Cat Spitting Mad (10 page)

C
harlie Getz
was on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor of her one-room apartment when Kate arrived, an hour earlier than they'd planned. Charlie answered the door with the knees of her jeans sopping, her red hair in a mess, and a ketchup stain down her T-shirt. Opened the door to a gorgeously turned-out blond, sleek golden hair, clear green eyes, her creamy merino sweater immaculate and expensive. Charlie felt like
she'd
crawled out of a Dumpster. She'd meant to shower and change, make tea, put the bakery cookies on a plate, try to act civilized. She had never met Kate, only talked with her on the phone last night. If Clyde had told her what a stunner this woman was, she'd have spent the morning fretting over her clothes and trying to do something with her hair.

Kate held in her arms the relaxed and purring tortoiseshell kit. Joe Grey and Dulcie stepped out from behind her, Dulcie's tail waving, Joe's docked tail erect and cheerful, the two cats smiling up at her as they pushed past Kate's ankles into the room. But the ex
pression on Kate's face made Charlie hurry her inside and hastily shut the door.

“What's wrong? There's nothing wrong with the kit?”

“No, she's fine. I'm sorry I'm so early. I'm Kate. Hanni and I were up at the Pamillon place, we hurried straight down to the police, and I…”

Charlie led Kate to the dinette table and pulled out a chair. Kate sat, still holding the unprotesting kit, cuddling her as if she needed the kit's warmth. Behind her, Joe and Dulcie leaped onto Charlie's daybed and began diligently to wash, their expressions smug and secretive. Charlie looked at them intently. “Start again,” she told Kate, turning on the burner under the teakettle and sitting down opposite her.

“We were—we found something of—that might be Dillon's. I…” Kate looked deeply at Charlie. “I found it. I left it there, didn't touch it. I came right down to the police. A silver barrette. With turquoise. They—Officer Wendell has gone up to look. But I…” Kate stared absently at the teakettle. When she looked back at Charlie, her eyes were filled with fear and with a strange and powerful wonder.

“What?” Charlie said.

“We saw the lion,” Kate whispered.

“The mountain lion? The cougar?”

“Yes. And it saw us. It came toward us. The kit went up my back like a bullet.” Kate turned to show the bloody splotches down the back of her sweater. She didn't seem concerned about the wounds or the sweater. Tenderly she stroked the kit. And she began to laugh.

“She clung on my head and she…” Kate doubled over, cradling the kit, laughing until tears came.

When she looked up, she said, “You know about them.”

Charlie was silent.

“It's all right,” Dulcie said softly. “Kate knows—more then you'd guess.”

Charlie looked at Kate with speculation. “Then what happened?” she said. “What did the lion do?”

“He came right down into the ruin,” Kate said. “Came directly toward us—as if he was curious. He paused not twenty feet from us. We were terrified, we daren't move. He kept coming, watching and watching us. I thought he would attack—but he was so beautiful. I can't explain how I felt.

“The kit was up my back digging her claws in. The lion stopped again and stood looking at us. Just—looking. I wanted to run, and knew you daren't do that. I glanced at Hanni. She was standing stone still. I felt like we were glued to the ground. And then the kit, still digging in—she snuggled down by my ear and whispered, so soft. She told me to look big, to hold my jacket up, make myself look bigger.”

From Kate's lap, the kit stared at her, trying to see what was so amusing.

“She told me to look him in the eye and speak clearly. She said, ‘Tell him to get lost.'

“I held up my coat and spoke to him just as the kit said. And Hanni—Hanni knew what I was doing. She came up beside me, holding up her coat, and we stood together telling the lion very sternly to go away.

“And he did,” Kate said. She sat back in her chair,
hugging the kit. “He turned and melted away into the garden. He was standing on a fallen tree one second and gone the next. I thought he had dropped down behind the log, that he would wait, then attack. But then we saw him far up the hill, standing among the trees. Still watching us.”

Charlie had to grin. She felt like she'd known Kate forever—Kate's animal sense, her humor, and the way she loved the kit. All were qualities that drew her to Kate—as did the fact that she and Kate shared the cats' momentous secret. They were bound together, with Clyde and Wilma, in a confidence that, if any of them broke it, would be the most horrible of betrayals.

“And we got out of there,” Kate said. “The moment he was gone. Went straight to the police to tell them about the barrette.”

“Wilma gave Dillon a barrette,” Charlie said. “Silver, set with turquoise strips.”

