Cat Laughing Last (26 page)

“Out in plain sight?”

“Since Augor Prey and Casselrod went to jail, why not?”

“I wouldn't leave it lying around. You don't know who else…” Exasperated with Susan and Wilma, he leaped up to have a look.

The box smelled just like the others, of old, seasoned wood. The geometric carvings were primitive and handsome, each side with a rosette in the center. Pawing the top open, he sniffed at the empty interior.

The walls and bottom seemed too thin for a false compartment. Likely this was just a nice collector's piece that would bring maybe four or five hundred dollars, he thought, dropping to the floor. Heading for the living room, the two cats slipped into the cave beneath Wilma's desk beside the kit, where she lay on her back playing with one of Cora Lee's slippers, holding it between her front paws, killing it violently.

Moving deeper in beside her, Joe and Dulcie listened to the ladies' plans, to Susan's decision to put her house on the market, and to their discussion of the legal aspects of a joint purchase that their attorney had outlined. All the numbers and percentage points made the cats' heads reel. Curled up together, they were almost asleep when Charlie's cell phone rang.

Answering, her face colored. She glanced around at her friends, then rose, heading for the kitchen, cradling the phone to her ear, her sudden excitement seeming almost to send sparks. Quickly the three cats slipped out to follow her, pushing through the kitchen door before she closed it. Leaping to the table, they crowded around her. The voice at the other end reached them like a bee buzz. Charlie listened for some time, going pale; absently she petted Dulcie.

Slipping close to her, Joe put his face next to Charlie's. She didn't push him away. The woman's voice at the other end was husky and familiar. “…totally unprecedented. There are a lot of well-known writers who would like to step into this contract. I can't make any kind of promise, but I have to say, I like this very much. Really, I find it difficult to separate your work from Elliott's. I'm hoping Elliott's editor will feel the same.

“I'm taking it over to her this afternoon. This whole thing has been upsetting to everyone—and you can imagine that several writers' agents have already contacted Kathleen Merritt and called me.”

Nervously, Charlie hugged Joe.

“If she does like it, can you meet the August tenth deadline?”

“Yes,” Charlie said, looking with panic at the cats.

“You said you're not a writer by profession?”

“I'm an artist. I do animal drawings. I'm represented in Molena Point by the Aronson Gallery. And I…I own a cleaning and maintenance company.”

“So you work full-time?”

“I can meet the deadline. I have reliable crews. My time is my own.” She didn't mean to sound defensive. Beside her, Joe and Dulcie were smiling and purring.
The kit looked wide-eyed and puzzled. When Charlie hung up the phone, she grabbed the cats in a huge hug.

“Our secret,” she said softly, glancing toward the living room.

Joe listened to the faint sound of the ladies' voices, preoccupied with loan points and interest rates. Strange, he thought, that loud, giggling Vivi Traynor, when she brought her ugly little secret to Molena Point, might have launched Charlie into a new and exciting venture.

Though if Charlie hadn't been so nosy, as curious as a cat herself, even Vivi's subterfuge wouldn't have made that happen. And it was Charlie's love of Traynor's work that had truly set her on this path.

“Not even Wilma,” Charlie whispered. “Don't even tell Wilma. Not yet. Not until I see if this will fly.”

“It will fly,” Dulcie said softly.

Charlie looked at them uncertainly. “Maybe. And maybe this is all foolishness, maybe I'll fall on my face.” She grinned. “But I've done that before, and gotten up again.”

Joe twitched a whisker. He could imagine Charlie sitting up late at night, into the small hours, in her little one-room apartment, working on a borrowed computer at her breakfast table. Stopping work sometimes to stand at her window looking down on the rooftops as she formed, in her thoughts, her own kind of magic for the last chapters of Elliott Traynor's novel. And he rubbed his face against Charlie's, raggedly purring.

