Cat Laughing Last (10 page)

But Charlie had already abandoned Clyde, he was a free agent. Dulcie watched the exchange of looks between Charlie and Harper. Charlie's leg was pressed against his under the table. Clyde didn't seem to notice, his full attention was on Ryan. He rose with her as dinner ended and as Harper and Garza headed back to the station. He escorted her out as if she were his date, handing her into his antique yellow roadster to ride the few blocks to the duplex. The kit crouched, meaning to leap down and follow, but Dulcie snatched her back.

“Let them go, Kit. We don't need to act all that eager for a car ride. No need to put too many questions in people's heads.” She looked after Clyde's convertible. “Ryan Flannery is a looker. I don't think Kate will like this.”

“Serve her right,” Joe said, wondering how this would play out. Ryan was a beauty, all right, and apparently full of fight and determination. She seemed, in fact, the kind of human woman he most admired. Well, but so was Charlie. Determined and feisty.

But the woman he was really curious about, who sent Joe leaping from the wall and snaking away up the street between pedestrians' legs, was Vivi Traynor. Why had she practically run from the restaurant to avoid either Detective Garza or his niece Ryan Flannery?

 

Heading across the darkening village dodging tourists' shoes, the three cats' eyes caught light from shop windows and from passing cars. The sky above them was heavy with cloud behind the black silhouettes of oak and pine trees. Above the cats, a little bat darted over the treetops, squeaking its high-pitched sonar. Dulcie, hurrying along beside Joe, puzzled over Vivi Traynor's hasty retreat but also kept thinking about Traynor's play and about the research that Wilma had done for him.

Wilma had read her some of the research that came from the mission archives, before she sent it to Traynor. Apparently one of the priests knew about Catalina's letters and wrote about them in his journal. The Ortega-Diaz ranch wasn't far from the mission. “That priest wrote that Catalina made little paintings on the letters—of the ranch, of branding, whatever they do with cattle. How strange,” she said, “the way humans collect and record history.”

“How else would they do it?” Joe said sensibly.

“I don't know. All the letters and journals and all kinds of old records woven together to make a pattern of the past. To a human, that may seem dull. I think it's like making magic, to be able to bring the dead past alive.”

Joe stared at her. “You're talking just like the kit,” he said rudely.

Hurt, she glanced back at the kit, who had stopped to paw at a snail. “Sometimes,” Dulcie said, “I feel like the kit.” And she turned away from Joe.

But he pressed against her, licking her ear. “That's why I love you,” he said softly. “Because you see not only the rat to hunt but also the flowers where it's crouched.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, then gave him a nuzzling purr. Sometimes this tomcat wasn't so rough and uncaring. Sometimes he truly surprised her. And in a little while, she said, “Hundred-and-fifty-year-old letters from California history with sketches of the period should be worth a bundle, Joe. Maybe Traynor's looking for them himself.”

“Traynor or Vivi? It was Vivi who followed Casselrod when he snatched the white chest.”

“If Traynor wants the letters, why would he put them in the play so everyone would know about them? So other people would start looking?”

“Maybe he planned to have found them already before the time the play was produced.” Joe leaped to the top of a fence and down the other side. He watched Dulcie and the kit drop down beside him. “If Elliott and Vivi are still having dinner somewhere, and if we're fast, we can be inside their cottage before they ever get home.” Joe's yellow eyes blazed. “I want to know more about Vivi, about both the Traynors.”

T
rotting single
file along a twisted oak branch, the three cats crossed above Elliot Traynor's roof to the high clerestory windows that looked down into the living room. Within the house, no lights burned. The Traynor's black Lincoln was not in the drive where they usually parked. Peering down through the glass, the cats could see the stone fireplace and a pale leather couch and love seat, set on a richly patterned area rug. The handsomely designed room was now strewn with items of clothing as if Vivi had wandered through undressing as she went. Joe was pawing at the sliding panels trying to open one, when car lights swept the garden. As the Lincoln turned into the drive, the cats closed their eyes so as not to catch the glow like a row of miniature spotlights mounted among the shingles.

Vivi got out of the driver's side carrying a large paper bag in both hands. The cats could smell enchiladas. Elliott followed her in through the back door, and the light came on in the kitchen, reflecting across the drive and illuminating the flowering shrubs, burnishing their leaves like polished copper.

Soon the cats could hear water running in the kitchen, then a metallic clatter as if silverware was being taken from the drawer. They imagined Elliott and Vivi sitting down to Styrofoam containers heaped with enchiladas and tamales. Maybe, when the cats saw them hurry out of Lupe's, they told the waiter that they'd changed their minds and that they wanted take-out, then had waited outside for their order like any ordinary villager, lurking beyond the patio wall where they wouldn't be seen.

When the clerestory windows wouldn't open, Dulcie dropped from the roof and headed for the back door to see if it might be ajar, though she didn't relish slipping into the house that close to Vivi. Trotting through the dark garden toward the back porch, she brushed through tall stands of daisies and overgrown clumps of daylilies and yellow-flowering euryops bushes, collecting their scents on her coat. Above her, up the stone walls of the cottage, the many-paned windows remained dark, there was only that light at the back, in the small bay window that extended out from the kitchen. The spicy smell of Mexican food filled her nostrils, so strong she could taste it. She heard Vivi giggle somewhere inside, that high, irritating laugh that set Dulcie's fur on edge. Elliott said something that Dulcie couldn't make out, and Vivi snapped angrily at him, her shout coming clearly enough.

