Cat Shout for Joy (5 page)

 

6

T
his wasn't a
game, this was for keeps. It was that very fact that made it the best game of all. Dead is dead, losing
is
for keeps. Snuffed like a candle, and that was the end of it. Death for the real scum among the decoys and shills they'd set up, and most of those were elderly, they'd chosen those to help mislead the law. So far the actions they'd laid out had gone down just fine. One or two they'd had to back off, but they'd make up for that.

They hadn't liked moving to Molena Point, but this was where the marks had come. Prissy little place for retired rich ­people. Or for those who wished they were rich. That's what most of these ­people were, the want-­to-­be rich. Poking around the fancy shops, maxing out their credit cards, gaga over the big prices. Talking about the big-­deal social events and wanting to be part of them, that's what these newcomers were about. Living beyond their means, trying to get a glimpse of the movie stars and big-­time executives who lived on their high-­toned estates back in the hills.

And in the town itself, little shops all too cute and pretty, sleazy tourists taking in the sights, dragging their fancy dogs on a pink leash. You couldn't move for tourists and foo-foo mutts with fluffy scarves around their necks, dogs even in the outdoor cafés. Well, but the crowds were part of the game, the crowds were cover, all these strangers from out of town worked right in to confuse the action.

Two ­people dead now, and before they moved down here two more taken care of in the city. According to the papers, both cases were accidents. Cops didn't have a clue. Too bad some on the list had moved away. New Hampshire, Georgia, Mexico.

As for these local cops, any town where the chief wore jeans and western shirts, and stray cats wandered in out of the station, had to have hick-­town law enforcement despite their fancy money.

No, the game was playing out just fine. Every death, every name they crossed off the list evened the score one more notch. They'd keep on until they had them all, or as many as they could reach. Maybe in time they'd snuff every one of those killers, who themselves so badly deserved to die.

W
hile the unknown
bully entertained satisfying thoughts of success and while Joe Grey fumed uselessly at the evils of the world, across the village Dulcie sat in her window in the kitchen, purring and content at last.

Looking out at Wilma's bright spring flowers, at the rich alstroemerias and the last of the winter cyclamens, she licked her whiskers at the smell of broiling flounder. Tonight they would have their supper in the living room before the fire and then would tuck up together on the couch with a favorite book, maybe one of Loren Eiseley's that they reread every so often.

Maybe being pregnant wasn't so bad; maybe she'd better enjoy her leisure while she could. When the kittens came, tiny and helpless, she'd have her paws full. And later when their eyes and ears were open, when they had grown bold and wild, she wouldn't have a moment of her own.

Yes, now was a moment for herself, to rest, maybe think about the poems that insisted on waking her at night and wouldn't go away. Even as Wilma dished up their supper, a poem was nudging at Dulcie like a bright glow—­though maybe this verse, she thought, amused, was born of a pregnant cat's ravenous hunger, and that did make her smile.

No thin beggar, never shy

This lady dines quite royally

Fine salami, leftover Brie

Salmon freshly from the sea

She is beautifully obese

Who feasts on kippers and roast geese

But as the poem slowly formed, and as she followed Wilma in by the hearth, she had a sudden flash of something else. Watching Wilma, she saw suddenly the darkly dressed boy, or small man, following Wilma on the street, alone on a foggy morning.

But how foolish. No one was going to attack Wilma, not without sprawling on the concrete themselves, seriously damaged. Wilma Getz might be up in years but she was strong, she was well trained, and she had a carry permit if she wanted to use it. Defensive tactics and firearm training put her in a different category from most of her fellow seniors.
Too bad,
Dulcie thought,
that more seniors have never availed themselves of such skills.

Maybe, in the last few decades, life didn't seem so dangerous. Maybe, the way some ­people looked at their lives, only a very special need would lead one to consider such training.

But of course Wilma's training had come with her profession, in probation and parole.
Yet even now that she's retired,
Dulcie thought,
those skills are a plus. And any citizen can carry pepper spray or a cane, can learn how to use those simple weapons against a would-­be mugger.

