cast-offs tied to the top of that shining, cream-colored Escalade was enough to make a whole gaggle of cats crack up laughing. There was a carved mantel undoubtedly ripped from some decrepit house before the wrecking ball hit it. Five lengths of carved stair rail, ornate and dirty. A pair of heavy carved doors and various other odd-looking building parts Joe couldn't identify. Further insulting the nice Cadillac SUV was the orange rental trailer hitched behind it, riding equally low, loaded with two more bulky mantels, five big cartons sealed with tape, and a dozen stained-glass windows carefully stacked, with folded blankets tucked between them.

Where was Ryan planning to put that stuff?

Clyde swung out of the Escalade, but Joe couldn't see Ryan—then a big orange rental truck came up the street and turned into the drive, beside the Cadillac. Ryan, at the wheel, looked jaunty in a Windbreaker and baseball cap. This was
the blushing bride's demure return from a romantic honeymoon? As Clyde crossed the yard, Ryan stepped out of the rental truck flinging her cap on the seat. Both were dressed in worn old jeans and T-shirts, Ryan's short, dark hair more than usually mussed and a streak of dirt across her nose, and Clyde with a big purple bruise on his arm. The newlyweds looked, not like a couple glowing from a week of romantic indulgences, but like a pair of traveling junk dealers.

If this was how they'd started their marriage, who knew where it was headed. Who knew where this pack-rat insanity would lead? As Joe hung over the roof peering down, Ryan, heading for the front door, seemed to sense him there above her. She paused to look up.

“Come on, Joe, come on down and greet the bride and groom—greet your new housemate.” Then she halted, listening for the sound of barking from the patio but hearing only silence. “Where's Rock?”

Joe slipped across the roof and into his tower, then in through his cat door to a rafter above Clyde's study. Dropping down to Clyde's desk, then to the floor, he bolted down the stairs and into the living room—he couldn't hold back his laughter as Clyde carried his dirty-faced bride across the threshold, he laughed so hard he thought he'd choke himself.

“Is this how you're starting your new life? Looking like a pair of itinerant trash peddlers? Where have you two been?”

“When you've finished laughing,” Clyde said coldly, “would you like to welcome us home? Would you like to welcome your new housemate?”

Ryan had her fist to her mouth to keep from laughing, too, her green eyes merry, her cheeks flushed.

“You'll get used to him,” Clyde said. “I hope you will.”

“Where's Rock?” Ryan repeated suddenly, looking worried.

“At the station with Mike,” Joe said. “Making nice to Mabel, begging cookies.”

Ryan smiled. “Scoffing up
your
treats,” she said with perfect understanding.

Joe grinned at her. “Where,” he said, “are you going to put all that stuff?”

“Not stuff,” Ryan told him. “These are treasures, Joe! Architectural gems. I'll put them over at the apartment, in the garage. You didn't think we were bringing it all in here?”

Joe looked at her in silence, the kind of unblinking cat stare that made people begin to fidget.

“Well,” she said, “there
are
one or two pieces that I'll slip into the carport until I'm ready for them upstairs. You want to see?”

He really didn't want to look at the torn-out parts of old buildings that Ryan insanely coveted, but she was so thrilled with her discoveries. He couldn't refuse, couldn't hurt her feelings.

“I want you to see the mantel,” she said. “I'll be saving that for some really special job. Beautiful hand-painted tiles, Joe, and it's in wonderful shape.”

So, tiles.
Joe yawned.
So, okay.

“Tiles,” she said, “painted with cats. It came from Los Gatos, the city of cats, from a big old house that was torn down. It's charming, please come and see.”

Cats? Curious, Joe trotted beside her out to the rental truck, leaping in when she opened the back doors—at once he saw the mantel and felt his fur bristle.

The face of the mantel was set with blue and white tiles, each six inches square, each painted with a cat: cats hunting, cats sleeping, cats rolling over, everything a cat could think to do. But it was the cat on the center tile that held his attention. This was exactly the same cat that appeared at the Pamillon mansion, the rearing cat carved over the doors to the bedchamber. The same cat that was embossed on the dead woman's bracelet, rearing up with its paw thrust out in an attitude of austere command.

Joe stared at it for a long time, then he leaped to the top of a wooden crate, face-to-face with Ryan. “What did the dealer tell you about this?”

“Not a lot,” she said, frowning. “What's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That the house was built by a cousin of the Pamillon family, the family that built the mansion,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the hills and the old ruins. “What is it, Joe? What's wrong?”

“Charlie told you about the body up at the mansion?” Joe said.

