Cat Striking Back (2 page)

Along the steps that descended into the empty pool, the blood was drying, as were the muddy shoe prints, as if several hours had passed. Whatever had occurred had taken place, he'd guess, maybe late yesterday afternoon. Any earlier and the hot sun would have dried all the marks to a powdery consistency that would easily flake. Very much later and the prints would still be wet. Studying the scene, he was startled when the rising light of morning dimmed suddenly, as if someone had appeared from nowhere, stepping up behind him.

But it was only cloud shadows, the mass of darker clouds moving in below the white ones, gray and dense and smelling more heavily of rain, serious clouds descending over the village—only some twelve hours later than the weatherman had predicted. That guru of scientific data had said it would rain last night.

With the primitive methods humans used, such pre
dictions couldn't be easy. Joe and Dulcie and Kit had known it wouldn't rain until morning, they'd known they had the night to hunt. Though the month of June
was
temperamental, scorching one minute, dark with rain or fog the next.

But now, for sure, the rain was coming, and if it got here before the law did, the cops would find little left of blood, of drag marks or of footprints, the evidence would all be washed away. That mustn't happen. The cops needed to see this, he needed to get them here before the rain hit.

Before hastily departing the scene, he took one last look for additional evidence, circling the house, investigating beneath the overgrown bushes—and making doubly sure that he, himself, had left no paw prints. His jaws were aching with the weight of the mice. Prowling, he found nothing more of significance until, beneath the yellow flowers of a euryops bush beside the drive, he spotted a pair of dark glasses. They smelled of suntan oil. He studied them, but left the silver-rimmed shades untouched, lying among the dead leaves, and hurried away from the scene. Pushing through between several overgrown mock orange bushes, he scorched up an oak tree to the neighbors' roof and headed across the peaks to deliver his gift, and then to alert the law, though with some small misgivings.

If that was a murder scene, he'd be glad he made the call. If it wasn't, if the seeming evidence led to some other scenario that he had not imagined, he would be deeply embarrassed. In all the time he'd been secretly passing tips to Molena Point PD, he had never once given the cops a
false lead, to do so would tarnish the perfect record of the department's most reliable snitch.

But no fear, he'd smelled human death. And though he didn't rejoice in knowing that some innocent human had died, he knew, in every perceptive cell of his silver-gray tomcat body, that the evidence would prove him right.

H
URRYING OVER THE
rooftops the two blocks to the Chapman house, Joe was careful to carry his gift of mice high enough so he wouldn't trip on them; at his every leap, his mousy burden dragged him down, thudding against his chest and against the roof shingles. Below him along the street, folks had begun to awaken. He glimpsed a man out walking in the cool early dawn. Two women in jogging clothes strolled along gossiping and exchanging giggles. As he jumped clumsily from tree to tree and over a narrow alleyway, above him the sky darkened even more, and he broke into a gallop, praying the rain would hold off until the cops had a look at the bloody swimming pool.

He had no question that as soon as he called the department, a squad car would head up there, that a uniform or maybe one of the detectives would take a look at the pool, and get a blood sample. Once forensics had established that that was human blood, which shouldn't take long, Detective Garza or Davis would cordon off the scene
and get to work. He wondered if any missing-person's report had come in that could be tied to the dead body. He thought the dark glasses lying beneath the bushes were a woman's, but with the smell of suntan oil on them, he couldn't be sure.

Leaping from an oak limb down onto the Chapmans' roof, Joe backed down a bottlebrush tree and into the heavily layered miasma of crowded bushes, flowers, and small trees that was Theresa Chapman's garden—a tangle that might be criticized by the neighbors as an unkempt mess but which, to the neighborhood felines, was a jungle of delight in which to hide for a nap or for amusement, to hunt small rodents, and just to play.

Sheltered among the overgrown flowers and shrubs, Joe headed for the laundry-room window. Leaping to the sill, he clawed open the glass slider, releasing onto the morning air the sharp scent of female cat, the stink of used sandbox, and then the sweet smell of kittens. Apparently the latch was broken. The window was secured by a lock that allowed the pane to open four inches, just enough for Mango to come and go; when Theresa was home, she left the slider open. Quickly Joe slid on through.

The Chapman house was a remodel that had once, early in the last century, been a poky little summer cabin. Now, with the living room and kitchen enlarged and the addition of deep bay windows throughout the sunny rooms, and new sliding glass doors onto the back deck, the house was a charmer. Even Joe, with a tomcat's disdain for architectural niceties, found the home appealing. The interior was, in fact, so commanding in its bold lines that the tangles of homey clutter in which the Chapmans liked
to live did not detract from its imposing presence. Cluttered house, cluttered garden, but handsome and sturdy home. The mix seemed to suit exactly Theresa Chapman's two-sided temperament.