She thought about earlier centuries, about the wild young years of the country, when
self
-­protection was the only protection a person had, when there was no nearby law enforcement, when the skill to fight back was an essential way of life.

These trusting humans today,
the tabby thought
, they need to rev up some anger, they need to substitute complacency for sharp teeth and claws. They need to find a little mean in themselves and learn how to use it.

J
oe Grey, heading
for home over the rooftops thinking about the kittens and then about the street crimes, wondered again if it was time to call Max. He had nothing to tell the chief but a few vague observations: the smell of turpentine and bike oil after Merle Rodin's attack. The person following that woman in the wheelchair as if ready to attack her, racing away when Joe Grey himself shouted, then dove out of sight. That ­couple from San Francisco recognizing the woman, knowing her from the city and distressed to see her there in the village. What was that about? Ben Stonewell not wanting the ­couple to see him, and Ben, too, was from San Francisco. Wondering what these matters might add up to, well aware of their vagueness, he knew that Dulcie was right. They needed solid facts, needed leads that Harper couldn't brush off, that wouldn't make the chief lose faith in the phantom snitch.

Leave it for now,
Joe thought.
Just leave it. This time, listen to Dulcie.

Leaping from a pine branch to his own shingled roof, he trotted across to look down on the driveway. Ryan's parking spot was empty, she'd still be at work. No big surprise, she'd been late every night since she started on Tekla Bleak's renovation.

That Bleak woman was a pain in the tail. Ryan never should have taken on her remodel, particularly with so many sensible, likable clients waiting for Ryan to start on their own houses. Ryan's innovative design talents, her conscientious attention to construction details and fine materials had generated a long line of eager customers.

The Bleaks hadn't been in the village more than a few months when they bought the cottage just down the street from the Damens' house, and because Ryan felt sorry for Sam Bleak, in his wheelchair, she had agreed to work them in soon for the needed renovations, so they could live more comfortably. Meanwhile Sam and Tekla were renting a backyard guesthouse just a few blocks from the center of the village, a cottage so tiny there was hardly room at all for the ­couple and their teenage son, or so Tekla complained.

Now as Joe looked down at his own driveway, he could smell their supper, lasagna or maybe spaghetti sauce, and he thanked God Clyde could cook. Clyde's new green Jaguar stood in the open carport, a gleaming collector's item, the result of a three-­way trade Clyde had managed, offering his fine mechanical workmanship on other vehicles, in trade for the Jag. Licking his whiskers at the smell of supper, Joe slipped into his glassed-­in cat tower that rose atop the second-­floor roof, padded across his tangled pillows, and pushed into the house through his cat door onto a rafter above the master suite. Below him, to his left, was the master bedroom: king-­size bed, fireplace, TV, all the amenities. To his right lay Clyde's small study, and beyond it, Ryan's large, glass-­walled studio. The tops of oaks and pines rose on three sides, forming a leaf-­sheltered workplace which, like Joe's tower, blended with the woods and sky.

Dropping down from the rafter onto Clyde's desk, hitting a stack of paperwork, he barely managed to avoid a landslide. The entire suite felt empty. Even Clyde's leather love seat was bare, no little white cat and big silver Weimaraner curled up together. Snowball and Rock would be down in the kitchen licking their chops, waiting hopefully for spaghetti. The two would never admit they were geared for disappointment, that spicy sauces were not on their agenda.

Months ago Ryan had put both animals on a diet of lean cooked beef or chicken, a safe selection of fresh ­vegetables—and added taurine for Snowball. No treats from the table, none of the human-­type food that Joe and Dulcie indulged in. Who could explain to them that speaking cats were different, that they thrived on food that would do inestimable damage to the organs of most animals?

Dr. Firetti was more than careful about regular checkups for the speaking cats, but they always rated A-­plus. Who could explain why? Except for John Firetti, the medical profession didn't know that talking cats existed.

