Cat Laughing Last (15 page)

“Well, bully for you.”

He grinned. “A lot of vacation time to use up. I figure a month's cruise, this fall, before the weather turns.”

Her response was so enthusiastic that she startled Harper. The moment amazed them both. It was a while before they opened their sandwiches and the containers of coleslaw and popped another beer. She tried to get hold of herself, but she couldn't. When she started to laugh, she couldn't stop. She leaned against him, laughing.

“So what's the joke?”

She knew her face had gone red. “Just…just excitement,” she lied. “I…” She looked up at him. “Just happy!” But what she'd thought of suddenly was about telling Dulcie and Joe Grey. Thinking how happy the cats would be—and then that knowledge sobered her.

That was a hard call; no matter how close she and Max might be for the rest of their lives, there was one secret she could never tell him. One part of her life that she could never share.

S
potlights illuminated
center stage. The house lights were dark, the rows of seats marching away empty into the hollow blackness of the theater. Only a few front seats were occupied where Elliott and Vivi Traynor, director Samuel Ladler, and music director Mark King sat together softly talking, and occasionally rattling a script. Elliott had hunched down in his wrinkled corduroy sport coat as if perhaps he felt unwell. On the far side of the theater near the exit door, a dozen actors had taken a block of seats, whispering among themselves, waiting for their callback auditions for
Thorns of Gold
. Above the house among the rafters, where night clung against the high ceiling, crouched an attentive feline audience of three: two pairs of yellow eyes, one pair of green, catching glances of soft light. No human, below, bothered to look up, to find those tiny spotlights.

“But where's Cora Lee?” Dulcie said softly, peering down at the waiting actors.

“Still backstage,” said the kit. “Painting sets like she doesn't care at all about the part.”

Of the seven women who had read and sung for the
part of Catalina during yesterday's tryouts, Cora Lee was one of two callbacks. Director Ladler felt so pressed for time that he had notified the actors last night before they left the theater, had stood on the patio with the little group gathered around him and read out the names of the callbacks. Then he had quickly turned back inside before anyone could challenge his decisions. No director liked that part of the casting; no one enjoyed seeing the disappointment of those who were turned away.

Below the cats, Vivi leaned over to Elliott, whispering something, then giggling. She leaned forward in her chair, looking down the several seats to question Sam Ladler and to give him orders. Elliott hardly paid attention. Surely he wasn't feeling well, Dulcie thought. Maybe the decisions that should be his had suddenly fallen on Vivi's shoulders and she was nervous about that.

Director Sam Ladler was a lean, tanned man with thinning hair that heightened his forehead into a deep widow's peak. He looked like he ran or played tennis. He was dressed this morning in old jeans and a limp sweatshirt. He was a terse man, Wilma had said, with a dry humor. Wilma said that he and his casts had created outstanding theater for Molena Point. He sat between Traynor and Mark King, the two directors having managed to put Vivi down at the far end of the row.

Mark King was smoothly pudgy, a young man who seemed to have turned middle-aged before his time. He was short, maybe five-four, with straight, faded brown hair down to his shoulders and rimless half-glasses that
he kept wiping as if he found it impossible to remove the smudges. He wore wrinkled chinos and a T-shirt with palm trees printed across it. He rose as Ladler called for Catalina and moved up onto the stage, to the piano.

“We'll have Fern Barth,” Ladler said, looking down at the little group of actors. Fern was Richard Casselrod's assistant at the antiques shop, a pale, spiritless woman, in Dulcie's opinion, whose singing during tryouts had sounded as if she was practicing for second line in the choir box, hitting the notes okay, but with no more feeling than a china doll. As Fern stepped up on stage, a whiff of her perfume rose to the cats as sweet as cake icing.

“Why,” Dulcie whispered, “was this woman called back?”

Joe Grey shrugged, yawning. “Doesn't stand a chance.”

“I hope not,” Dulcie said uneasily. And her dismay was sharp when Fern had finished, and Vivi smiled and nodded at Sam Ladler. Elliott came to life long enough to give Fern a friendly wink. Sam Ladler looked over at them blankly and called Cora Lee.

