Cat Laughing Last (22 page)

“I think you must,” Wilma said.

Gabrielle twisted her napkin. “Well, there it is. I knew all along that Elliott could be connected somehow to the theft of that white chest and to your break-in, Susan, though I'm sure Elliott wouldn't do anything violent. That had to be someone else.”

The kit's eyes had grown so wide as she listened that Dulcie leaped at her, landing on the arm of Cora Lee's chaise, licking the kit's face until she had her full attention. The kit subsided, tucking her face under her paw.

“With all the violence these last weeks,” Mavity said, “I'm not sure I'll go to any more sales. That Iselman estate sale, that should be grand. But if the Iselmans had those old carved chests, what else might they have that would cause trouble?”

“I'm going,” Susan said. “I'm not letting Elliott Traynor, if he is involved, or anyone else frighten me. We can make some money out of that sale, if we buy carefully. I think we should all go.”

“And carry our pepper spray,” Mavity said, laughing. Pepper spray was the one legal weapon a woman could carry without any kind of permit. After Susan's break-in, Wilma had bought vials for all of them, and taught them the safety procedures—including careful awareness of which way the wind was blowing.
“Why not with pepper spray?” Susan said. “I carry mine all the time. I don't like to be intimidated. If I'd been at home, with that little vial in my pocket, my house wouldn't have been trashed. I'd have given them something to think about, and so would Lamb.” She looked around at her friends. “I've been selling on eBay all week. I've sold nearly everything on our shelves that wasn't destroyed. If we mean to go on with this, to keep putting money in the bank, we need to start buying again.”

“Are we smart to go on with this?” Gabrielle asked hesitantly. “Or are we only fooling ourselves? Are we going to make enough money to do this? And is it going to work?”

“We've been over the numbers,” Susan said. “We've already put ten thousand in the bank from our sales, and we've only been at it six months. If we do this for a couple of years, plus the money from our own houses…mine and Mavity's…”

“And mine,” Wilma said, “if I'm ready to throw in with you.”

“And the profit from my two rentals,” Cora Lee added. “And from that lot you own, Gabrielle…”

“I hope it will work,” Gabrielle said uncertainly.

“It will work,” Wilma said.

“We'll all have our privacy,” Mavity said, “and our own space—maybe as much as I have now, in that little house. Plus a nice big living room and kitchen and a garden, maybe a nice patio.

“But then, it's different for me. I have to move.” She looked around at her friends. “I got the notice this morning. The official condemnation. Thirty days. The letter said they made it such a short time because it's
been talked about so long, because we all knew it was coming.”

“You'll move in with me,” Wilma said, “until you decide what to do. There's plenty of room for your furniture in the garage.”

“By the time you're ready,” Cora Lee said, “I'll be home again, and Wilma's guest room will be yours.”

“We can move you,” Susan said. “Rent a truck, maybe hire one of Charlie's guys to help us—make a party of it, go out to dinner afterward.”

And on Cora Lee's lap, the kit was looking back and forth again, from one to the other, paying far too close attention. Dulcie tried to distract her. When the kit ignored her, she swatted the kit as if in play, forcing her off Cora Lee's lap and chasing her through the house to the kitchen.

Excusing herself to refill the cream pitcher, Wilma followed them, shutting the kitchen door behind her.

Backing the kit into the corner behind the breakfast table, Dulcie hissed and spat at her. “You didn't see yourself. You were taking everything in, looking far too perceptive and interested.”

“But no one would guess,” the kit said. “No one…”

“Cora Lee says you seem to understand everything she tells you. They could guess, Kit! Charlie did! How do you think she found out?”

“I thought—”

“Charlie figured it out for herself. She watched and watched us. She figured out that we were more than ordinary cats, and those ladies—especially Cora Lee—could do the same.”

“Oh, my,” said the kit.

“Charlie would never tell,” Dulcie said. “But those
other ladies might, without ever meaning any harm. You be careful! If you're going back in there to sit with Cora Lee, you practice looking dumb! Dumb as a stone, Kit! Sleepy. Preoccupied. Take a nap. Play with the tennis ball. Have a wash. But don't look at people when they talk!”

The kit was crestfallen, her yellow eyes cast down. She looked so hurt that Dulcie licked her face. “It's all right. You'll remember next time,” she said, giving the kit a sly smile. “You will, or you'll be licking wounds you don't want.”

Wilma looked at the kit a long time, then picked up the two cats and carried them back to the living room. She gave them each another piece of cake, lathering on the cream, setting their plates side by side on the blotter. Watching the kit guzzle the rich dessert, Wilma was torn between frustration at the willful little animal and love and amusement. But always, she was filled with wonder, with the miracle of these small, amazing beings.

