Cat Fear No Evil (9 page)

 

Joe Grey trotted fast up the four blocks to Wilma's stone cottage and, avoiding the front garden, galloped around behind where the wild hill rose steeply at the back. Leaping up through the jungle of tall grass, its dry swords laced through with new green shoots, he spun around, standing tall on his hind paws and peered over the rustling jungle, in through the guest-room window.

He could see Kate's tan wheeled suitcase lying open on a luggage stand. The only clothing not folded into it was her blue velvet robe, which was thrown across a chair. The black tom crouched just beside the bed. Even as Joe watched, Azrael slid up and into the open suitcase among her sweaters and silk lingerie bags, and began to paw through them, his black tail lashing as he prodded and poked with demanding paws. Joe watched him, frowning. Kate was all packed to head home, the
hangers in the closet empty, the bedding turned back, the sheets and pillowslips removed and piled in a heap in the corner. That, Dulcie had told him, was the way Wilma liked her guests to leave a room. Neither Dulcie nor Wilma could understand why a house guest, on departing, would make up the bed with dirty sheets when his host would only have to strip them off again, to put on clean ones for the next round of company.

When the tom had finished patting and pawing at the sweaters and lingerie, he turned his attention to the side pockets of the suitcase, sliding his quick black paw into one pocket after another, searching as thoroughly as would any human thief.

But searching for what? Why would this feline thief waste his time with maybe a few hundred dollars in cash, say, when he was accustomed, working with a human partner, to robbing far more productive safes and cash registers? And why Kate?

Kate had told Wilma that the choker she wore last night was paste, fake jewels. So why would this black beast want it? And where was his human partner? Who was Azrael running with now, if old Greeley was out of the picture? Joe watched, fascinated and filled with questions as the tomcat rooted and dug.

When the cat had investigated nearly every inch of the suitcase and had slyly smoothed each item back as it had been, when he was rooting in the last small pocket, he paused.

With his paw deep in the smallest pocket, he remained very still. His mouth was open, panting, his ears shifting in every direction, seeking for the faintest sound.

The tip of his tail twitching with excitement, Azrael
withdrew his paw, claws extended. Dangling from those curved rapiers was a round flashing key fob attached to a long silver key.

Dropping his prize on the carpet, he stood looking down at it. A very plain key and curiously flat, no little ridges as most keys had to fit into the mysterious depths of their given lock. This key did have little protrusions to code the tumblers, but each was precisely cut, at right angles. And Joe Grey smiled.

Clyde carried a key like that, struck from a flat sheet of metal, each straight cutout with only right angles and precise corners, a key that looked as if it would be easy to reproduce but, for reasons Joe didn't understand, was apparently hard to duplicate—or maybe locksmiths did not keep that kind of blanks, in some universally agreed-upon deference to security.

Leaving the safe deposit key lying beside the suitcase, Azrael leaped to the dresser. Pawing through a sheaf of papers that were weighted down with a hair-brush, he was once more thorough and intent. He sorted carefully through the stack but, not finding what he was seeking, he abandoned the papers at last and tackled a leather briefcase that stood leaning against the mirror.

Poking his black nose in, then all but climbing inside, the tom wiggled and shook the bag as if fighting some inner fastener. Pawing and nosing, he backed out after some minutes, gripping in his teeth a small blue folder. A checkbook? Joe was so fascinated that he stepped on a thistle hidden among the grass, the barbs stung like needles. Flinching at the pain, he watched Azrael open the folder and stare down at the pad of checks.

Was he reading the bank's name and location? Joe watched him remove a check carbon with a careful paw and pat at it until he had folded it into quarters. Pressing the creases with his paw, he retrieved the key, laid it on the folded carbon and took them both clumsily in his teeth.

Holding his head high so as not to drag the key and maybe not drool on the carbon, Azrael left the room flaunting his prize as he might flaunt a pigeon he had captured on the wing.

Outside on the hill, Joe Grey moved fast, leaping down through the grass, heading for Dulcie's cat door. He was around the house by the corner of the garage when he heard the cat door flap, and the black beast burst out and down the steps, flashing away through Wilma's garden.

Silently Joe followed.