“Yes, she called us.” Ryan glanced out through the open tailgate at the neighbors' houses. “Let's go inside where it's private.” She picked Joe up from atop the crate and slung him over her shoulder with a familiarity that both amused and pleased the tomcat. She smelled of cinnamon and of seasoned lumber. Heading inside, she set him on the couch and sat down beside him.

“What?” she said again, her green eyes searching his, wide with curiosity. “What
about
the mantel?”

“The cat in the center,” Joe said. “The rearing cat.
The body that the ferals found…It's wearing a bracelet with the same cat.”

Ryan was silent, thinking about this. Clyde had sat down beside her and was holding her hand; he watched the two of them, saying nothing.

“And that cat is carved on a lintel, too, over a door of the mansion. The same cat as on the bracelet and on that tile.”

Ryan looked at him for a long time. “I don't know what it means,” she said, “but maybe we can find out. Charlie told me your plan—if that works, maybe we'll be closer to knowing what all this means.”

“And?” Joe said nervously. “
You
think the plan will work?” Was she going to buy his idea? Or was she going to start hedging, saying it might not work, might be nothing more than an off-the-wall cat dream?

Ryan was silent a moment, then laughed and reached to pet him. “It's a great idea, Joe! It's inspired!”

Joe looked up at her and purred, and was glad Clyde had chosen, so well, their new housemate.

“I tell Dad I want to test Rock,” she said, “to see if he has tracking potential. He'll say I'm crazy, that there's no point testing him until he's had some training, no matter how naturally talented he is, that I would never be able to teach Rock anything in one day, that it doesn't work that way.” She sat very still, looking at Joe so deeply that he began to shiver. Then, “He'd be right, you know. It's absolutely nuts, no human could train a dog that way. But,” she said softly, “I think maybe you can,” and she grinned at him. “Let's do it. Let's go for it, Joe.”

T
HREE THINGS HAPPENED
the morning after the honeymooners returned home. Ryan and Clyde and Joe Grey put the first step of Joe's plan into action—the vital, pivotal step upon which the success of the operation depended. Kit and Sage argued hurtfully, and not for the first time. And Kit discovered Ray Gibbs lurking behind Molena Point PD, looking around warily as he shoved something against the locked back door.

The cats' argument had begun the evening before at the Greenlaw home as Kit and her two humans, and Wilma and Dulcie and Sage, gathered for an early supper and a reading of the Bewick tales; it was that reading that sparked Sage's sullen response and Kit's anger.

The Greenlaw house was one story at the front but two at the back; the daylight basement had been converted to a separate apartment, which still stood empty, waiting for the right tenant. The view from both floors was of the village rooftops and the hills beyond.

Surrounding the house, Lucinda's garden shone bright with early spring flowers, but the evening was chill, and within the cozy rooms a cheerful fire burned on the hearth. As the Greenlaws and Wilma settled down for supper in the corner dining room, they looked out over hills awash in golden light as early evening tucked itself down around the village. Wilma had brought a salad to complement Lucinda's shrimp Creole, and for desert Pedric had baked a key lime pie. The three cats ate on the kitchen floor where they could splatter Creole sauce without regard for the rugs and furniture; already Sage's pale fur and white bandages were splattered with tomato sauce as if he'd just endured a second bloody encounter. Whoever said cats ate tidily hadn't seen these three, particularly when shrimp was on the menu. Only Joe Grey was missing; the tomcat was not a big fan of the ancient Celtic tales—and after supper, as everyone settled before the fire, it became apparent that Sage felt the same. As the humans sipped their coffee, and the cats licked the last splashes of Creole sauce from their paws, and Pedric read about doors that led beneath the green Celtic hills into under-earth worlds where lived cats that spoke like men, Sage grew increasingly uncomfortable.

The stories made Dulcie and Kit shiver with wonderful dreams, but Sage turned his back and curled up tight, his face hidden, not wanting to listen. Kit watched him, frowning.

Pedric read of cats appearing suddenly in ancient villages then disappearing, and the villages filling as suddenly with human strangers. His scratchy voice told of how an orphan child followed music from within a hill, and entered
through a door carved with a rearing cat. “‘And there,'” Pedric read, “‘lay an ancient world, its sky as green as emerald, a world all peopled with cats who spoke like men.'”

But if Bewick's retold folktales made Sage uneasy, it was the author's own experiences with speaking cats as he rambled on a walking journey across Scotland that startled everyone, his encounters at crofts and farmhouses where the country families gave him lodging.

