Cat Shout for Joy (22 page)

 

33

T
he Damens' patio
was crowded with friends gathered belatedly to welcome the wanderers home from Alaska: the Greenlaws, and Ryan's dad and Lindsey. The walled garden echoed softly with talk and laughter. Joe, Kit, and Pan wandered among the guests begging politely. It took only a soft paw and a gentle meow to receive an offering of Brie or pâté, as their human friends, drinks in hand, waited for the main course.

But soon Joe and Pan, growing impatient, leaped to the wall beside the barbecue, closer to the broiling salmon. Below them Kit prowled restlessly, her mind on Dulcie and Wilma at home alone missing the party in their patient deference to the unborn kittens. Even Joe Grey, though he sat greedily licking his whiskers, had not liked leaving his lady.

The backyard of Clyde's original bachelor cottage had once been a depressing expanse of dry grass and weeds that Clyde had euphemistically called the back lawn. Ryan's description had been less endearing. Under her imaginative design, and with a good crew, she had transformed the half-­dead patch into a charming and private retreat. The tall white stucco walls offered privacy from prying neighbors, and cut the sea wind. The brick paving was dappled with leafy shadows from the young maple tree she had planted, and was edged by raised planters now bright with the last of the winter cyclamens. Beneath the trellis that shaded the barbecue, hickory coals glowed where Ryan and her dad stood broiling the big salmon that Mike had split down the center and laid on foil.

Father and daughter did not resemble each other except for their green eyes. Tall, slim Mike Flannery's sandy hair and his light and ruddy complexion spoke clearly of his Scots-­Irish heritage, in contrast to Ryan's warmer coloring and dark hair from her Latina mother, who had died of cancer when Ryan and her sisters were small. Ryan was thankful for Lindsey, for her dad's new wife. He had remained single for so many years. Too busy to date, not wanting to date. Too occupied raising three girls, with the help of Scotty and Dallas. Lindsey's dimpled smile and laughing hazel eyes, her fun-­loving, easygoing ways, fit exactly Ryan's view of what a stepmother should be.

Lindsey sat now with Charlie Harper and the Greenlaws at a small table, the three voyagers telling Charlie about their cruise. The same unstructured, small-­boat cruise that, a few years ago, would have been Charlie and Max's honeymoon trip. If, at the last minute, local crime hadn't gotten in the way when someone blew up the church. Their close call minutes before the wedding still sickened Charlie. That disaster had pulled Max back into the office, unwilling to abandon his men during the continuing alerts and ensuing investigation.

With the money they hadn't spent on their honeymoon they had remodeled the ranch house that Max had owned for years. The handsome addition was a solid and lasting gift to each other, a luxury in which to enjoy their new life.
When Max isn't chasing the bad guys,
Charlie thought,
working long and crazy hours.

But they had a lot to be grateful for, they
were
blessed, living on their comfortable acreage where they could have horses and the two big dogs, where they could ride over the open country in the evenings.
She
was blessed to have the time now to pursue her own career as an artist and writer. But loving Max, their close and comfortable marriage, that was way at the top of the list.

T
he two tomcats,
waiting for supper, watched their gathered human friends, and listened, attuned to every conversation, Joe Grey keen with interest, though Pan was solemn and withdrawn, the red tabby badly missing his father. Joe watched Kit, who had only now settled on Lucinda's lap between Charlie and Lindsey, trying hard to be still.

Kit wanted to ask Lucinda if someone should be with Dulcie and Wilma in case the kittens came, but among this crowd of human friends she could say nothing. She was always having to tell herself to be careful. It was so hard not to blurt out a question, to swallow back her words when so many urgencies railed inside her head, too compelling to
not
talk about.

But Dulcie's all right.
What could happen? Wilma has a phone, and John Firetti is right here at the party, he and Mary are only minutes away if the kittens come.
And then she worried,
How will the kittens handle their gift of speech? How will they learn that they must not speak in front of most humans? How will Dulcie impress on their young kitten minds that talking is a secret? If they do speak? If they are born with that talent, they will think it as ordinary as sharpening their claws. There's so much Dulcie and Joe will have to teach those tiny mites. How will the new babies ever learn to
keep their kitty mouths shut?