 

Metal and paper are not mouth-friendly, the one brutally hard, the other inclined to become soggy. But, heading across the village and keeping to the shadows, Azrael was on an incredible high. What he carried was practically an engraved invitation, a passport to jewels that, according to Emerson Bristol's
true
account of the matter, were worth a hefty fortune.

The scenario was quite different from what Kate Osborne believed. And that should lead to ridiculously easy pickings; as simple as snatching baby birds from a sparrow's nest.

T
he body had been taken away. On the trampled
front lawn of the yellow Victorian cottage, the coroner stood talking with Captain Harper. Inside the house could be seen, through a front window, Detective Dallas Garza and Helen Thurwell standing in a book-lined room, talking. In the same room, unobserved, Dulcie and the kit lay sprawled beneath a leather easy chair, peering out, watching and listening.

The cats weren't sure whether Helen was some sort of witness, or a suspect. Though of course Garza would want to question her, she was Quinn's sales partner. Dulcie looked around the study, mentally yawning. Quinn's house was dullsville.

One would think a real-estate agent would have a lovely home, maybe small and modest but certainly designed with character and imagination. James Quinn's residence looked as if Quinn, who was a widower, cared little about his surroundings. As if the living room were no more than a wide passageway to the bedroom or kitchen but otherwise of no use. The furni
ture was old and cheap, the colors faded almost to extinction; there were no pictures on the walls, no books or flowers or framed photographs on the end tables. She imagined Quinn bringing home a bag of takeout for his supper, eating it alone in the kitchen or on the couch as he watched TV on the relic set, imagined him coming into his study to do a little paperwork, then off to bed.

Maybe his social life and nice meals, whatever elegance he might enjoy, centered around the golf course. Certainly Quinn had nice clothes, certainly he dressed very well; she had seen him around the village. Whether dressed for work showing houses or for the one sport in which he indulged, he always looked well turned out.

Quinn's study was just as dull as the rest of the house, furnished with scarred and mismatched furniture and cheap plywood bookshelves. Helen stood looking down at Quinn's battered oak desk, which was strewn with folders and papers lying every which way atop a black leather briefcase.

“He never kept his papers like this, in such a mess. James might not be…have been much for a pretty house,” she said almost as if she'd read Dulcie's thoughts, “but he was a neatnik when it came to work.”

Helen Thurwell was a few inches shorter than Garza. Her cropped, dark brown hair was straight and shining, her black suit neatly tailored. She wore flat black shoes, simple gold earrings, and she still wore her thick gold wedding band. Dulcie watched her cover that now, with the cotton gloves that Dallas Garza handed her.

“We've fingerprinted and photographed,” Garza
said. “Even with the gloves, please handle the papers by the edges. I'd like you to go through them, tell me if anything looks strange, or if you think anything is missing.”

Watching the detective, Helen was quiet for a long moment. “As if someone…As if this wasn't an accident?”

“Until we learn otherwise,” Garza said shortly.

“I'll have to sort them into some kind of order.”

Garza nodded.

Standing at the desk, Helen began sorting through Quinn's papers, arranging them into stacks, each atop one of the empty file folders that were mixed in with loose sheets. “He was always so neat, he never made this kind of mess. Each sale has its file with several pockets for offers and counteroffers, for miscellaneous notes, for the inspection and related work. He…he used to tease me about my haphazard ways.” She compared several sheets, stood thinking a moment, then put the papers in their proper files. When she had finished, she moved away from the desk, turning toward the window. The cats could see her face now, her dark eyes filled with distress. She looked up at Garza.

“I see nothing missing, all the clients we were working with are here. Their files seem complete. His field book is here and doesn't look tampered with. The only thing that's strange, outside of the mess, is a notebook seems to be missing. Not part of our work but a small personal notebook. Maybe it's somewhere else in the house. I don't know what it was for, I'm sure it didn't have to do with business. It wasn't anything that the rest of us kept.”

Helen shook her head. “I didn't see it often, and he never shared it with me. Occasionally I would see him making an entry, but it seemed a private thing. A small brown notebook maybe three by five inches. Sometimes he carried it in his coat pocket. Reddish brown covers…what do they call it?
Deal?
A slick mottled brown, sort of like dark brown parchment, but heavier. Black cloth tape binding. The kind of notebook you'd get in any drugstore or office supply.”