“She was with two cops. Those guys were cops. That tall skinny one is the chief. What did you expect me to do?”

Elliott's muttered reply wasn't clear. It sounded like, “…other one…didn't see the…mumble mumble…”

“Well, she would remember!” Vivi said. “One wrong word in front of the law, one little wiggle…If you run into her, you be careful. You're way too casual about this.”

Again his response was too low to be heard, sullen and angry. Why didn't he yell at her? He was way too casual about what? Had Vivi had an affair with Ryan's husband, the way Ryan thought? And Vivi didn't want to confront Ryan? But if Elliott knew about that, didn't he care? How strange humans were, Dulcie thought. Joe would have killed another tomcat who touched her.

He had wanted to kill that black tom, Azrael. Had tried to kill him. Though Dulcie hadn't really looked at another tomcat since she met Joe, there had been that one weak moment when Azrael came on to her, she remembered ashamedly. When the dark voodoo cat ignited a frightened purr—until she angrily rejected the philandering thief.

They were still snapping at each other as Vivi's high heels clicked across the room toward the back door. Dulcie backed into the bushes as the door opened and light spilled out. She could never get over the feeling that people would know she was eavesdropping; she always wanted to hide.

But how could anyone know? So Vivi saw a cat in the garden. What was she going to do, throw the garbage can at her?

Knowing Vivi, she might. Vivi dropped a bag of trash into the garbage can. She stood a few moments in the cool night as if trying to control her temper, then turned back inside, where Elliott had switched on the TV, and the canned voices of a late newscast filled the kitchen.

Racing back through the quiet dark of the garden,
Dulcie let the human sounds fade behind her, let the garden smells fill her nose, and the damp earth ooze cool beneath her paws. Brushing through the scented leaves of geranium and lavender, in the deepening evening chill, she raced up the oak tree again. From somewhere high above her came the scream of a screech owl crying his hunting call—hunting in the wind, diving among the pines and oaks. Catching arboreal mice? she thought, amused. Or snatching up tree-climbing crickets?

Feeling lonely suddenly, she fled to Joe. She and Joe were launched on their own kind of hunt, the game far larger and more dangerous than anything that little owl could trap. And, thinking of what they might find, she was suddenly afraid.

Storming up through the thick foliage of the oak tree, darkness seemed to crush in around her. Racing along the branch with clinging claws, she nudged Joe with her nose, sniffing in his scent, rubbing her face against his sleek, silken fur. But after a moment, she asked, “Where's the kit?”

Joe smiled and glanced above them. She followed his gaze to where the kit clung nearly at the top of the oak among the smallest branches, a dark lump, her long, fluffy tail hanging down like a pendulum, the tip of it twitching in that slow rhythm that indicated some prankish desire or some other, equally busy mental process.

“Vivi and Elliott were arguing,” Dulcie told Joe. “Talking about Ryan. Vivi said, ‘She would remember. And she was with two cops—those guys were cops.' Then, ‘That tall skinny one is the chief. What did you expect me to do?'”

Joe listened, saying nothing.

“Elliott muttered something like, ‘…other one…didn't see…' That's all I could make out. She told him to be careful, that he was way too casual. Then she closed the door tight. And no windows are open.”

Somewhere near, a barn owl hooted, deep and frightening, and the kit came backing down the tree fast, to snuggle between them. Joe peered in again through the high window. “Strange, what a bad feeling I have about this.”

“So do I,” she said. “Likely it's Vivi, she'd make anyone uneasy. Wilma calls her a name I won't repeat,” she said, glancing at the kit.

“What name?” asked the kit.

No one answered her. Joe worked at the window again, clawing and pulling, then backed down the tree to the garden and went to circle the house, a gray streak in the darkness leaping up at each window, scrabbling and pawing. Dulcie followed him down to try the vents in the foundation. She was clawing at a grid when suddenly from above, lights poured down on them. They fled into the bushes, hunching down in the leaves, looking up through the little twiggy branches at the one window, halfway along the house, that shone brightly.

No figure moved against the glass, no one looked out. They could see beyond the curtains a tall chest of drawers with a small mirror standing on top, light reflecting from it.

Lights blazed on in a second room, at the front where the draperies were drawn, then a smaller window in between burned brightly. They heard water
running, but then at last the bathroom light went out and the back bedroom darkened except for the glow of a TV.

In the illuminated front room, a shadow moved behind the draperies, thrown tall by the lamp, and then sat down. In a few minutes they heard the soft click, click of computer keys.

“So Vivi's gone to bed to watch TV,” Dulcie said. “And Elliott's at work on the book.”

Moving out from beneath the bush, Joe looked up at the vents of the attic.