“It was there in the Pamillon nursery. Beside an old firewood box next to the hearth. A box big enough for a young girl to hide.”

“But why didn't the searchers find it?”

“The kit found it in the chest, caught up under the lid. Must have pulled off when Dillon hid.”

Kate grinned. “The kit found it, and the cats brought it to me while Hanni was distracted.”

“And you told Officer Wendell?”

“Yes. What's wrong?”

“I…nothing. When you went to the police, wasn't Hanni surprised that you brought the cats down from the ruins with you?”

“No. She wouldn't have left them, with the cougar
there. It seemed perfectly natural to her to bring them down.”

Charlie rose to pour boiling water into the teapot. She felt as comfortable with Kate as if she'd known her forever. Setting the teapot on the table, she fetched the lemon cookies, sliding them onto a plate.

Kate's color was coming back. “To see such a thing, Charlie. Can you imagine it? I felt terrified, but I was filled with such wonder. I still can't believe I saw that beautiful beast, so close to us.”

How strange, Charlie thought, that Kate's voice seemed filled with envy.

And she saw envy again, a few minutes later, as Kate looked at the pencil and ink studies of animals that Charlie had lined up along the wall, and at the framed drawings hanging above them, sketches of cats and dogs and of Max Harper's horses. “And raccoons,” Kate said. “These are all quite wonderful. And foxes. Where…?”

“In the hills,” Charlie said, “around Harper's place. We've been working the pups on obedience, those two big pups Clyde found. Working them in Max's pasture.”

“And the foxes were watching?” Kate teased.

“In the evenings,” Charlie said, laughing. “That big fellow in the drawings, he comes near the porch. He knows when the dogs are shut in their stall. I think he comes to hunt mice. Max never puts out food.”

The village of Molena Point imposed a stiff fine for setting out food for wild animals. The area was overrun with raccoons; they turned over trash cans and would break into people's houses, tearing through the
screens. Even George Jolly had been criticized for setting out treats in his alley, though the deli was right in the center of the village, not on the outskirts where the smell of food was more likely to attract a wild beast. Raccoons hunting in packs had killed village cats and small dogs—and the raccoons and foxes drew the larger predators: bobcats and an occasional coyote, and now the cougar.

“You've been seeing a lot of Harper,” Kate said tentatively, “what with training the pups.”

Charlie nodded. “Clyde talked to you about that?”

“He mentioned it.”

“And…?”

Kate shrugged. “Clyde's easily made jealous.” She grinned. “Not to worry—jealousy's good for him, keeps him on his toes.”

“Clyde asked you to pump me. To see how I feel about Harper.”

“Would you mind?”

“I—I suppose not. What difference? Our petty feelings, right now…What difference? Oh, why did this have to happen! To a good man!”

“That's how you feel about him.”

“Maybe. I really don't know how I feel, Kate.”

Kate nodded. “Are there any leads to the murder? Any suspects? I know that everyone's looking for Dillon. What a terrible thing this has been.”

“There's a parolee in town who might be involved. But I don't hear much. The department keeps pretty tight security.” She looked at Kate. “Those officers will do everything that's humanly possible to find the killer and clear their chief.”

“There's…no chance that Harper, under some kind of stress, in a moment of rage…?”

“Max Harper?” Charlie felt her face go hot. “Kill that woman and her daughter? No way in hell Max could do such a thing.” She rose, refilled the teakettle, and put it back on the burner. Turning, she looked at Kate. “You can't believe that.”

Kate smiled. “No. I don't believe that.”

“Still a fishing trip.”

Kate shrugged.

From the couch, the cats watched this exchange with amused interest.

Kate took two more cookies, ate them quickly. “Do you remember when three men escaped from San Quentin?”

“Yes. From death row? You're talking about the one from Molena Point. The one who was sent to prison at the same time—”

“The same time as my ex-husband.”

Kate swallowed half a cup of tea. “I think I may have seen him in San Francisco. Someone in the city is murdering cats. He did that, Lee Wark did that.” She shivered. “He liked to kill cats.”

On the couch, Joe and Dulcie moved closer together, their blood going icy. The tortoiseshell kit turned wide yellow eyes on Kate.

Kate looked back at them sternly. “You would stay far away from a man like that. A tall, thin man, Kit. Thin and hunched and pale, with muddy eyes.”

The three cats shivered.