If the cats would only leave police business alone. Theft, armed robbery, murder, Joe and Dulcie were in the middle of it all, refusing to back off. And the kit was becoming almost as bad. The cats' intensity at eavesdropping among questionable characters and their diverse ploys when digging out hidden information left her constantly worried about them.

But maybe, this time, what appeared to be a tangled case would turn into nothing. Maybe Fern's death wasn't connected to Susan's break-in or to the carved chests. Maybe Fern had happened onto some gun-happy youth looting the store and in panic he had shot her.

Maybe
, Wilma thought. But how, then, to explain the three chests pulled out of the window, and, days earlier, Richard Casselrod snatching the white box?

Dulcie watched Wilma, half amused and half irritated. They'd been together a long time, she knew how Wilma thought. Wilma was hoping right now that this case would turn out to be a dud. Just as Clyde seemed to be hoping. What was it that so disturbed them? The fact that a famous personality was involved? Both Clyde and Wilma seemed to want present circumstances to go away. And that wasn't going to happen.

For one thing, neither Wilma nor Clyde had all the facts. Neither knew that Joe had called New York this morning, setting in motion a whole new string of events. Nor did they know that Joe had found Augor Prey and found the gun that may have killed Fern, or that Joe's subsequent phone call had prompted Harper and Garza to stake out Prey's room.

And no one, not Wilma nor Clyde nor the police, knew that a second stakeout had been set up on the roof next door to Prey. A twenty-four-hour observation post with instant communication to Molena Point PD. A surveillance operation, Dulcie thought, that was soon going to need a nice hot dinner—a little sustenance for a cold and hungry tomcat.

W
here a
steep roof rose from a flat one, the space beneath the slanted overhang formed a small, triangular cave protected from rain and from the sea wind, and from the eyes of curious pedestrians. One last ray of the setting sun shone in, where Joe Grey lay on the warm shingles looking down at Augor Prey's windows. Clyde's cell phone was tucked on the roof beside him—a real mouthful to carry through the village for five blocks, during the dark predawn hours, and to drag up the pine tree and across the slippery shingles. Before he left home, at 4:00 this morning, he had turned the ringer off to avoid alarming any late-night pedestrians or street people. And certainly, here on the roof, he didn't want a shrilling phone to announce his presence. He'd been here all day; it was twilight now and he was hungry.

Peering down into Prey's room, he could see the bed and dresser and a pair of jeans thrown over the armchair whose back served as a hanger for Prey's shirts. Prey had just gone out, walking, leaving his car parked on the street. Joe had watched one of Harper's rookie
cops, a young man dressed in jeans and T-shirt, idle along a block behind him, appearing as aimless as any tourist.

After Joe's call to Harper, the captain had made no move to take Prey in for questioning or to search his room for the gun, but he had put a tail on Prey. Maybe he and Garza didn't want to tip Prey too soon. Or were they not willing to take the word of their unknown informant that this guy was, in fact, Augor Prey?

Certainly when they did arrest him, if the guy's prints matched those in the Pumpkin Coach and in Susan Brittain's breakfast room, they had more than enough to hold him. The delay in making an arrest had Joe digging his claws into the shingles wishing they'd get on with it.

But impatience wouldn't cut it. All he could do was wait, and back up Harper's surveillance by observing Prey from the roof, where a cop could hardly remain unnoticed. Crouched in the chill evening, he was hungry as a homeless mutt. He wished Dulcie would show up, before he had to snatch some sleepy bird from its nest. Tonight, with the cold wind parting the fur along his back and shoulders, sending its icy breath clear through him, he'd really rather have a nice hot, home-cooked supper.

By the chimes of the courthouse clock, it was nearly 7:00. During the fifteen hours he'd been on the roof, with only a few short breaks down to the garden, he'd followed Prey to breakfast and then to lunch, shadowing him from above. After lunch he had watched Prey as he sprawled on the bed entertained by a series of mindless sitcoms, snacking on candy bars and a Coke.
He couldn't figure out why Prey was hanging around; why, if he killed Fern, he hadn't skipped.

And if Prey hadn't killed her, Joe didn't know who to look at next, among the several candidates. Besides Prey, who had attacked Cora Lee and whose scent was all over the charity shop, Vivi had been in the shop, sucking on frozen cherries. And quite possibly others. Scent detection in that medley of furniture and old clothes and shoes was no easy matter.

When Prey headed out again, likely for dinner this time, Joe tucked the cell phone deeper under the overhang, and followed across the roofs to the same restaurant where Prey had enjoyed his previous repasts, a plain box of an eatery that looked like it belonged not in Molena Point but beside some central California freeway catering to the camper trade. Prey's restaurant of choice had no garden blooming in front, no murals or elegant paintings on the walls, no potted plants inside. The harsh lighting illuminated a plain room with bad acoustics, chrome-and-plastic furniture, and the thick smell of a menu heavy on fried foods. No light California fare of the interesting combinations that Dulcie loved, but that, in Joe's opinion, was like mixing the garden flowers with the mousemeat.