“Wait for me,” he whispered. “Watch the window.” And he was gone up the rose trellis, his white paws flashing as he skillfully avoided the thorns. She watched nervously from the bushes, wishing she didn't feel so edgy. In a moment she heard him scratching and tearing at the wall, rustling within the foliage. She had never seen Joe so interested, when no serious crime had been committed. Usually he reserved his predatory sleuthing for some major transgression, but tonight he was keen to break and enter, hot on the trail—of what? Oh, Vivi and Elliott did put him off, did make him uneasy. Above her, Joe snatched and clawed at the vent as he swung from the trellis anchored only by his hind paws, fighting to get inside, following his instincts.

Max Harper, she thought, would never move on cop sense alone, on some itchy feeling, without due cause. Whatever problems the Traynors had, such as their avoidance of Ryan Flannery, and Vivi's nervousness around police, didn't necessarily point to criminal activity. And yet…

She wondered if they could be dealing drugs. She didn't like to think that about someone like Elliott Traynor. Were his medical bills so high that he was desperate, hard up for cash even if he was a famous writer? Cancer treatment must be very expensive. Maybe writers didn't have medical insurance. Certainly drugs were easy to sell. On the streets of New York and San Francisco there would be plenty of buyers eager to hand over their money.

But she was letting her imagination go wild. And how was Garza's niece involved? Did Ryan know more about the Traynors than she was saying—more than she wanted to tell her uncle?

“I could go to the door,” the kit said. “Scratch at the door.”

“Do what, Kit?” Dulcie stared at her, then looked up to where Joe had his claws hooked in the vent, stubbornly pulling.

“I could play lost kitty like Joe did at Detective Garza's house, when he moved in to spy. Like you did with that old lady, after Janet Jeannot was killed. You lived with that old woman for a week, and look how much you found out! I could—”

The vent came loose and fell, as Joe leaped clear. It clattered loudly to the brick walk—and Elliott's typing stopped. Dulcie and the kit froze, ready to run. Above them, Joe disappeared into the attic.

In a moment the typing started again. The kit, fascinated with her idea, went on as if she'd never been interrupted. “I could make nice to Elliott Traynor and Vivi and get them to feed me and make a bed for me and I would purr for them, and when they went to sleep
I would open the door for you, catch the knob in my paws, and swing and hold tight—I can do that. I could—”

“Hush, Kit, you're making me crazy. You mustn't do any of that. Be still.” She could hear sounds from the front of the garden. Someone was coming. She pulled the kit deeper under the hydrangea bush. Crouching among the leaves and branches, they listened.

Was it a person approaching in the dark? More likely a dog, Dulcie thought. The brushing noise was too low to the ground for a human. The kit, very still now, pressed close to her as something came lumbering in their direction, waddling back and forth on all fours.

This was no dog. Dulcie could feel the kit's heart pounding against her. She could see the beast's stripes now, his black beady eyes, could see the mask across his face. He was bigger than a bulldog and seemed twice as broad, and behind him came four smaller raccoons looking out from behind identical masks, swinging along predatory and bold on their dainty black paws. Five lethal fighting machines. Dulcie and the kit didn't breathe.

The raccoons lurched past not ten feet from them, their raised noses sucking in the lingering smell of enchiladas. Maybe that garlicky confection of meat and chilies and cilantro would hide the smell of cat. Lurching toward the back of the house and the garbage cans, they were soon scrabbling on metal and chittering impatiently, pawing to get the lids off. A lid dropped into the bushes. The can fell, breaking leafy twigs, and immediately the raccoons were into it, scrabbling and fighting.

Dulcie led the kit back up the trellis, the kit's long fine fur catching in the thorns with little ripping sounds.

“We're safe now,” the kit whispered, edging toward the hole that Joe Grey had opened to the dark attic.

“Hush!” Dulcie said. “They can climb, too. Get yourself inside!” Below them, the sounds of bickering and of claws tearing at Styrofoam gave her the shivers. She imagined the animals devouring enchilada-flavored Styrofoam as if it were candy. But when they finished with the garbage, what would they do next?

Following the kit into the dusty, mouse-scent dark of the attic, she mewed softly for Joe Grey. There was no answer, no movement among the shadows. She heard, from the yard below, the sounds of the raccoons change from gorging garbage to little chirps of curiosity, then heard the beasts coming back, shouldering through the bushes toward the trellis that she and the kit had climbed. Beside her, the kit peered down. “What are they doing? Why…?”

“Be still! They'll climb up here quick as squirrels!” She looked hard at the kit, whose tail was twitching with that devilish, looking-for-trouble rhythm.

“Didn't you ever have to battle raccoons, Kit, when you lived with that traveling band of cats? They're as dangerous as coyotes or bobcats.”

“The big cats fought them. I was too little. I always hid. But I'm big now, and you and Joe are big. They wouldn't—”

“Oh wouldn't they?” She turned blazing eyes on the kit. “Have you never seen a cat torn apart by raccoons? Like you would tear apart a little mouse!”

The kit's eyes grew round. She dropped her tail,
dropped her ears flat to her head, and backed away from the vent into the deeper shadows of the attic. And Dulcie began to search for something heavy they could push against the vent hole.