“‘I had been, in this short tramp, particularly charmed with the border scenery; the roads, in places, twined about the bottoms of the hills, which were beautifully green, like velvet, spotted over with white sheep, which grazed on their sides, watched by the peaceful shepherd and his dog.

“‘But it was the cats I met in that part of the country, the strange and unnatural cats that gave shocking credence to the folklore of the region. These were the speaking cats of legend,'” Bewick wrote, “‘and one cat in particular, who lived in a small thatched cottage with an old grandmother, entertained me with the gossip of that region, telling stories of the weddings and births, and, purring slyly, telling me the misdeeds of his human neighbors; and he related heartrending tales, too, of the ferocious battles among the region's forbearers, where wars seemed a way of life.

“‘But no war, no atrocity, nor wonder of the land itself, could match the amazing existence of that cat and of those four like him whom I met on my Scottish journey. Even the folktales which I have published herein cannot begin to match that wonder. And surely those stories were based far more on fact than most men could ever guess.'”

Wilma recognized passages that were the same as in the
more common edition of Bewick's memoir, where the folktales and encounters with speaking cats did not appear at all. She'd never seen this rare composite, she hoped that perhaps Bewick had printed only very few copies. When Pedric closed the book, they were all wondering how many people over the years had read these same pages, how many well-meaning folk had shared Bewick's discoveries, not thinking how dangerously cruel such knowledge could be when passed on to others, how it could inflame human greed.

Sage, by this time, was fidgeting and scowling. Everyone watched him, but Kit most of all, her dark ears back, her tail twitching with irritation. When Pedric had finished reading, she crouched for a long time looking at Sage, then she rose to prowl the house, her tail lashing, her yellow eyes blazing; and soon she slipped out of the dining room window and across the oak branch to her tree house where she could be alone.

Quietly Dulcie followed her, concerned for the young tortoiseshell. She found Kit curled up on a cushion in the far corner of the tree house, still scowling, her fluffy tail tucked morosely beneath her. Dulcie approached, sniffed at her, and curled up beside her.

“What, Kit? What's wrong? Sage doesn't like the old tales, but why does that bother you so? Joe doesn't like them either.”

“That's different,” Kit said, hissing at her.

“Can't Sage have his own likes and dislikes? You're his friend, you should understand that. Or maybe more than his friend?”

“It's the way he…,” Kit began miserably. “He so hates the old tales where there are heroes, where there are
brave cats saving the weak. He calls those stories foolish.” She looked crossly at Dulcie. “That's what Stone Eye told him, and he always believed Stone Eye, he thought Stone Eye knew everything—when all he really knew was how to bully us.”

“But Sage turned on Stone Eye,” Dulcie said, puzzled. “Sage fought him, and helped kill him.” This was more complicated than she'd imagined—and more important to Kit.

“Yes,” Kit said, “I thought he'd changed. Maybe he did for a little while. I thought after the battle, with Stone Eye dead and the clowder free again to run and live as they choose, I thought Sage
saw
what a tyrant Stone Eye was.

“But he hasn't changed,” she said sadly, tucking her nose under her paw.

“But you love him, Kit?”

Kit looked up pitifully at Dulcie. “I love what he could have been. What
we
could be, running free together on the hills and no one to beat us down and fill us with ugliness…

“But I can't love that he still worships Stone Eye's cruel ways. I don't want to be with him if those ways are still part of him.” And miserably Kit closed her eyes and ducked her head again, shivering.

Dulcie lay beside her for a long time puzzling over Sage and hurting for Kit, and the evening ended, for all of them, not filled with the joy Dulcie and Wilma had expected from hearing the old tales, but with unease all around.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Kit didn't appear at Dulcie and Wilma's house to share breakfast with Sage, as she had every morning since he'd arrived. When they had finished their pancakes and she still hadn't come, Wilma phoned Lucinda.

“She slipped out at first light,” the older woman said. “She isn't there?” she said worriedly. “I saw her padding away over the farthest roofs, her head down and her tail dragging, and I thought…She was like that all night, would hardly talk to us. I'm frightened for her, Wilma. I'm frightened that she's sick; she says not, but…”

Dulcie lifted her nose from her syrupy plate. “Tell Lucinda she's not sick. I know what's wrong, I'll go and look for her,” and, licking syrup from her whiskers, she took off though her cat door, raced through Wilma's garden, and up a tree to the neighbors' roofs. There she paused a moment, then headed for the library—this morning was story hour. Sometimes when Kit felt blue, she would join the children while they were read to, wanting the warmth and love of the children petting her and the joy of a good story for comfort.