She was a thin young woman with a perpetually delighted smile, as if all the world had been made new for her. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, prominent cheeks that she tried to erase by constant dieting, but which in truth only added to her charm. Her friends and neighbors said she should leave the dieting alone, but Theresa wouldn't listen. Thin as a rail, still she dieted, seemed almost to starve herself, striving to thin those round, smooth, and appealing cheeks.

Theresa was a loving friend to every animal she met; she cried easily over lost or hurt animals, and she was giving and loving with her human friends. Only when she took offense at real or imagined wrongdoings did her emotions flare with sudden hurt and rage. Yet Joe and Dulcie and Kit, who overheard a lot of village gossip, some by accident and more on purpose, had never heard anyone say a bad word about her.

Dropping down onto the counter that held the laundry sink, Joe leaped to the floor and diffidently approached the big cardboard box in the corner where the kittens were nestled with their mama.

Theresa had left the yellow tabby shut in the house with her nursing babies for the duration of the Chapmans' three-week vacation, wanting to keep the little family safe. She had left ample food and water, which the housekeeping service would replace regularly. Of course she hadn't counted on anyone else, on any strangers, gaining ac
cess. But last night, surely after Theresa and her husband had left, Joe and Dulcie found the female locked out of the house, separated from her bawling kits, and with no way to get back inside. They had come upon her yowling and clawing at the back door, frantic to get in, and they couldn't imagine that the Chapmans had accidentally let her out as they were loading up to leave. Carl Chapman might do that, but not Theresa, not with her responsible and loving care of every cat she knew. They were certain Theresa would have checked on Mango the last thing before leaving. Had Mango slipped out past her at the last minute? That didn't seem likely, not as careful as Theresa was. Or had someone from Charlie Harper's cleaning service come in right after they left and accidentally let her out?

But why would they come in to clean so late in the day? And Charlie's employees would never be so careless—nor, of course, would Charlie.

“Those kittens can't last very long without milk,” Dulcie had said worriedly. “We have to get her back inside.” She had looked frantically at Joe, her green eyes wide, all her maternal instincts on full alert. “Did someone go in there after they left, maybe planning to rob the house?”

Softly she'd padded up the back steps, approaching the yellow cat, who had backed against the door snarling defensively, guarding her children. The cries of the kittens was heartbreaking, and one of them was clawing determinedly at the door, his mewls loud and demanding.

Rearing up, Joe had peered between the door and the molding. The dead bolt gleamed back at him, solidly engaged.

Leaving the frantic female, they had circled the house looking for a way in. If they could gain access, they could open the door from inside—no trick at all for clever paws.

They had tried all the windows, leaping up, balancing on the sills and clawing at the sliders, but all were solidly locked. They clawed at the knobs of the front and back doors, and at the garage pedestrian door, with no luck, the dead bolts holding them tight. It was when they leaped to the back deck to try the glass sliders there that they'd found the deep, fresh pry marks along the slider's edges, as if the door had been jimmied.

If it had been pried open, it was locked again when they tried it. Even with both of them clawing and straining, they couldn't force it open. Had someone come in this way, burglarized the house, and then carefully locked the door as he left?

Or had a thief locked it behind him when he entered, the cats had wondered, and was still in there?

Maybe he had gone into the laundry, frightening Mango so that she fled to another room as she tried to lead him away from her kittens. Maybe then, confused, she'd fled out the open slider. Moving on around the house to the far side, they had found the laundry window unlatched, but closed. The scent of the mama cat was strong around it, and when Joe leaped to the sill, he was able to slide it open four inches. There it stopped, against the auxiliary lock.

Dulcie leaped up beside him, nosing at the yellow cat hairs caught in the window frame and molding. “An entrance that would be too high for the kittens to reach.”
They kept their voices low, always wary of being overheard. “But,” Dulcie said, “if Theresa left it open for Mango, who closed it?”

“Theresa wouldn't leave it open while they're gone,” Joe whispered. “She wouldn't invite raccoons or possums inside, to get at the kittens. No,” he'd said with certainty, “Theresa left it closed, with Mango and the kits safe inside. Someone else was here, someone let her out. Or drove her out.”

Frowning, Dulcie had peered down into the laundry room. “We have to tell Charlie—once we've let Mango in.”