But Lindsey was saying to Charlie, “The new exhibit opens when?”

“Next week,” Charlie said. “Two landscape painters, and a woman who does wonderful birds. And my animals.” They watched Ryan leave the barbecue, pick up several empty plates from the table, and head into the kitchen.

“I'm coming to see your animal drawings,” Lindsey said. She glanced down at Kit, then looked at Lucinda and Pedric. “There's one of your lovely tortoiseshell peering down from an oak branch that I'd like to buy.” She smiled. “If you two don't snatch it up first. She's so lovely,” she said, reaching to stroke Kit.

Kit gave her a sweet kitty smile and tried not to preen. But then, even with such praise, her attention turned suddenly to Max and Clyde and Scotty, sitting on the low wall of a flower bed; their serious talk, Clyde's sudden frown, drew her curiosity; she dropped to the brick paving and padded across to listen. Hopping up into the flower bed, she stretched out among the blooms.

“I don't like what will happen to the Bleak house,” Clyde was saying, “now that they've skipped. Ryan could be stuck with a big loss, though she did, after a ­couple of weeks of Tekla's crazy changes, demand more money up front.”

Scotty laughed. “Tekla wasn't keen on that.”

Max said, “Their bank account—­the only account we've found so far—­shows only forty thousand. I expect the mortgage company will attach that, and look for the rest. I'd guess there'll be a foreclosure, maybe a short sale. If—­when—­we pick the Bleaks up, bring them in and prosecute, maybe the court will assign what assets they can find to help the victims or their families.”

“What I don't get,” Scotty said, “is why they ever bought that house, why they ever started on a renovation. If they came here to . . . If their intention was these attacks, they can't have thought they'd be staying permanently.

“Or,” he said, “did they really believe they'd get away with this, that everyone would think the assaults were some kind of prank—­and that the murders themselves were unfortunate accidents? That's insane thinking. Or,” he added, “was that remodel all for show? For distraction, to put you off the track?”

“Pretty expensive cover,” Max said, “though they're adept at manipulating money, sliding out from under.”

Scotty shrugged. “The woman's crazy as a drunk squirrel.” Picking up a canapé, he slipped it down to Rock, who sat watching the three men, the Weimaraner's eager yellow eyes following each morsel from hand to mouth. Clyde gave Scotty a look; Scotty knew Rock wasn't allowed a human diet, but sometimes the Scotsman couldn't resist.

“Well, we've got a line on them,” Max said. “That sighting in Arkansas. Too bad the café owner didn't report it sooner. He didn't know about the BOL until a ­couple days later. A deputy stopped in for coffee, mentioned it and described the Bleaks.” Max scratched Rock's ear as the dog nudged him, but he didn't feed Rock. “They were headed toward Georgia, if they kept on in that direction.” He sipped his beer. “Maybe we'll pick them up on the East Coast, maybe the odds will turn.” He looked up when Ryan caught his eye from the kitchen door, holding up the phone extension.

Max rose and headed for the kitchen, but moved on through toward the guest room, wanting that extension where he could hear above the party noise. The minute Joe Grey heard the guest room door close he dropped down from the wall and slipped away through the crowd. Kit, watching them both, hopped off Lucinda's lap and followed. Pan remained on the wall, stoic and quiet.

Kit, passing the guest room's closed door, paused to hear Max say, “She gave you this number, and not my cell phone?” His irritation told her he was talking about Evijean. She flew up the stairs as, above her on the desk, Joe Grey eased the phone from its cradle. As she landed beside him, he hugged the headset in his paws and eased it down on the blotter. They hoped Max would hear no small electronic click and no thump on the thinly padded surface. Pressing their ears close, Joe and Kit listened.

There was no break in Max's voice as if he'd been alerted that an extension had been picked up. Glancing at each other, they tried not to breathe into the speaker; and they watched the stairs warily in case someone started up to the office and studio—­why would the two cats have the phone off the hook, crouched over it?

Mice in the speaker?
Kit thought, and had to swallow her laugh.