“Did you ever see the entries?”

“No. When I came in he was usually just putting it away. Not hiding it, but as if he'd finished whatever he wrote there. Possibly something to do with his clients' personal likes and dislikes, that was my guess. Not about what they wanted in a house, that we kept in a mutual binder. But maybe for little gifts, you know? What kind of flowers or candy. We send a little gift when a sale is completed.

“And yet that does seem strange,” Helen said, “to take that much care with those routine presents. He usually let me handle that.”

She looked with desolation at Garza. “James was a very matter-of-fact guy, not a lot of imagination. Honest—a good person to work with.” But as she said this, her face colored and she turned away.

Watching from the shadows, the kit put out a paw as if to comfort her, then quickly drew it back out of sight. Dulcie considered Helen with interest. Had mentioning James Quinn's honesty embarrassed her because of her own cheating? Why else would she blush like that?

When Detective Garza and Helen had left the house, the cats trotted to the far end of the living room and
leaped to the sill of an open window, ready to follow them out. But, hitting the sill, they saw who was out there and dropped again to the floor. Dillon Thurwell stood in the shadows not six feet from them.

Unwilling to miss anything, the two cats hopped up onto an end table that stood behind the dusty draperies. Crowding together, they could just see out where Dillon and three of her girlfriends were giggling and whispering rude remarks—as if they had been there for some time watching the coroner and ogling the dead man, as if they had seen Quinn taken away to the morgue and found the tragedy highly amusing. In the morning light, Dillon's red hair shone like copper against the dark hair of two companions, and against the long, pale locks of the one blonde. The girls were dressed in low-cut sleeveless T-shirts that showed their bellies. Their remarks about the pitiful dead man were filled with rude humor.

Dillon seemed so cold and hard, Dulcie thought sadly, compared to the young girl she knew. Last year, Dillon had been among the first to suspect the murders of those poor old people at Casa Capri Retirement Home. Acting with more compassion and more responsibility than most of the adults involved, and far more creatively, she had helped to uncover the crimes. Then this last winter during the Marner murders, when Dillon was kidnapped by the killer, she had again kept her head better than many adults would have, defying her captor, and quick to move when Charlie and the cats helped her escape.

Now Dillon seemed not at all in charge of herself, as if suddenly she was letting others totally rule her. She
was no longer someone Dulcie wanted to be near, no longer a person whom a cat would love, whom a cat would go to. Dillon Thurwell seemed now ready to explode into an emotional hurricane.

And one of Dillon's friends greatly puzzled Dulcie. Consuela Benton was not a classmate, but was several years older, a beautiful Latina, her long, black, curly hair rippling in a cloud around her slim face. She must be at least eighteen, to Dillon's fourteen. In every way she seemed a world apart from the other three.

Consuela's lipstick was nearly black. She wore such heavy eyeliner that she looked more like a vampire than a human girl. Why would an older girl like this bother with younger children? What did she gain from their company? Dillon and her friends, even with their attempts at sophisticated dress and cool makeup, compared to Consuela, were like scruffy kittens next to a battle-hardened alley cat.

These last months, Consuela had surely become a leader for the oldest junior high girls. Dulcie had seen her hanging around Dillon's school or with a crowd of young girls in the shops, where they were loud and rude. Both Dulcie and Joe, following the girls casually, had seen them shoplifting.

The first time, Dulcie didn't want to believe that Dillon was stealing. By the third time she followed them, she was trying to figure out where they were stashing the stolen items. At one of the girls' homes? Neither she nor Joe wanted to call Captain Harper. As proud as they were of their impeccable record of solving local crimes, they didn't want to tell Harper this. Dillon was Max Harper's special friend. Harper had taught her to
ride, on his own mare, Redwing. He had helped her to become a capable horsewoman, had tried to help Dillon move easily and surely through her teen years without falling.

But then the kit had followed the girls and, apparently, had seen something so upsetting the kit would not talk about it. Dulcie had found her at home curled up in a little ball beneath the blue wool afghan looking wan and forlorn.

Pawing at the knitted throw, Dulcie had nosed at her. “Are you sick, Kit? Are you hurt?”

“Fine. Not hurt.”

“Sick?”

“No.”

“Then what's the matter?”

“I don't want to tell.”