Cora Lee came out from the wings rolling down the sleeves of her smock and wiping paint from her face. Moving to center stage, she turned to the piano, smiled at Mark King, then stood quietly looking out at the rows of empty seats, collected and composed.

“Read from where she refuses to marry Stanton,” Ladler said. “Then where she's locked in her room, and that first number.”

Cora Lee read her lines with cold anger as Catalina
was led away to her prison. Watching her, the cats forgot her stained smock and the green smear down her cheek. She stood and moved with the grace and dignity of generations of Spanish queens.

But when Catalina faced the audience from behind her locked door, her movements were restricted and disheartened, her song holding all the misery of imprisonment and of love denied.

“One more number,” Ladler said. “Let's hear her plea.”

As Catalina begged for rescue, her audience on the rafters above was very still. The kit mewled softly, and Dulcie felt her own heart twist. This was not Cora Lee French, the gentle waitress with gray in her hair; this was a young girl frightened and alone, her pain wrenching their very cat souls. When the number ended, there was not a sound in the theater. Cora Lee bowed slightly to Samuel Ladler and to King, but did not move from the stage. The ghosts from the past that she had summoned clung around her, lingering in the shadows.

“Thank you,” Ladler said softly, and watched Cora Lee move offstage. But as she stepped down to sit with the other actors, again Vivi leaned to speak to Ladler, shaking her head. Her whisper rose clearly to the cats. “Too bad, Sam. She's just not right for the part—that gray hair, for one thing. Really too bad, but the part calls for a younger woman.

“And,” Vivi said, “to be honest, Elliott doesn't care for overacting.” She gave Ladler a bright smile. “Well, Fern is perfect for the part. We're fortunate to have her. So sweet—just the way a young girl would sing, with a broken heart.”

Sam Ladler sat looking at Vivi, very still and rigid.
He rose, turning to Elliot. “Shall we step out to the lobby to discuss this?”

“There's no need,” Vivi said. “We love Fern's performance. Elliott loves her. She's perfect.” Beside her, Elliott nodded.

Sam continued to look at Elliott. “I don't discuss the tryouts in front of the actors. Would you like to continue this in private?”

Vivi said, “You notified the others right away, before they left the theater.”

“Fern's the one,” Elliott said. “No question.”

Sam looked across to the waiting actors. “Go home. We'll call you in the morning.”

“No!” Vivi snapped. “Let them stay. You know we're short on time.” She looked hard at Ladler. “Have you forgotten, conveniently, that Elliott's permission to produce is subject to his approval of the cast?”

Ladler nodded to the small group and they settled back, dropping their jackets and scripts again on empty seats. “Fern, if you and Cora Lee would like to go out to the lobby and get a Coke, we'll call you in a few moments.”

Cora Lee slipped away backstage. Fern took a seat beside Vivi, looking defiantly at Ladler. The cats watched the little drama, fascinated. They felt terrible for Cora Lee. The kit's tail lashed so hard that Dulcie put a paw on it. “Stop it, Kit. Before someone looks up here.”

Ladler looked Fern over. “All right, if you want to hear this.” He turned his back on her, facing Elliott. “Fern's not right for the part. She can't hold a candle to Cora Lee. Not right physically or emotionally. Her
singing does not do justice to the songs, or to your play.”

“I have to disagree,” Elliott said. “Fern has the part, or there is no play.”

“They're not in the same league,” Sam snapped, the color coming up in his lean face. “Cora Lee
is
Catalina. We couldn't have a better fit. What is it you're seeing here? Do you want to try to explain?”

“Fern's completely right for the part,” Traynor repeated, glancing at Vivi. “I'm the writer. I know what I—”

Mark King, stepping to the edge of the stage, stood looking down at Traynor. “There's nothing right about her. Fern, you really ought to leave, and not have to hear this. But I have to agree that Cora Lee is perfect.”

“That is so shallow and wrong,” Vivi snapped, her look nudging Elliott.

“I'm sorry,” Elliott said stiffly. “It's my play. Fern Barth has the part or you can stop production.”

Ladler looked them both over. “Cora Lee French has the part or I don't direct the play.”

Elliott rose, staring at him.