I
t was
opening night of
Thorns of Gold.
Among the shadows above the dimly lit theater, Joe and Dulcie lay stretched out along a rafter, watching the crowd streaming in below them laughing and talking, the seats quickly filling up. The villagers were dressed all in their finest, in coats and ties, and long gowns. Dulcie was wide-eyed at the lovely jewlery and elegant hair arrangements. Despite Elliott Traynor's death, despite the fact that Vivi Traynor and Willie Gasper were back in New York and had been arraigned for murder, the producers had moved on with the play—finding Elliott's agent far easier to deal with than Vivi in matters of production and casting.

Elliott's move, in making Adele McElroy recipient, in trust, of his works, had been a surprise to everyone. In Joe's opinion, considering the number of ex-wives in the picture, that had been very wise. He wondered, when Traynor set up the trust two years earlier, if he'd guessed how soon it would take effect. One thing was certain: Vivi hadn't known about the arrangement.

Joe and Dulcie had watched as Vivi and Willie
Gasper were marched from Molena Point jail handcuffed, and locked into the backseat of the New York detectives' rented car, for the ride to the airport, and they had witnessed her vile language. There were no giggles now, nervous or otherwise. Certainly the New York grand jury's ruling indicting Vivi for murder had set off enough national headlines and prime-time news to be heard even by Elliott himself wherever he was in heaven's high realms.

Joe supposed that if the New York police hadn't had an eyewitness to Elliott's murder, Adele McElroy herself, because she was trustee and partial heir, might have been a suspect.

In Molena Point, Augor Prey had been convicted for breaking and entering and vandalism. That had netted him two years in county jail and two thousand dollars restitution to be paid to Susan Brittain. Though very likely, Susan wouldn't see much of the money. Prey's upcoming trial for Fern Barth's murder should, if all went well, put him behind bars and out of the work-force for some time to come. Joe Grey smiled, feeling greatly at ease with the world, feeling much the same as when a brace of fat mice lay lined up before him—a nice finish to a day's hunting.

 

But the kit, though pleased that justice had prevailed and that Vivi was behind bars, wasn't nearly finished with related matters. Nor was she up among the rafters, tonight, with Joe and Dulcie, watching the house fill with eager theatergoers.

Sprawled across Cora Lee's dressing table, her black-and-brown tattered coat looking like nothing so
much as a ragged fur scarf, the kit watched the star of the play button her satin gown for the first act. They could hear from the audience tides of hushed voices echoing back to them where folk were laughing and greeting friends. The proximity of a real audience excited the kit so much it made her paws sweat.

Sitting down at the dressing table, Cora Lee drew on eye makeup and applied mascara while leaning over the kit, and blushed her cheeks brighter than the kit had ever seen. When she slipped on her wig of long, shining black hair, those sleek Spanish tresses curling around her shoulders, she wasn't Cora Lee anymore.

She rose from the dressing table as a young, vibrant Spanish woman, splendid in cascading folds of pale ivory satin. Catalina stood stroking the kit, her hands shaking.

“You bring me luck, Kit. You are my luck.” Her fingers were so cold that the chill came right through the kit's fur, making the little cat shiver. Cora Lee stood still for only a moment, then began to pace the small dressing room, singing softly the lines of her opening number—whether to calm her nerves or to warm up, the kit didn't know. She sang part of a song from the second act, the verses so hurt and lonely they made the kit want to yowl—Catalina's lament touched the kit so strongly that she mewled, lifting her paw to her friend.

“Does that number make you sad, Kit?” Cora Lee tilted the kit's chin up, looking into her eyes. “Say, ‘Break a leg,' Kit.”

The kit's eyes widened with alarm, making Cora Lee laugh.

“That's what theater people say, for good luck. Break a leg. If you could talk, that's what you could say to
me.” Careful of her costume, Cora Lee picked up the kit and hugged her. “I'm so nervous. I haven't done this since New Orleans—not a musical. Well, it's not a musical. Experimental, Mark calls it. But for so long, I've only done speaking parts. And then I used to sing sometimes in small clubs. It still hurts to sing, Kit—like a knife in my middle. I don't care, this is Catalina's night, Catalina is alive, tonight, and she will be wonderful.”

She will be wonderful
, the kit thought.
You are Catalina, and you are wonderful
.