“The man in San Francisco,” Kate said, “had a black coat that made him look squarer and broader. A black
goatee. Black hat. But his eyes were the same. Like a dead fish.”

The kit crowded closer to Kate.
Frightened,
Dulcie thought.
Frightened down to her little black paws. And so am I.
And she watched the kit, terrified for her.

Lee Wark had tried to kill Dulcie and Joe just as he had tried to kill Kate. And if he got one look into the kit's eyes, Wark would know that she, too, was not an ordinary cat.

But Wark was not there in the village, he would not come there. The very thought made her fur crawl.

“Dallas will be here in the morning,” Kate said. “He's very aware of Wark.”

“What's he like? What kind of man?”

“I work with his niece, I'm her design assistant. Dallas helped to raise Hanni and her sisters after their mother died. Hanni says he's totally honest. But…” Kate laughed. “I guess that's like asking what kind of man your father is. What are you going to say?”

“I…have another source, too,” Charlie said.

“Your aunt Wilma? She worked with Hanni's father at one time.”

“Yes, in the San Francisco probation office, before he was appointed chief. She knows Garza by reputation. Wilma says he's okay.”

“Hanni says no little girls ever had better raising. They learned to ride, to hunt, to handle firearms—and to clean house and cook. Hanni says Dallas is a wonderful cook. Kate, he has to be a good man, to take such care in raising his dead sister's children.”

But Joe Grey, watching the two young women, thought,
Even crocodiles take care of their helpless
young. Even Mafia parents see that their kids learn what they want them to know.

Charlie said, “Whoever's out to get Harper, I hope Garza sees them burn in hell.”

Joe Grey hoped so, too. Though the haste with which the city attorney had suggested Garza, and the pressure that Gedding had put on the chief in San Francisco to get Garza left him wondering—hoping the source of this cold-blooded setup to destroy Harper didn't reach clear to San Francisco via Molena Point City Hall.

The balance of Max Harper's life now lay in the hands of Dallas Garza. And Joe Grey, stretching out across the daybed, considered how best to monitor Detective Garza's moves.

Meantime, he'd like a look at confidence artist Stubby Baker, Harper's unwitting and apparently useless alibi.

A
cat
could travel for blocks above the village of Molena Point never setting paw to the sidewalk, crossing the chasms above the streets on twisted oak limbs or by leaping the narrow alleys between skylights and attic windows, by trotting between shingled peaks so precipitous that even with all claws out, one couldn't help but slide, landing on a swinging sign below or a roof gutter. At only a few streets must the feline traveler come to earth like a common tourist and run across behind the wheels of slow-moving cars.

Stubby Baker's apartment was a handsome penthouse on the second floor above a row of exclusive clothing shops. The kit led Joe Grey and Dulcie there as if she had invented surveillance. “That's where he lives,” she hissed, clinging to an oak branch beside Joe, three floors above the street. “Right in there across that balcony behind those big glass doors, the man who kicks cats.”

From the tree in which they crouched, the cats looked down on a long tiled balcony and a pair of
many-paned French doors. Despite the bright day, a light was on within. Baker sat at a dining table littered with papers, just inside the glass doors. He was a tall well-knit man totally unlike his nickname, his dark hair neatly trimmed, his smooth skin well tanned. A man the women would find appealing.

The apartment had high, dark beams against a white plaster ceiling, white walls, a skylight through which the sky shone blue and clear. Used brick formed the floor and the corner fireplace, beside which hung eight small, well-framed reproductions of Richard Diebenkorn's landscapes, gleaming rich as jewels. An opening behind the fireplace apparently led to a bedroom. Before the fire, three tan leather couches formed a luxurious conversational group, their cushions deep and inviting, perfect for kneading claws.

Baker seemed totally absorbed in the official-looking documents he was reading, making occasional notes or corrections. He wore clean chinos and a tan golf shirt. Expensive sandals graced his thin, tanned feet. He gave every impression, both in his person and in his environment, of a well-to-do businessman of some stature, not an ex-con with a laundry sheet that would stretch a city block.

The cats, slipping along the branch closer to the window, had a fine view down onto the papers that occupied him: documents marked with seals and notary stamps, and a land map marked off into individual parcels. Pens and a ruler were aligned beside it. Joe read the larger print upside down, a talent he had developed during interminable breakfasts when Clyde
hogged the front page.