“You must tell me. I can help.”

“Must I? Can you?” That was all the kit would say.

“Did someone hurt you? Did someone do something to you?”

The kit had shaken her head. Dulcie, having seen Kit following the four girls earlier that morning, could only suspect that she was upset about something Dillon had done. But Kit refused to get Dillon in trouble or to dismay the captain.

Well, Dulcie had thought, no one could force her. Kit would have to decide in her own time. Now, as she glanced at the kit, the tall, broad-shouldered girl with the black braids laughed loudly. “I bet he killed himself. Turned on the gas and sucked it up and croaked.” She clutched her throat as if strangling, gagging and sticking out her tongue.
Leah
, Dulcie
thought. The girl's name was Leah. Dulcie wanted to claw her.

“If
I
was that old and wrinkled,” Consuela said, “
I'd
kill
my
self.”

The three younger girls doubled up with merriment, their giggles self-conscious and loud.

“The dead guy's your mother's partner,” said the blonde.

“I guess,” Dillon snapped. “It stinks here, let's go.”

“And that was her lover.” Leah giggled. “That tall guy who left a while ago, that was your mother's squeeze.”

“You have a big mouth,” Dillon told her. “A big cesspool mouth.”

“So
isn't
he her lover?
You
said…”

Dillon slapped the girl. Hit her so hard that Leah reeled. Catching herself Leah swung at Dillon.

Consuela stood leaning smugly against the side of the building, watching them, grinning slyly when Leah grabbed Dillon's hair. As Dillon swung to hit her again, she was grabbed from behind.

Max Harper was quick and silent, holding Dillon's arm. The captain's thin sun-creased face was drawn into an unforgiving scowl. He stood, thin and muscled and tall, staring down at Dillon. “Go home, Dillon. Go home now. And go alone.”

“You can't make me,” Dillon said tremulously, her face flushing.

Harper looked hard at her, and at the other three. “Leah and Candy, you get on to your own homes.
Do it now
.”

Leah and Candy backed away from him, and left.
Redheaded Dillon stood still, defying him. Consuela stood watching, still smirking.

Ignoring Dillon, Harper fixed on Consuela. “Miss Benton, I don't want to see you around Dillon anymore. You have no business with these girls.”

“What I do is not your business!”

“It is my business if you are arrested for a crime.”

Consuela flipped Harper the bird, turned away, and sauntered insolently up the street. Max Harper stood looking after her, then looked down at Dillon. All the closeness between them, all the easy companionship, was gone. “Go now, Dillon.”

At last Dillon headed away in the direction of her own house, sullenly scuffing her feet like a young child. Harper, watching her, looked so sad that Dulcie wanted to reach out a paw and comfort him. He looked as if his own child had fallen in front of him and refused to get up.

 

The kit watched the captain, too, very still and frightened. Was there nothing she could do to make him feel better? She knew how to tease the captain, but she didn't know what to do about his hurt. She watched the girls fade away through the village wondering why Dillon ran with those others. Did you call a group of human girls a clowder, like cats? Why were those girls so angry? Why had Dillon turned so mean? The kit was so full of questions she began to shiver—but part of her shivers were hunger, too. The deep-down belly-empty hunger she always felt when her head was too full of fear and questions.

Behind them, an officer had come into the house and
started closing windows; soon the house would be secured and additional crime tape strung around it. Dulcie and Kit looked at each other, slipped through the drapery, leaped out the window and up the nearest tree—and they raced away across the rooftops and along sprawling oak branches until they reached Jolly's alley.

 

On the roof of Jolly's Deli they paused with their paws in the gutter, their pads sinking down into the mat of wet leaves, looking down into the pretty brick paved lane with its flowers and benches, anticipating the usual nice plate of treats that Mr. Jolly put out for the village cats; after the stressful morning, a cat needed comfort food.

Mr. Jolly himself was just coming out the back door, dressed in his white pants and white shirt, white shoes and white apron. Bending over with a grunt because his stomach got in the way, he set down a paper plate loaded with smoked salmon and shrimp salad and roast beef, all smelling so good the kit drooled. The cats were ready to scorch down the jasmine vine and enjoy the feast, when Dulcie nipped the kit's shoulder and pulled her back quickly onto the shingles where they would not be seen.