Ladler stiffened almost as if he would hit Elliott. High above them, the three cats looked down from the shadows ready for a good brawl, even if Elliott was to be considered an invalid.

Ladler looked at Elliott a long time, then turned away. “Stuff the play.” He dropped the script on the floor and moved on down to the little group of fascinated actors. “Go home. The play is canceled. You'll have to wait for this one until Mr. Traynor finds another theater.”

Vivi rose, snatching up her jacket, but Elliott pushed her into a seat, glaring at her, and moved after Ladler. “Wait, Sam.”

Ladler turned, scowling. Quickly Elliott took his arm and walked him outside through the exit door. From the stage, Mark King stood watching them, his round, bespectacled face pale with anger; then he moved away toward the dressing rooms, where Cora Lee had disappeared.

Elliott and Ladler were gone for some time. Fern sat quietly beside Vivi, both staring straight ahead, never glancing toward the other actors. No one spoke, the atmosphere in the theater had swung from the poignancy of Catalina's lament to conflict as brittle as shattered glass. Above in the darkness the kit rose and padded along the rafter heading backstage, looking for Cora Lee.

When Elliott and Sam Ladler returned, Elliott was smiling amiably, Ladler stone-faced. He paused stiffly before Fern.

“The part is yours. Cora Lee will understudy.” He turned away to the waiting actors and sat down among them.

In a few moments, Cora Lee and King came out from backstage. Cora Lee looked at Ladler for a long moment. He said, “Will you understudy?”

“I suppose I will,” she said, her face closed and expressionless. As she turned away again, the cats could see the kit behind her, lurking in the shadows.

“What did Traynor offer him?” Joe said. “And why? What does Fern have that Traynor needs? Or what does she have on Traynor?”

Ladler rose from the group of actors. “Let's get on with it. I want readers for Marcos. We'll get through tryouts tonight. Rehearsals will start Wednesday.”

Joe and Dulcie were too disappointed to listen to further readings; they didn't care who got the part of Marcos. The dark, good-looking young Latino man would likely have it. Or maybe the pale-haired surfer, who had a good voice, too, but would certainly have to resort to dark makeup and black hair dye. Probably it wouldn't matter to Cora Lee who got the male lead. Dulcie could imagine her backstage, dealing with her disappointment, maybe with the kit snuggling up close, trying to cheer her. Why had Elliott Traynor gone along with this? It had certainly been Vivi who pushed for it. Neither Joe nor Dulcie had any answers. Among the rafters, they dozed until tryouts ended. As the players rose to leave, they heard Vivi arrange quietly to meet Fern at Binnie's Italian.

Beating it out of the theater, the two cats headed for Binnie's, galloping across the dark roofs beneath a skittering wind. Watching the street below, they saw the Traynors' black Lincoln pass them, and when they dropped down to a low overhang, then to the sidewalk around the corner from Binnie's, the Lincoln was parked at the curb. Elliott and Vivi were still in the car, arguing.

Crouching by the rear tire, the cats listened, trying not to sneeze at the stink of hot rubber and exhaust fumes.

“…know damn well you went too far,” Elliott was saying. “Don't you think that looked—”

“What was I supposed to do? That was the deal, that Fern get the part. And you were going to cave!”

“This Cora Lee French was good, Vivi. How do you think this looks, when we—?”

“Good has nothing to do with it! Looks have nothing to do with it. What the hell are you thinking!”

“I'm thinking that if you keep this up, you'll blow it. Ladler will back out. And don't you think people will start asking questions?”

“Sam Ladler knew it was part of the deal. Fern has the part, or there's no money on the side. What made him defy you like that? How did you straighten him out?”

“I upped the ante. It isn't every day a little theater director sees that kind of money.”

“And he didn't ask questions?”

“What's he going to ask? He knows not to ask. We've been through this. I said he'd get twice what you offered.”

“You what? Didn't you think—”

“Twice what you offered. You don't have a choice, Vivi. So shut up. Right now, I'm in the driver's seat.”

T
he two
cats watched Fern's Toyota pull up in front of Binnie's Italian. Vivi and Elliott were still sitting in their black Lincoln, snapping at each other. When Fern parked in front of them Vivi got out and hurried into the restaurant with her, slamming the glass door nearly in Elliott's face. Catching the door, he swung in behind them and eased it closed.

