Cat Laughing Last (3 page)

The cats had crouched to leap away across the roofs
to have a look when Joe saw, in the street below, the source of their sudden unease. A growl rose in his throat as a petite young woman stepped out of her black Lincoln. The cats watched Vivi Traynor cross to the McLeary yard, trampling through a flower bed, shoving a child aside as she hurried to the sale tables. She was small and curvy, her black tights, plaid miniskirt, and black sweater clinging, her black hair teased into a bird's nest around her thin face, and held back with a red bow. As she rifled through assemblages of household cast-offs, the village locals, who had not yet seen the author's wife at a yard sale, watched her with interest. A portly tourist whipped out a scrap of paper as if to ask for Vivi's autograph. Did the wife of an internationally famous novelist rate the status of autographs? Certainly Vivi always attracted attention. The couple had been in town barely three weeks, Elliott Traynor having come to oversee a little theater production of his only play, an experimental form that the
Gazette
called innovative and exciting.

Word had it that Elliott was fighting cancer, that this theatrical production was a project he longed to enjoy while he was still able. The play was set in this area of the California coast where Molena Point now stood, and the musical score had been written by a well-known composer who made his home in the village. The cats watched Vivi wander the garden intently searching—for what? Perhaps looking for some stage prop? Slipping between a stack of used windows and a flowered couch, she performed a theatrical little hip wiggle to ease past a rusty barbecue, then giggled shrilly as she shouldered aside a portly lady tourist. The sight of her made Joe's fur twitch.

Since their arrival, Elliott Traynor had kept largely to himself as he finished the last chapters of
Twilight Silver
, the third novel in his historical trilogy. But Vivi had made herself known around the village, and not pleasantly—as if she enjoyed being rude to shopkeepers, as if she took pleasure in being abrupt and demanding.

The Traynors had not wanted a staff for the cottage they were renting, but had hired the cleaning service provided by Wilma Getz's redheaded niece, Charlie. Charlie tended the Traynor house herself, early each morning, then left the couple to their privacy.

Molena Point's residents, numbering so many writers and artists, were not put off by Elliott's reclusive ways. They talked among themselves about his books and about the play, waved when occasionally they saw him on the streets or in the black Lincoln, as they headed to the theater; otherwise they left him to his own devices. The presence, alone, of the prestigious writer, seemed adequate enrichment to their well-appointed lives.

But no one had warmed to Vivi.

Traynor's previous wife had died three years before. Six months later, he married Vivi, a woman forty years his junior. Besides her loud, rude ways, something else about her made the cats want to back away, hissing, a chill that perhaps only a cat would sense. Whatever reason she had for appearing this morning in the McLeary garden could only, in Joe Grey's opinion, mean trouble.

T
he light
in Susan Brittain's garage was dim. Standing in the doorway, again peering into the gloom, the first rays of sun striking in past her shoulder, she searched the shadows among the overturned shelves and tables, looking for someone perhaps still crouched there among the ripped-off cupboard doors and scattered empty shipping boxes. An unwound roll of bubble wrap lay twisted across the fallen shelf units like the cast-off skin of a giant snake. Susan could see no one standing silently, waiting for her to enter. Had the vandal been after something he imagined was secured behind the cabinets? Why else would he rip them from the wall? What could he imagine she had, of enough value for him to go to all that trouble? Her instinct was to run, to get away from the house, to call the police from her neighbor's.

Was the vandal in the house somewhere? Had he broken into her home as well?

The door from the garage to the breakfast room was closed. She couldn't see whether it had been tampered with, but when she headed further inside to try the
lock, Lamb lunged into her path again, snapping at her leg and growling. She backed out of the garage, her hand on his head, grateful for his protection.

She didn't want to go around to the patio entry. If someone was inside, she would be easily seen through the glass doors of the breakfast room before she could reach the front door.

Carrying the oversized plastic nursery pot from the side of the house, she stood on it again, to peer through the high windows into her bright breakfast room.

The cupboard doors stood open, their contents pulled out in a mess on the floor among the overturned dinette chairs, her watercolors jerked from their hooks, and the glass broken, her expensive ceramic pots thrown to the floor, spilling their delicate plants in heaps of black soil. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt faint. Both anger and panic blurred her vision—and fear.

A man lay sprawled beside her desk, facedown and unmoving, his blood mixed with spilled copier toner, the toner floating on top of the viscous red pools like scum on a stagnant pond. She couldn't see his face. What had he wanted? What had happened to him? She owned nothing of great value. Was this simply vandalism, senseless and cruel? Not a burglary at all, but someone mindlessly stoned and intent on destruction, who ended up harming himself?

Whatever had happened, she felt totally violated, felt far more wounded than she'd ever envisioned when she'd heard about others' break-ins. Reading those accounts, she'd tried to imagine how one would react, but she hadn't had a clue.