Charlie's Fix-it, Clean-it service took care of all the houses on this street when the owners were on vacation. One of their specialties was their responsible care of their clients' pets—and the cats trusted Charlie; she was their close and reliable friend.

Squeezing in through the window's four-inch opening, Joe dropped down onto the counter beside the laundry sink, Dulcie directly behind him—before they could open the back door and let Mango in, there was a thud behind them, then a thud on the floor as the yellow female dove past them, streaking to the cardboard box. Her frantic kittens squalled even louder at the cry and smell of their mother. A fifth kitten was still at the back door, yowling and clawing. When he saw his mama, he fled to her, scrambled into the box, and began frantically nursing before she even laid down.

Hastily the female settled in among her little ones, all the time scowling at Joe and Dulcie, her ears back, her slitted eyes never leaving them. To a queen with kittens,
the presence of a tomcat wasn't comforting; many tomcats would kill those little babies. All five kittens piled onto her, greedily sucking and pushing as if surely they were starving.

A big bowl of kibble stood at the end of the laundry counter, and there was a large bowl of water in the sink, high off the floor where the kittens couldn't climb in and drown. Theresa had left the tap dripping into the bowl, and the sink drain open to avoid an overflow. It was Theresa who would have done this, no one thought Carl Chapman cared that much about Theresa's cats. Joe didn't think he cared about much of anything, even including the delightful Theresa.

“She made it as safe and comfortable for them as she could,” Dulcie said softly. “She even unplugged the washer and dryer so the kittens wouldn't chew on live cords.
She
wouldn't leave the window open,
Theresa
would never leave the mama outside.”

“And why,” Joe had muttered warily, “would she leave the door open from the laundry room to the rest of the house? Leave the kittens to roam where the electric cords
are
still plugged in?” Standing on his hind paws, he had peered from the laundry room through the kitchen to the living room. “I can see two lamps plugged in. No, someone's been in here. And maybe still is?”

Dropping from the counter to the linoleum, the cats headed through the kitchen to inspect the rest of the house. Behind them, the female growled, but she didn't follow. They had searched the three-bedroom house from one end to the other but could see nothing obviously missing. The plasma televisions were in place, the nearly
new DVD and CD players. There was a plasma computer monitor in the little home office, a checkbook on the desk, items that surely any thief would take. It was hard to know, in the comfortable clutter of the Chapman home, whether anything else might be unaccounted for. When at last they returned to the laundry room, they managed to pull the kitchen door closed with their paws beneath the crack. Again the yellow cat hissed and yowled and this time she left her box, stalking them, stiff legged and threatening. To avoid a confrontation, Joe leaped to the counter and directly out the open window. Dulcie had followed and, balancing on the sill, they'd slid the glass closed behind them, leaving the mama cat safely confined. It would be a long three weeks for her before Theresa would be home to love and comfort her.

“Charlie will give her plenty of attention,” Dulcie had said, dropping down into Theresa's tangled garden. “She'll find out what happened, she'll know if anything's missing.”

That had been last night. When Joe got home, pushing in through his cat door, when he told Clyde and Ryan where he and Dulcie had been and what they'd found, Ryan had risen at once to call Charlie, but Clyde stopped her, his hand gently on her arm. They'd been sitting in the living room reading after supper, Clyde in an ancient pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, his dark hair rumpled. “What's she going to tell Max? Who's she going to say was in her clients' empty house this time of night, to find a break-in?”

While Charlie knew that the cats could speak and were quite capable of using the phone, Max certainly didn't. If
Charlie suddenly went charging out at night to check on a burglary, he'd start asking awkward questions, and one didn't brush off Max Harper's probing.

“Maybe he isn't home,” Ryan said hopefully. “Maybe he's still at the station.”

The hours of a police chief could be long, and Max was no exception. “She'll think of something,” Ryan said confidently, gave Clyde a green-eyed grin, and punched the single button for the Harpers' number.

The upshot was that Max was indeed working late. Charlie had left the two big dogs guarding the ranch house and barn, and had come down the hills to have a look. She'd called back afterward, once she left the Chapman house. She said she'd found nothing more amiss besides the pry marks on the sliding door, that the mama and kittens were fine, and that she'd check again in the morning. Of course she hadn't reported the problem. That was the one glitch in Charlie and Max Harper's marriage, that Charlie was forced to keep information from him. This upset her considerably, but it would distress her a lot more if Max learned the truth. If he were forced to believe the vital role that three unnatural felines played in the workings of Molena Point PD—and Joe was mighty glad Charlie was fully committed to keeping their secret.