On the warm concrete beneath the newspaper rack, Joe and Dulcie crouched looking up through the restaurant window where Vivi and Fern and Elliott were settling into a booth. Vivi glanced out blankly to where the cats were idly washing their paws, the cats of less interest to her than the metal newsstand. Dulcie loved spying on someone when she was in plain sight. Through the thin glass they could hear every word.

The waitress on duty was Binnie's niece, a slight, shy Italian girl who didn't look old enough to have a work permit. Certainly she was too young to serve liquor. When Vivi ordered a bottle of Chablis, Binnie himself hurried out with it, uncorking the bottle across his white-aproned, ample belly, his jowled face rosy
from the kitchen. Binnie did enjoy going through the little tasting ritual. Elliott handled Binnie's ceremony with abject boredom. Binnie poured in silence, smiled hesitantly at Vivi, and when his smile was not returned, he retreated quietly to his kitchen.

“Here's to it,” Vivi said, lifting her glass. “So far, very smooth. Even Ladler wasn't much of a problem.”

“It's a wonderful part,” Fern gushed. “I'll do well by it, you'll see.” She patted Elliott's hand. “I'm going to be great in this part; it's going to make my career.” Fern was, apparently, not the brightest young woman. The cats sat through interminable small talk, licking their whiskers when the pizza was served. Vivi and Elliott ate in silence, letting Fern ramble, a tedious monologue that left Joe and Dulcie yawning. They were ready to cut out and go hunt rats when Clyde and Ryan Flannery came around the corner, walking arm in arm, softly laughing.

Clyde didn't see the cats slip deeper under the newsstand, he was totally involved with Ryan. “So that's the rest of the shop. That's what we do, master mechanics to Molena Point's wheels.”

“All those beautiful Mercedeses, Jags, and BMWs parked in your garage, to say nothing of that silver Rolls. It's a great shop, Clyde. I'm awed by the state-of-the-art electronic equipment—a far cry from my cordless drill and electric saw.” As the couple passed the window, Vivi's eyes widened. She nudged Elliott so sharply he spilled his wine.

“You really find that stuff interesting?” Clyde said, holding the door for Ryan. Before he could close it, the cats slipped through behind him. He scowled down at them, surprised and annoyed, but said nothing.

“If I hadn't ended up as a building contractor,” Ryan said, “I might be a mechanic. I seriously thought about it at one time.”

Elliott had risen and was heading toward the men's room, behind a partition that also led to the kitchen. Ryan looked after him, glanced at Vivi, and turned away, moving beside Clyde to a table in the far corner. Clyde looked toward the kitchen, waving to Binnie, and they slid into the booth. “You'd like being a mechanic? Working with a bunch of guys? They can get pretty rank.”

“I do work with a bunch of guys,” she said, laughing. “They're okay if you set some ground rules. But, I don't know, there's something restful about putting things together, about figuring out the little mechanical glitches, solving the problems and making them right. Makes me feel safe, somehow, in a chaotic world. Does that make any sense?”

“Quite a lot of sense.”

Under the table, the cats settled down next to Clyde's shoes, looking around his pant cuffs to where the Traynors sat. The carpet smelled clean and was of good quality, not like some restaurants where the rug stank of ancient French fries. Elliott had not returned. At the Traynor table, Vivi was pale and agitated, gulping her wine. Fern only looked perplexed, her round face and short golden hair catching light from a stained-glass corner fixture. Binnie had recently redecorated, abandoning the simple red checkered tablecloth and candle-in-a-bottle motif, with which the village had long been familiar, for bright abstract murals covering the walls and tabletops, splashes of primary color illuminated by the colored glass fixtures. The effect was
cozy and inviting. But then, any place that smelled as rich with tomato sauce and garlic and herbs as Binnie's had to be inviting. As the cats watched Vivi nervously wolf her dinner, Ryan bent down to look under the table.