Across the street and half a block away, the rookie cop who was following Prey stood huddled in a doorway trying to keep out of the wind. Joe, from his own high vantage, wondered who was watching the back door. Likely no one; Prey's shadow had him in plain sight.

Dropping to a low overhang above an art gallery, Joe hit the sidewalk, crossed the street among the feet of
wandering tourists, and galloped half a block down to the alley behind the restaurant.

The kitchen door was ajar to let in fresh air amidst the hot smell of onions and frying meats. Trying not to drool as he pawed the screen open, he slipped in past the cook's heels, across the kitchen, and under an empty booth at the back.

At a front table, Prey was just ordering, glancing repeatedly toward the window. Did he know he had a tail? Watching him, Joe tried to figure out where he'd hidden the packet of letters that he snatched from Cora Lee. Earlier in the day, while Prey ordered his lunch, Joe had returned to his room to toss it again, checking all his pockets, slipping a paw between the mattresses and crawling in as far as he could reach without smothering himself. He had fought the dresser drawers open again and climbed in behind them, and peered up at the undersides of the drawers. He'd found nothing more valuable than a rusted bobby pin and an old gum wrapper.

So maybe Prey had the letters on him. Maybe they'd been under the pillow along with the gun, and he'd missed them. There was a limit to how familiar the searcher could get without waking the searchee and getting one's tail in a knot.

Or had Prey given the letters to Richard Casselrod, maybe to sell and split the take? Joe was yawning with boredom by the time Prey paid his bill and rose to leave. Jerking awake, Joe rose to follow. Slipping beneath the tables and around assorted pant cuffs and stockinged ankles, he left the restaurant by the front door directly behind Prey's heels, but dropped back when the rookie fell into line.

Prey stopped at the market to pick up a six-pack, then headed back to his room. Could he be waiting for someone? Was that why Harper was watching him and not making an arrest? Back at their mutual destination, as Joe scorched up the nearest pine tree to the roof, Prey's room light and the TV came on. Joe watched him pop a beer and settle down on the bed, again not bothering to remove his shoes or to pull the shade. Joe could still taste the meaty cooking smells from the cheap café. Crouched in the wind, his stomach rumbling with hunger, he began to worry about Dulcie. He kept peering over the edge of the roof to the sidewalk below and to the scruffy patch of garden that ran between the houses, but there was no sign of her. Every time he glanced up into Prey's dismal room, he felt like he was peering in at a captive. Prey had, for all intents and purposes, made himself a prisoner, or nearly so—watching him had become as boring and tedious as watching paint flake from a rusting car.

Joe thought about the comfort of his own home, about his soft easy chair clawed to furry perfection, and the big, well-stocked refrigerator, and the wide, warm bed he shared with Clyde—but then his fear of Clyde's selling the house returned to haunt him. The idea of abandoning his home and going to live somewhere unfamiliar was totally depressing, the idea of a strange house filled with the unfamiliar smells of departed strangers and departed animals, where nothing fit just right or smelled right. The thought of moving and of starting over dropped him right down into a black well of dejection.

“You look limp as a fur rug.”

He jumped, startled. Dulcie stood behind him dan
gling a paper bag from her teeth. He could smell pot roast, he could tell that it was still warm and succulent. She dropped the bag on the shingles, nosed it open, and clawed out a Styrofoam dish. It took her a moment to undo the little clasp, revealing a heap of sliced roast beef, crisp string beans, and au gratin potatoes.

“Hot from Wilma's microwave. Dig in. I had my share, didn't want to carry it all.”

“Wilma puts up the best leftovers in the village.”

“Not leftovers, really. She cooks a big roast, all the fixings, then portions it out for future meals.”

“The blessings of a woman's touch.”

“That's very sexist. Is that why you want Clyde to get married?”

“It couldn't hurt,” Joe said with his mouth full. And when he came up for air, slurping and purring, he said, “Frozen suppers, ready for the microwave. We could do that when the rabbits are out by the hundreds, bring home a brace, portion them out into little dishes…”

Laughing, she lay down on the shingles, soaking up warmth from the vanished sun. “Not even Wilma and Clyde would dedicate their freezer to our hunting kill.”

“Does Wilma know why she fixed supper for me? Does she know I'm up here?”

“Of course. I had to tell her something. She didn't say a word, except did you have Clyde's cell phone up on the roof because Clyde's pitching a fit, trying to find it. He thought maybe he'd left it at her house.” Curled up in the shadows of the overhang, she began to wash her paws. “You could call Clyde and put his mind at rest—so he won't think he lost it and someone's going to run up a big bill.”