Across the rooftops to the library's red tile roof Dulcie raced, and down a bougainvillea vine to the front garden, where she reared up, looking in the big bay window of the children's reading room.

Yes, there was Kit crowded among the children on the long window seat. Dulcie could hear the librarian's story voice, and the kids were laughing.

Waiting for the story to end, Dulcie padded in through the open front door as if to make her official library rounds, preening and purring while the patrons and librarians
petted and spoiled her. She was, after all, the official library cat. When she didn't appear on a regular basis, Wilma was deluged with questions: Was Dulcie all right? Was she sick? Did she not like the library anymore?

It was nearly an hour later when Kit came padding out of the children's room. When she saw Dulcie, she followed her out into the garden and up to the roof, but when they were alone, she said nothing. She paced irritably, as fidgety, now, as she had been dark and morose the night before.

“What?” Dulcie said. She was grateful for the change in Kit, that she no longer seemed to be grieving. But what was wrong now? The curved roof tiles felt cold under her paws, the shade of the overhanging cypress tree damp and chill as she watched the pacing tortoiseshell.

Kit paused in a patch of sunshine. “I saw that man this morning on my way to the library. That Ray Gibbs. I saw him at the PD, he sneaked in through the back gate to the police parking lot and up to the back door looking all around not wanting to be seen and he left a note there with a rock on it to hold it down and then he sneaked away again, fast.” Now, though she seemed as eager as ever in telling what she'd seen, just beneath that paws-over-tail earnestness was the same flat pall that had subdued Kit last night, her eyes not quite as flashing, her enthusiasm not bursting out like rockets, as was her way. That saddened Dulcie, that made her feel flat and grim, too.

“Maybe the note's still there,” Dulcie said, hoping to distract and cheer Kit, and she crouched to run, to head for the PD.

“No,” Kit said. “Officer Brennan saw it, coming to work. He picked it up. What would…?”

Dulcie imagined hefty Officer Brennan bending down in his tight uniform and picking up the note. “If Brennan found it, then it's inside, on someone's desk. Come on.” And she took off across the roofs, glancing back to make sure Kit was with her.

They arrived on the courthouse roof just before the change of watch. Backing down the oak tree, they waited, crouched in a bed of Icelandic poppies, for someone to open the heavy glass door so they could slip inside.

“You feel better this morning?” Dulcie said softly. “You want to talk about it?”

“No. Yes…No.”

“He's still your friend.”

“I suppose.” The joyous young tortoiseshell seemed to have slipped away again, leaving only a morose shadow of what she should be, and Dulcie hurt for her.

They were quiet for a while, waiting to get inside, the morning brightening around them, cars pulling into the parking lot beneath the big oak trees as folk went to their jobs in the courthouse. Most of the officers were going in and out of the back this morning, they could hear car doors slam behind the building. But then a uniform approached the door. “Come on, Kit, here's Wendell.” And the cats slipped out from among the poppies and skinned inside on the heels of the young officer.

 

L
EAPING TO THE
dispatcher's counter, waving their tails, they smiled at Mabel Farthy then wandered down to the end where Detective Davis was talking on the phone. Kit
looked at the note Davis held and cut her eyes at Dulcie, hiding a little smile, as if she recognized the look of it, and that was the first smile Dulcie had seen all morning. Davis was saying, “Brennan brought it in, it was tucked under a rock at the back door.”

The note was typewritten, and unsigned. When Dulcie reared up, rubbing against Davis's shoulder and her face brushing against the phone, she could hear Harper's voice clearly. “Typewritten or computer?”

Davis petted Dulcie absently, glancing down to see if the tabby was depositing cat hairs on her dark uniform. “It's a printout.” Beside her, Dulcie read it quickly.

Had Ray Gibbs written this? Dulcie wondered. Or Ryder? She hadn't seen a computer in the condo. Maybe Ray had a laptop tucked away somewhere. Or he could have used a library computer. But were these Gibbs's words? Was his English that good? Well, he
had
held an executive position as half owner of Chappell & Gibbs, no matter how unfit he seemed for that kind of work.

Davis said, “Who the hell drops these things? Is this one of our snitches?”

The phone crackled as Harper said, “Whoever dropped it, why wait until now?”

“My gut feeling is that Lindsey Wolf isn't the kind to follow Carson up into the forest and shoot him,” Davis said.

But, Dulcie thought, could anyone say for sure what another person would do? Could anyone be positive that another person wouldn't commit a crime completely out of character, given sufficient cause and the right conditions? And she could see that despite what Davis said, the officer knew that was so.