She wondered, sickly, if he had trashed the whole
house. Maybe he'd already made off with her TV and CD player, maybe with the few pieces of gold jewelry she kept in the top drawer of her dressing table, then had returned to see what else he could find. Had someone else been here, and hit him? He was very still, though from the way the blood and toner were smeared, it looked as if he had moved, maybe tried to roll over.

This was the stuff of some lurid movie. She needed the police, she needed someone. Her pride in her independence didn't stretch this far.

Beside her, Lamb looked up at her with solemn, dark eyes, alert and questioning. Reaching down to stroke him, she tried to reassure herself, to take herself in hand.

Why had the burglar turned on her computer? Its light shone faintly across the man's body, reflected from the eBay auction lists.

And
was
there another vandal? Was he out here in the yard somewhere, watching her? Looking in both directions along the side of the house, she knew she should get away.

None of this made sense. Could that man in there be lying so still to deceive her, wanting to lure her inside and grab her? Someone who would hurt her simply for kicks? Lamb continued to watch the window, the gleam in his dark eyes hard and alert like a snake ready to strike.

Certainly, with Lamb by her side, she would be safe going in. If she went inside, she could see better what had happened, could see if the man was dead, then call 911.

Oh yes, she could do that. And maybe she should take his pulse, she thought, disgusted with herself.

Hands shaking, she stepped down off the plastic planter and backed away. Pulling Lamb's leash tight, she slipped around to the drive where her car was parked. Unlocking the door, she signaled Lamb to get in. Following him, she locked the door again and used her cell phone, which she kept plugged into the dash, to call 911, her voice shaking so badly she could hardly make herself understood. That surprised her, that she would lose control. She managed to tell the dispatcher there was a man lying wounded in her house, bleeding and possibly dead, that there must have been two men. After she hung up, she wondered if she should back out of the drive, get away from there, even if the car was locked.

But it wouldn't be long. She would wait in the drive until the police came.

They arrived within five minutes, a patrol officer—one of two new rookies, she thought. And the new detective from San Francisco, Detective Dallas Garza. She was aware of Garza from her friend Wilma, who knew most of the officers in the Molena Point PD. She wished that Captain Harper himself had come. The captain had a terse but comforting way about him. During all that trouble up at the retirement home last year, when she'd been staying there recovering from her car accident, and those people were killed up there, Harper's laid-back, quiet resolve had made everyone feel easier, had kept the elderly residents from panicking. But the department was growing, and Harper didn't go out on many calls anymore.

Detective Garza was a squarely built, solid man in his late forties, dressed in slacks and a sport coat, his short black hair neatly trimmed, his black Latin eyes unreadable. The uniformed officer with him was young, with dimples and a cleft chin. Susan gave Dallas Garza her house key, and remained in her car with the doors locked, as he instructed, while they cleared the house. Garza had told her to be ready to drive away if anyone came out or if she felt threatened.

He was in there a very long time. Through her slightly open driver's window, she heard the glass door of the breakfast room slide back, as if they had gone out that way and were looking over the patio. Then she heard the back patio gate creak open. Beside her, Lamb listened, following every sound.

Maybe ten minutes later she heard the gate shut again. She sat in the car feeling useless and uncharacteristically frightened. She didn't approve of such fear in herself; she wondered sometimes if this Senior Survival plan was simply a sign of weakness—a gaggle of old ladies who felt they couldn't cope with life alone? Looking over at Lamb, she was mighty thankful to have him. The big poodle, sitting erect in the passenger seat, watched the house as intently as if he could see through the walls. Another police car arrived, parking on the street. Garza came out of the house to confer with the officer, then walked over to her car, looking down at her as she rolled down her window.

“There's no one in there, Mrs. Brittain.”

“That's a relief. Is the man dead?”

“There's no one in the breakfast room. There's no body.” Garza looked at her carefully. “There's a lot of blood. Detective Davis is on the way. She'll photo
graph, take samples, and lift prints. Do you want to tell me again what you saw?”

Her hands began to shake. She couldn't believe what he told her. Reaching to Lamb, she clutched her fingers into his short dense curls.

“You couldn't have mistaken what you saw? Saw the blood, perhaps, and imagined…?”

“Of course not! Are you sure there was no one? You're saying that man got up and walked away?”

“There was no one in the breakfast room. The glass door was unlocked and ajar. Did you leave it that way?”

“I left it locked. I would have heard it open. I looked in the window, standing on that plastic pot, and he was there. I came right to the car, locked myself in, and called you. Well, I guess he could have opened it then, when I was calling, and I wouldn't have heard. But he was so still, and so much blood…”

“Could you describe again exactly what you saw?”

“A man. He looked dead. Lying on his stomach. Denim shirt and jeans. Lying in blood. His own blood, I supposed. Spilled printer toner mixed with blood, floating on top. Blood running into the spilled potting soil. He…the man was turned away, I couldn't see his face. He had short brown hair, and he was thin.” She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the scene, then looked up at Garza. “I think he was young. Smooth neck, smooth hands.”