Well, Joe thought, Rock and Snowball felt great on Ryan's diet; they were sleek, lively, and sassy. Ryan had tried only once to put Joe on the same regimen. He'd raised so much hell that she and Clyde gave him what he wanted—­though he knew she was now slipping in a few vegetables. He admitted only to himself that they weren't bad, a little change of flavor that went down fine.

He wondered if Wilma was preparing similar special fare for Dulcie, to better nourish their babies? How would his lady take to that? Again a thrill of amazement shivered through him, another smile twitched his whiskers as he dropped from desk to floor, galloped down the stairs and into the big family kitchen.

Clyde stood at the stove stirring spicy tomato sauce, his short brown hair neatly trimmed, his tanned face showing only a hint of stubble after a long day at the automotive shop. He was still in his work clothes, pale chinos, Italian loafers, a green polo shirt. He had substituted a navy blue apron for the pretentious white lab coat that he wore at the shop. Clyde catered to expensive foreign models, classic cars, and antiques; he liked to keep an upscale image: medical specialist to your ailing Maserati, the best in tender loving care for your frail old Judkins Brougham. As Joe leaped to the table, Clyde turned from the stove.

“What?” Clyde said, frowning at him. “What's the silly grin?”

Why was Clyde always so suspicious? “Bad day at the shop?” Joe asked coolly.

“What, Joe? Why are you smiling like that? What have you been up to?”

“Ryan still down at the Bleak job? Why does that woman show up every evening just at quitting time? Doesn't she know ­people have lives of their own? Doesn't she
understand
the term
quitting time?
”

“I said, ‘What's the grin about?' What gives?”

“Tekla thinks Ryan has nothing better to do than hang around after work to hear her latest complaint.” This remodel, which Ryan had sandwiched in among her larger construction projects, was just four blocks from their own house: a convenient location for Ryan to get to work, handy to run home for lunch. But hard to avoid Tekla Bleak. If Ryan wasn't right there on
that
job—­among three projects she was currently working on—­Tekla would come on down to their house to lay out her complaints.

“Arbitrary, useless complaints,” Joe said angrily. “She makes them up to enrage Ryan.”

“The smile,” Clyde said patiently, stepping to the table, reaching for Joe. “What is the smile about?”

Joe raised extended claws and hissed in Clyde's face. A few things were none of Clyde's business; he didn't need to ask nosy questions.

Clyde looked like he was going to strangle Joe. “What . . . is . . . the . . . smile . . . about? You haven't stopped grinning since you got home.”

“I am not
grinning.
The Cheshire cat grins. I do not grin.”

“It's plastered all over your face. Even when you try to scowl.” Clyde watched him intently. “What? Have you got a line on the mugger?”

“If I had a line on that dirtbag, would I be sitting here on the table listening to your rude hassling? I'd be upstairs on the phone to Max Harper.” Hissing again, he dropped from the table. “I'm going down the street and hurry Ryan along. It's suppertime and I'm starved.”

“What, hop on her shoulder and tell her dinner's ready? That should get Tekla's attention.”

“I don't need to
say
anything. My studied glare speaks volumes.” Turning his back he headed upstairs, leaped to the desk, up to the rafter, pushed out through his cat door into his tower. Out its open window onto the roofs and he headed south to the Bleaks' frame cottage, where, late as it was, he could still hear hammers pounding.

Galloping the four blocks, he leaped onto the roof of the small brown house. White window trim and white picket fence that still needed painting. New, thick roofing shingles under his paws, they smelled new. He crouched above the cracked driveway, looking down at Ryan's red king cab, parked directly below him.

The truck bed was no longer crowded with new kitchen cabinets; they had been unloaded and would be neatly stored inside the empty rooms. Bellying down on the shingles peering over, he watched Tekla Bleak where she stood on the deep front porch telling Ryan off, her voice loud enough to bring two joggers to a halt, the young men staring as if Ryan might need help, but then moving on, fast.

Tekla was a small, skinny woman, her short brown hair awry, her long, baggy blouse draped over slim black tights. Her black running shoes were sleek and expensive.