“He doesn't need the phone.”

“So call him. He's not going to come up here on the roof to get his phone back.”

“I wouldn't count on it. He's been so grouchy lately—and nosy. But what's happening at the station? What did you find out? Did you get in all right?”

Dulcie smiled. “I'm a permanent fixture. The day dispatcher's just as much a cat person as the lady on second watch. She made all kinds of fuss over me, made a bed for me on her sweater. All the officers stopped to scratch my ears and chuck me under the chin like some hound dog. They're so funny. Don't they know how to pet a cat?”

“Harper doesn't think it strange we're suddenly showing up there?”

“He gave me a look or two. Said maybe I was getting bored with being the library cat. But what would he suspect? A cat could shout obscenities in his face, and Harper wouldn't want to believe it.”

Joe shrugged and licked the Styrofoam one more time in case he'd missed a drop of gravy.

“Clyde stopped by the department,” she said. “Asking Harper about Fern's murder. Didn't even wait until they went out for coffee, just started asking questions. I think he's worried about you—about us. Maybe it's all this business of trying to decide whether to sell the house, maybe he's feeling insecure.”

“Clyde's feeling insecure, so he takes it out worrying about us.”

“Maybe, for humans, that's the way it works. Life gets uncertain, and every little frustration becomes a big problem. But listen to this,” she said, her green eyes gleaming. “Garza brought the Traynors in.”

“On what charge?”

“No charge. Just to talk to them. He couldn't hold them. Elliott was totally silent, didn't even complain about the inconvenience. You'd think he'd pitch a fit. You can bet Vivi whined; she said this would throw Elliott behind schedule, that he had to finish his book. She ranted on while Elliott sat there saying not a word and looking miserable.”

“So how did the questioning go?”

Dulcie looked abashed. “I tried, Joe. I thought it would be a snap, that I could sit on the dispatcher's counter and watch the interrogation on her monitor, but I should have known better. Garza just took them into his office. And shut the door. Practically in my face. I lay down on my back against the door playing with my tail, but I got only part of it. Those doors are thick, maybe bulletproof. Garza asked about their leaving New York, about their movements just before their flight. Vivi sounded surprised, but then she got really mad.”

Joe smiled. “Sounds like Adele McElroy did talk to the New York detectives. But why would Garza ask questions and alert Vivi? If there is anything to my theory, they'll pack up and skip.”

“My thought exactly. But I really didn't hear enough to make sense of it. Garza drove them back to their cottage himself.

“But he put a tail on them,” she said, grinning. “So maybe that's his idea, too, to catch them skipping.”

“Who did he send?”

“Davis. She's good, but I can find out more than she can. I can look in the windows to see if they're packing, and I can slip inside.”

“Watch yourself, Dulcie. Don't forget Elliott has that ‘target pistol' as he calls it.”

“I don't think he'll use that again.” She gave him a whisker kiss, and left him, leaping into the pine tree and scrambling backward down the rough trunk carrying the empty Styrofoam dish in its paper bag. She dropped it beside the steps of Prey's landlord, next to the trash can.

Prey had turned the light off; only the glow of the TV remained. Across his windows the evening sky reflected in a glut of slow-moving clouds. Joe could smell rain. He hoped it would hold off. Even under the two-foot overhang, a sudden downpour would splash up from the shingles, drenching him and playing hell with Clyde's cell phone.

He watched Prey pop another beer, sitting on the bed leaning against the pillows. Playing with the remote, Prey began to channel-hop, producing a staccato of jolting squawks and flashing light. As the evening deepened, the pine tree that rose beside the roof turned from separate green needles to a black and shapeless mass, and the house walls darkened to nondescript shadows blending with the ragged bushes. Only the pale sidewalk directly below retained its sharp edges, the concrete empty now except for a scattering of dead leaves skittering in the wind. Stretching out, Joe rested his chin on the metal roof gutter, looking down, half dozing, his bored gaze fixed on Prey.

He stiffened.

Something dark was sliding among the bushes; a figure was approaching Prey's windows noiselessly from the street, Joe caught a glimpse of jeans and a dark shirt. Was it the rookie that Garza had sent to tail
Prey? Had he pulled a heavier shirt on over his pale T-shirt, and put on a black cap? The man moved along beside the shrubs below the window, making no sound at all.

At nearly the same moment, Prey flicked the overhead light on again. As the harsh glow struck the bushes like a searchlight, the guy ducked away. Joe picked him out of the blackest shadows, crouching, watching the window above him. He looked bigger than the young cop. Inside the room, the glow of the single bulb shattered across the dresser's oval mirror, picking out Prey as he opened a third beer, the scar across his forehead angry in the artificial light. Staring at himself in the mirror, he moved to the bathroom and rinsed out a washcloth.