“Was he wearing rings or a watch?”

She closed her eyes again, but she couldn't remember. Just kept seeing the blood.

“Did you notice anything else? His shoes? What kind of shoes?”

Again she tried to bring back the scene. “Blood and potting soil, or toner, on his shoes. They must have been jogging shoes. Yes, white. Blood and toner staining the white.”

Garza nodded. “There was a blood trail out the glass door and across the patio. But no one in the house. Your keyboard is filled with blood and could have prints. May we take it as evidence?”

“I have another, I just recently bought that curved one—to help prevent wrist problems, you know.”

Garza nodded. “And you're all right waiting here while we finish the initial investigation?”

“I'm fine.” But
, I'm hungry
, she thought.
I want my coffee
.

She could go to the neighbors, beg a cup of coffee. But she didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to answer questions. And she didn't want to ask to go in the house while they were taking evidence. They wouldn't want her there getting in the way, maybe destroying something they felt was important.

As Garza turned away, a plain green Chevy pulled up the drive, parking beside Susan's car. Detective Juana Davis got out, a squarely built Latina woman in her mid-fifties with short black hair. She smiled and waved to Susan, and went inside with Garza. Susan sat in her car thinking about having to clean up that mess, and about this loss to the Senior Survival club fund. They'd had no one item of value, but many small treasures that altogether would have brought a nice sum on the Web—now all shattered and destroyed. And she thought about the five members of the Senior Survival club buying a house together, wondered if five women living together might be more secure, maybe take bet
ter precautions—or if five lone women in a house would be sitting ducks for anyone who wanted to harm them.

I'm getting paranoid, this is crazy, this is not the way I look at life.
She stroked Lamb and looked into his eyes, and saw such steadfast courage that she was ashamed of her own cowardice.

It was half an hour later that Davis came out to tell Susan that the trail of blood led across her backyard, across her neighbors' side yard, and disappeared at the curb of the street below her house.

“The victim may have gotten into a car. Do you remember a car parked down there?” Davis pushed back her short hair. She was in uniform, though usually the detectives dressed in civilian clothes.

“I didn't come home along the lower street,” Susan said. “I came up the other way, directly from the village. Walking. I'd been walking Lamb, on the beach.”

Davis nodded. Her dark Latin eyes warmed to Susan, and she reached to pat her arm. “You'll continue to wait until Detective Garza can talk with you again? Are you comfortable?”

“Of course,” Susan said, badly wanting her coffee.

The detectives spent nearly two hours going over the scene, photographing, dusting for prints, taking blood samples from several locations, and taking Susan's own fingerprints for comparison. After about an hour, Davis asked her if she wanted to come in and make coffee.

As she sipped that first, welcome cup, Detective Garza sat with her in her living room, refusing coffee, asking endless questions. She allowed him to examine her hands and arms for any cuts or scrapes or bruises.
She tried not to let that ruffle her. This was part of his job, to be sure she hadn't been involved, that she wasn't holding back information.

“Who knows your routine, Mrs. Brittain? Who would know that you are in the habit of walking early in the morning?”

“All my neighbors know that. And my women friends. Wilma Getz…Shall I give you a list?”

“Yes, with addresses and phone numbers, if you would. Anyone else?”

“Other dog walkers would know. Anyone used to seeing me and Lamb in the village or on the beach. This is a small town, Detective Garza. Everyone knows your business.” Garza had only been in the village a few months; but surely even working in San Francisco, he'd be aware that some of the neighborhoods were like a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. And Garza knew the village, he had vacationed here for years.

“When can I begin to clean up?” she asked. “Do I have to leave that mess?”

“For a while you do. We'll be putting up crime scene tape, we'll want everything left untouched until we notify you. Can you stay with a friend for a few nights? Stay out of the house until we're finished?”

“I'll call Wilma. I'm supposed to meet her and some friends for brunch, but I…”

“It might help to have friends around you. And please don't leave your dog here, for his own safety.”

“No, I wouldn't leave Lamb. He'll go with me.”

“He's a fine, dignified fellow. Does he hunt?”

“No. My daughter never trained him. She got him
for companionship. She's working in San Francisco now, so I inherited Lamb. Do you have dogs?”

“I used to raise pointers. I have two that I'll be bringing down later, when I get the backyard fixed up for them.” He smiled. “Go on to brunch, Mrs. Brittain—you and Lamb. I'll wait while you pack an overnight bag.”

She gave Detective Garza her spare house key that she kept in her dresser, and packed a bag while he waited. His presence in the house was reassuring. Before she left, they checked the doors and windows together. As she drove away, she saw Detective Davis canvassing the neighborhood to see who might have been at home, who might have heard or seen anything unusual. The disappearance of the body—of the wounded man—distressed her. She didn't like the idea that he might return.