Max's call was from Georgia, from Sheriff Jimmie Roy Dover. Dover's drawl was deep and heavy. Kit imagined a portly man who enjoyed his native southern cooking.

“So far, this is the way we've put it together,” Dover was saying. “The worst of it is, we've got every unit out there looking for wounded, for bodies. And of course evidence is disturbed, stuff flying everywhere.

“Well, when the tornado passed, she
must
have known Sam's and Arnold's bodies were there on the dock, under the fallen roof. Maybe she thinks they're dead, maybe not. Maybe she runs to help them, maybe not. All we've found is a line of muddy footprints where she gets out of her room, where she runs outside—­and she doesn't head their way.

“When she's clear of the worst of the debris,” Dover said, “she pauses beside the body of a dead woman among the fallen walls. Later, one of our men photographed the body and what may be Tekla's footprints. The dead woman must still have been clutching her purse. Looks like Tekla—­if those are her footprints—­grabs the purse, you can see where it was dragged out from under the muddy debris. It took us a while to find this much, with the mess, and with victims needing help.

“We figure Tekla now has the woman's car keys, fished them out of the purse. She steps on out to the parking strip. The first row of cars was smashed. Tornado sheared through the building neat as a Skilsaw, dumped the fallen walls on that row of vehicles. It missed the more distant cars, she must have bleeped the electronic key until she got a response from one of them, an answering bleep or blinking light. Now she has the right car, she gets in and takes off.”

Max was silent, listening.

“But Tekla's wounded,” Dover said. “She drives about three miles, then starts swerving, tire marks all over the road. Pretty quick she loses it, runs the car into a tree.”

“You got her.”

“No, we didn't. She must have sat there for a while, but then you could see where she backed the car up. Apparently didn't do too much damage, gas line must have been okay, apparently no tires punctured, and she takes off again.”

“Well, hell.”

“Rescue units were on their way to the motel, but in the dark and the hard wind they must have sped right by her, didn't ever see her.

“We didn't find the tire marks and the gouge in the tree until the next morning, first light. By that time,” Dover said apologetically, “she was long gone.”

“And Sam and Arnold?”

“Dead,” Dover told him. “Crushed by the fallen roof. GBI has the report. They'll be calling you.”

Max was quiet for a long while. Joe and Kit felt a surprising twist of pain for Sam and Arnold Bleak. No matter what they had done, no matter whether they'd been a willing part of Tekla's plan, the two cats didn't like to think of someone being crushed that way, in that terrible storm—­and of Tekla not even trying to save them, just leaving them.

Max gave Dover his cell phone number. As the officers ended the call, Joe used both paws to ease the headset back onto the phone. They waited in the shadows at the top of the stairs until Max left the guest room and moved out to the patio again. Only when he'd gone did they wander casually down the empty stairway—­but at the bottom Kit paused, startled, the fur along her back lifting. Joe Grey froze.

A faint ripple of tension ran through those gathered, through not everyone seemed aware of it. A subtle glance across the patio between Ryan and Clyde, between Charlie and Kate and the Greenlaws, a look as meaningful as a whisper—­and the Firettis were headed for the front door, John fishing his car keys from his pocket.

“The kittens,” Kit whispered. “Joe, the kittens are coming.” But Joe was gone, racing away, flicking his heels in her face. Clyde bolted across the living room and out of the house, across the yard trying to snatch Joe from the air as the tomcat leaped past John Firetti—­and Joe was through the driver's door into the back of the medical van.

Joe Grey glared out at Clyde.
“Leave me alone,”
he hissed softly.
“
They're
my
kittens!” Clyde stepped back, returning Joe's angry stare.

“Let him come,” John said. “Let him be with her.”

“But . . .”

“There's not much chance of germs, they're always together. Whatever Joe's been exposed to, so has she.”

Silently Clyde stepped back. John closed the door and they were gone, roaring away up the street headed for Wilma's cottage.
In the van, Mary reached out to Joe. He crept up between the bucket seats to the front and into her arms. She stroked him but said nothing; the kittens were coming and they were both nervous.