The music began. There was a knock at the door. Cora Lee set the kit on the dresser. “Stay here, Kit. Think good thoughts.” And she left the dressing room, heading backstage behind the sets.

The kit waited only a moment, then followed her. Staying among the shadows, she hid herself in the wings behind the long curtains where she had a good view of the stage. Above her in the rafters, high over the gathered audience, Joe and Dulcie saw her. Dulcie smiled, but Joe Grey tensed. “What's she doing?”

“She's just watching,” Dulcie said quietly. “She loves Cora Lee. And she loves the play; the songs seem really to charm her. She'll just sit there purring,” she said complacently.

But Joe's yellow eyes shone black in the shadows, burning with unease.

“Not to worry,” Dulcie said. “What could she do? She's a sensible little cat.”

“She's too close to the stage. Why doesn't she come up here?”

“She wants to be close to Cora Lee, she wants a front-row seat.” She gave him a sweet look. “It's opening night, everyone's talked about opening night. Of
course the kit's excited.” She peered down over the rafter below them, where Clyde and Ryan were taking their seats. Clyde was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, and was holding Ryan's hand. Ryan wore a long emerald green dress. Dulcie loved all the pageantry and elegance. It would be no good to have a play, if the audience didn't dress up, too.

To the cats' left sat Wilma and Susan, and Gabrielle and Mavity, all wearing long dresses and whispering among themselves. Three rows in front of them, Max Harper and Charlie were finding their places.

“Can you believe that Harper sprang for front-row seats?” Dulcie whispered. Harper was dressed in a well-tailored, dark sport coat, tan slacks, pale shirt, and tie. Charlie wore a long, rust-toned skirt and a brocade jacket in orange and turquoise that was, Dulcie whispered, “stunning with her red hair.”

The house lights dimmed and the orchestra shifted from a soft tango to the opening strains of Act 1. The curtain opened to the patio of the Ortega-Diaz hacienda, filled now with angry, arguing rancheros—with Don Ortega-Diaz and a dozen of his contemporaries, resplendent in Spanish finery, discussing with Latin passion the sudden foreclosure on their lands. Not until the American, Hamilton Stanton, appeared in their midst offering to pay Ortega-Diaz's commitments, did the mob quiet. What was this? What a fortunate turn of events, that their friend could marry off the eldest of his five daughters to a rancher of obvious means and, at the same time, save his lands.

But when Catalina's hand was promised, she stepped from the shadows fiery with rage against her father; the angry violence of her song shook the audi
ence. When the lights came up at the end of Scene 1, the theater was silent. Applause, when it broke, was like sudden thunder.

It was Scene 2, as servants locked Catalina in her room, that her saddest lament rose—and that a small movement in the shadows drew Cora Lee's attention. The cats saw her glance into the wings though her singing didn't falter. Dulcie caught her breath. Joe Grey crouched, ready to leap across the rafters and down, to haul the kit off the stage.

Dulcie stopped him, her teeth gently in his shoulder. “Wait, Joe. Watch—look at the audience.”

Catalina's voice faltered for only a second as she reached out to the dark little cat that had slipped up onto her couch beside her. As Cora Lee's song held the audience, she drew the kit to her in a gesture natural and appealing. Singing with a broken heart, she cuddled the kit close. Every person present was one with them, not a sound in the darkened theater. Cora Lee and the kit held them all.

 

The kit appeared in two more scenes, both times when Cora Lee glanced into the wings to draw her out again, the two seeming perfectly attuned to one another. Cora Lee might be amazed at the kit's behavior, but she was a child of the theater. And the audience loved the small cat. When Cora Lee glanced into the wings at Sam Ladler, he was smiling—Cora Lee played the kit for all she was worth. When Catalina was fed on bread and water, the kit slipped in through the window grate to keep her company. The kit disappeared after the wedding and did not return until Catalina's lover, in desperation, began to rav
age the Ortega-Diaz lands, stealing cattle and burning the pastures. Now again the kit was there, with exquisite timing, as Catalina herself set a trap for her lover.