“Hi, cats. You having pizza?” They smiled at her and purred, and Dulcie rose to rub against her extended hand. She scratched Dulcie's ear, looking pleased with the greeting. Her face was flushed from the chill outdoor air, her dark hair tangled in a mass of short, unruly curls. In a moment she sat up again. “They're charming, Clyde. As responsive as any dogs.”

“I suppose they can be charming,” Clyde said. “When it suits them.”

“But pizza, and Mexican food? Doesn't that stuff upset them? What does the vet say?” She was wearing faded jeans, and brown leather sandals that smelled of saddle soap. Her ankles were nicely tanned. Joe sniffed at her toes until Dulcie hissed at him, laying back her ears. “You don't need to smell her feet!”

Clyde said, “The food doesn't bother them; they seem to have cast-iron stomachs.” He looked under. “What do you want on your pizza? Cheese, hamburger, and anchovy?”

Joe Grey purred, thinking,
Heavy on the anchovies and plenty of mozzarella
.

“Where's the third cat?” Ryan asked. “The little dark one? Doesn't she belong to Wilma Getz? Wilma worked with my dad, years ago before she retired, in the San Francisco probation office. The dark cat—what's that color called?”

“Tortoiseshell,” Clyde said. “She's been hanging around the theater lately. She likes to prowl the rafters.”

Ryan laughed. “Theatrical aspirations? But when the cats are out on the village streets at night, don't you worry about them?”

“They're careful about traffic. And all three are pretty resourceful.”

“My family has never had cats, only dogs. I had no idea cats would—well, these two follow you, don't they? And they mind you.”

“Sometimes,” Clyde said. “If they're in a cooperative mood.”

“When my sisters and I were young, and we came down to the village for weekends, we always brought the dogs. Dallas was raising pointers then. We'd each get to bring our favorite pup; we ran them on the beach, took them in the outdoor cafés. It was great fun, everyone made a fuss over them—we were very popular. I've always loved the village. I'm going to love calling it home. San Francisco, under the right circumstances, is wonderful, but I think my nesting place is here.”

“And you liked Charlie's apartment—the duplex?”

“It's perfect. One big room, and I love the high ceiling. Charlie says we can put in a wood-burning stove if I like. And that wonderful garage, that's the space I really need. She told me she bought the place for a song.”

“In village numbers, yes. It was pretty run down. Will you need furniture?”

“I don't need much. Right now, I just want the necessities.”

“Which are?”

“Drafting table. Bed. Breakfast table and a couple of chairs. Desk for my computer.”

“Your taste may be too simple for the Iselman estate sale, but it wouldn't hurt to look.”

“Which is when?”

“Saturday morning. You go around seven, take a number, go back at ten to be called. They let people in a few at a time.”

“Want to come?”

“Sure. We'll get our numbers, go have breakfast, and walk the beach.”

The cats looked at each other, amused. Clyde never did waste time. When the pizza was served, they could hear Clyde cutting their share into bite-sized pieces, could hear him blowing on it to cool before he set it on the floor. Across the restaurant, Vivi and Fern were still alone; Elliott had not returned. Vivi was paying the bill. In a moment she rose, said something to Fern, dropped a tip on the table, and was gone, leaving Fern to finish her dinner alone.

“She sure didn't want any part of me,” Ryan said softly. “Elliott can't still be in the men's room.”

“I think that slamming kitchen door might have been Elliott leaving,” Clyde said.

“Maybe Vivi and my womanizing husband did get together last fall. But why would Elliott avoid me? I can understand Vivi staying away—though at this point, I couldn't care less. But why Elliott? He and I are the wronged parties.”

From beneath the table, the cats watched through the far window as Vivi hurried around the corner to her car. They heard her gun the engine and the Lincoln roared away, apparently leaving Elliott to walk home.

The cats looked at each other with amusement. What a tangle humans could devise. No group of cats ever made such a muddle of their personal affairs. Vivi
and Elliott's behavior not only entertained Joe and Dulcie but left them puzzled and unsettled. As if they'd followed a rabbit scent that led nowhere; that ended abruptly with no rabbit hole, and no rabbit.

They would be far more concerned, however, when the night ended, when dawn broke and they confronted a dead body, a bloody scene of battle, and one very distraught tortoiseshell kit.