“Deeds of trust,” he said softly. “Copies of wills and property transfers.” He studied the land map. “The way the coastline runs, that
could
be the Pamillon estate.”

On an end table, among a clutter of dog-eared paperbacks, lay a stack of bills. The paperbacks didn't seem to fit Baker's image; the covers looked like lurid, cheap fare. The utility bills were of greater interest, particularly the phone bill on top, showing half a dozen long-distance calls to one Marin County number.

Joe peered closer, committing the seven digits to memory just as he had committed his own phone number, Dulcie's, and several numbers for Max Harper.

He might not want to explore some of his more bizarre inherited talents, but the memory bank within his gray sleek head was of considerable use to the tomcat.

Marin County, some thirty miles north of San Francisco, was the home of San Quentin State Prison. And Lee Wark hadn't been the only convicted murderer incarcerated there thanks to Harper.

Repeating to himself the number and prefix, he was trying to figure how to get inside the apartment and paw through the rest of the bills when Dulcie hissed, staring down at the street.

Almost directly beneath the balcony, in the line of halted traffic waiting for pedestrians to cross, sat an open black Mercedes convertible, its radio blaring rock music, its driver staring above her up toward Baker's windows. Her honey-colored hair was tied back with a yellow scarf. Her tan shorts revealed long, tanned legs. Her brown eyes scanned the portion of
French doors that she must be able to see above the angle of the balcony. Beside her on the front seat sat three loaded grocery bags. The cats could see peanut butter, a jar of jelly, some kind of cereal. The traffic moved on.

Dulcie watched narrowly as the convertible slid away. “What was she looking at?” Dulcie said.

“Maybe at us.” Joe leaped to the roof, away from the branch and Baker's windows. “Maybe she's a cat lover.”

“Oh, right.” She joined Joe and the kit on the roof, her green eyes glowing. “Could she be checking on Baker? Is there a connection between Crystal and Baker?”

“I don't—” Joe began. But Dulcie was gone, streaking across the rooftops, following Crystal's convertible as it crept in the line of slow-moving cars. Joe saw her disappear over the edge and reappear on the roofs of the next block, lashing her tail with annoyance—very likely after dodging too close to slow-moving wheels. He wished she wouldn't do that. The village's daytime streets, though crowded and slow, belonged to the cars of upscale tourists. That, he had pointed out to Dulcie, was why they used the rooftops.

The early-morning village streets, before the tourists were out of their beds, boasted more careful drivers. Those streets smelled better, too. Smelled of the sea and of newly watered gardens, while the midday village smelled, to a cat, of exhaust fumes–deodorants–shaving lotion–perfume–chewing gum–restaurant cooking and too many human bodies.

Joe caught up to Dulcie, the kit crowding close, and they followed the black Mercedes for eight blocks, crossing the streets twice among the feet of the
tourists, enduring endless remarks about the cute kitties and constant attempts to pet them, dodging away from reaching hands.

But when Crystal's car turned right, traffic moved swiftly again and the cats couldn't keep up; they ran until they were panting. Standing on the sidewalk, Joe stared after the Mercedes, frustrated. Joe and Dulcie didn't see the black SL again until the following week.

But the kit saw Crystal's car later that evening and followed it, alone. Galloping along the sidewalk, dodging between tourists' feet, she was wildly excited to be on a trail that the two big cats had lost.

The time was just dusk. She had been out for a prowl through Jolly's alley, because no matter how well Wilma fed her, she could never get filled up, and Jolly's had such delicious offerings, all that lovely smoked salmon.

Leaving the alley licking her whiskers, she saw the open Mercedes go by, saw Crystal's tawny hair blowing and smelled Crystal's perfume. She followed, running seven blocks after the car but careful about crossing streets, followed until Crystal pulled into a drive and parked before a closed garage door.

Crystal hurried up the wooden stairs, the kit following so close on her heels that when Crystal pushed in through the front door it slammed in the little cat's face. Backing away, the kit leaped to the windowsill, pressing her nose to the glass. There was a curtain drawn across.

Rearing up, she couldn't see over it.

Taking the direct approach she mewled at the door, her cries ever louder and more desperate, in the age-old classic plea:
I am abandoned, I am starving, I am so terribly hungry and cold.
She worked herself into such a frenzy, convinced herself so well of her plight, that she was all a-tremble when Crystal flung open the door and dumped a pan of water in her face.

The kit fled for Wilma's house.