In the last scene, when Marcos escaped Hamilton Stanton's vaqueros and came to take Catalina away, and when Stanton was there in her stead, Catalina stood in her chamber holding the kit in her arms, weeping for Marcos, for her part in his death, as the curtain rang down.

 

Among the cats' closest friends, response to the kit's theatrical adventure was frightened and guarded. While everyone in the village raved about Cora Lee's performance and about the wonderful part the little cat played, and the kit had front-page newspaper coverage, her friends worried for her and wanted badly to put a stop to her foolishness.

“You're racing too close to the edge,” Dulcie told her. “Don't you think people will wonder?”

“But no one—” the kit began.

“Kit, this scares me. Don't you understand what could happen?”

The kit looked at Dulcie sadly, filled with misery.

“You're lovely in the play, Kit. You're exactly what the play needed. Everyone loves you. But, Kit, you know that not all humans can be trusted. Even if they believe you're no more than a trained cat, the way Wilma and Clyde have tried to convince people, don't you know how many no-goods would steal such a cleverly trained kitty and try to sell you.”

“But they wouldn't hurt me. And I would escape, I would get away.”

Dulcie just looked at her. Life before the kit had been so peaceful and predictable—and, compared to life
with
the kit, seemed in retrospect deadly dull. “If we stick with Wilma's plan,” Dulcie said, “maybe it will come right.” It broke her heart to scold the kit, the kit took such joy in the play. But when she licked the kit's ear, the kit brightened.

By the next morning, Wilma and Charlie and Clyde had convinced Cora Lee that it would be best to tell admirers that she and Wilma, together, had trained the kit. They set up a scenario for the remainder of the play that included Wilma taking the kit to the theater each night, standing in the wings with her, and giving her hand signals like a trained dog. Cora Lee followed the plan, understanding quite well the danger to the kit—as far as she knew it.

But the wonder of the kit's creative performance didn't pale. To Cora Lee and to her audiences, the kit was a four-legged angel, a magical creature.

Wilma told Sam Ladler that onstage, when Cora Lee's emotions built through song, the young cat was naturally drawn to her in a powerful response. She said that was how she trained the kit. Ladler said the kit's appearance had been a nice surprise, that the kit added just the fillip the play needed. “This couldn't have happened,” he said, laughing, “if Vivi had been present. She would have pitched a fit.”

The play was to run for six weeks. Dulcie told the kit, “Except for performances, you'll stay in the house. When the play's over, you'll stay in the house until, hopefully, people forget about trained cats.”

“If they ever forget,” Joe said darkly.

“I will stay in the house,” the kit said dutifully, her
round amber eyes glowing with the magic of the theater, with a wonder and dimension that stayed with her each night long after the last curtain had fallen, so it was hard for her to fall asleep. She prowled the house worrying Dulcie, prompting Wilma to rise and warm a pan of milk for her then stroke her until she slept. If Wilma began to look haggard, people put it down to her demanding cat-training regimen.

Thorns of Gold,
with the kit's added magic, contributed to the village of Molena Point a warm and glowing experience; and maybe the magic spilled over to anoint others. It was a week after opening night that Charlie made her announcement, at the engagement party at Clyde's house in honor of her and Max.

Ryan came early to help Clyde lay out plates and glasses on the seldom-used dining table. Mavity and Susan arrived just before Charlie and Max, bringing trays of canapés. Wilma and Gabrielle and Cora Lee of course were at the theater. Mavity had dressed in a powder blue pants suit that was not a uniform. Susan wore a long skirt and a hand-knit sweater. Soon after Detectives Garza and Davis arrived, loaded down with ice buckets and champagne, and before the engagement announcement, Charlie broke her news.

“Looks like the last chapters of Elliott Traynor's
Twilight Silver
will be published after all,” she said quietly.

Garza frowned, “How did that happen? I thought Vivi couldn't write her way out of a paper bag. That's what alerted her agent in the first place.”

“Vivi won't be writing the last chapters,” Harper said.

“Who, then?” Garza said, waiting for the punch line. “Not Willie Gasper?”

“Charlie will be writing them,” Harper said. “She talked with Traynor's editor yesterday. They like her work very much, they're sending her a contract.”