Cat Striking Back (24 page)

L
EAVING THE COUNTY
morgue beside Max, Charlie slipped into the passenger seat of her Blazer, happy to let him drive. As soon as he turned the key she rolled down her window, turning her face to the wind, hoping to blow away the smell of formaldehyde and death that clung to her. The stink seemed to have seeped into her every pore, and every fiber of her clothes. Were they depositing the smell in her Blazer, too, so it would never again be the same? Would her nice SUV, which had been a gift from Max on her last birthday, forevermore smell like a grave?

How did John Bern stand it? She'd wondered more than once what made a person like Bern embrace that particular profession. He was young, strong and intelligent, and nice looking, his premature baldness seeming only to add to his attractiveness. He'd told her once that it was the challenge, that he was fascinated by the precise procedure, of unraveling the mystery of how someone died. He said
that if it was a murder, he got completely caught up in helping to discover the killer.

She looked back at the cream-colored, four-story stucco building, its roof fluted with red tile, thinking about the chill and antiseptic morgue in its basement, about the physically cold, visually cold viewing room with its unadorned walls, chill gray terrazzo floor that could be easily scrubbed, and its hard metal chairs. A room that hadn't offered much in the way of emotional comfort as Bern rolled out the cold metal gurney bearing Frances's covered body.

“We've done preliminary testing for drugs,” he'd told them. “My guess is she died from an intracerebral bleed. I don't want to make a final judgment yet as to whether she was struck, or if this occurred naturally, from a fall. Looks like she fell at least several feet, from the contusion and the specks of grit and cement embedded in the skin.”

They had discussed the autopsy for the following morning, which Detective Davis would attend, and before they'd left, Max had called Mabel to put out an APB on Frances Becker's white Honda Accord, which was the car missing from the Becker garage. Now, pulling out of the parking lot, Max said, “You okay? You're pale as hell.”

“Fine,” Charlie lied. “I'm fine.”

“The smell will go away,” he said, wondering if she was going to be sick. “If it was her husband who killed her, then is there no one to notify? She had no family?”

“Not that she ever mentioned.”

“Davis will go over the house again, maybe she'll find an address in her files, some relative.”

“One thing about Frances,” she said, “she was a neat-
nick, everything in order. It shouldn't take Davis long to find an address, if there
were
any relatives.”

As Max turned onto the freeway, Charlie said, “John Bern says Frances has been dead at least thirty-six hours. When Ryan talked with Ed Becker this morning, he told her that her call woke Frances.”

“What is he going to do, tell her Frances can't come to the phone right now because she's dead?” He flicked on his emergency flashers to get a car off their tail, watched the guy pass on their left. The driver wouldn't take such a liberty if they were in a patrol car. “If Becker turns out to be the burglar as well, then he apparently changed cars, switched to the dark RV. He could have put the jewelry and paintings in Frances's Accord, but not the furniture and boxes of books.” He looked over at Charlie. “Switched cars, hid the Accord somewhere, maybe in a storage unit or rented garage.”

Charlie tried to remember if Frances had ever mentioned a locker or a rented garage. But if Ed was stealing, surely she didn't know about it. Did they own a rental house somewhere, and he'd stashed the car there? That didn't seem likely when they'd lived in Molena Point only about two years. “Maybe there
was
a storage unit, maybe they still have unpacked boxes, maybe part of Frances's furniture collection. But if Ed was the burglar…” She looked at him, frowning. “He loaded up all that furniture from his own house to throw you off the track?”

Max shrugged. “Again, what else could he do?” They were turning off the freeway toward home when her phone buzzed. It was Ryan.

“We're just getting back from the morgue,” Charlie
told her. “I won't turn the speaker on, there's too much traffic noise. The dead woman is Frances Becker. You want to tell…Clyde?” Meaning,
Will you tell Joe Grey?
She knew the cats would be grieving for Theresa.

Ryan said, “They just walked in, all three of them, grinning like Cheshire cats.” And, more softly, “They were there when Max called the station.”

Charlie hid her smile.

Ryan said, “You want to run down here for supper? Beans and corn bread, and we'll show you pictures of the house we've decided on.”

Charlie covered the phone, looking at Max. “Go down for a quick supper?” In truth, she didn't feel like eating, she wasn't sure she'd ever eat again, not sure her mouth would ever stop tasting like something dead.

But maybe a comforting meal of beans and corn bread would stay down. When Max nodded, she said, “We'll just run by home and take care of the horses, we won't be long.” Part of her would like to stay home, but she wanted, even more, to reassure the cats that indeed Theresa was just fine. Approaching the village, Max turned up the hills toward the ranch; the minute they turned into their long private road, the two big dogs saw them from the pasture and came barking, racing along inside the fence. The four horses galloped beside them, all of them wanting supper.

While Max fed the livestock, Charlie hurried to brush her teeth and lay out clean clothes. She took a quick shower and washed her hair, pinning it back wet. Max showered and changed, they threw their clothes in the washer and were out again in half an hour, headed for the village in the truck, leaving the Blazer in the stable yard with all the
windows rolled down, hoping the sea wind would sweeten that clinging smell.

The village streets at dinnertime were busy with tourists crossing back and forth looking in shop windows or pausing before the small restaurants, reading the posted menus. Turning down the Damens' street and parking, they caught the comforting scent of Clyde's favorite bean recipe. Wilma's car was parked in the drive beside the Greenlaws' gray sedan. “What's this?” Max said. “I thought we were just running down for a quick bite.”

“I don't know,” she said innocently. Because Dulcie and Kit were here, it would have been only natural for the Damens to invite the cats' housemates. Rock barked at the door to greet them, and Clyde handed them each a beer. Everyone was gathered around the fire, the three cats sprawled on the mantel, warming themselves safely above the cozy blaze. Charlie paused to stroke them. They smiled up at her, their eyes filled with delight that Theresa was alive. They might feel sad for Frances, but not as sad as if they were grieving over their real friend. In front of Max, Charlie could say nothing, she stood petting them, trapped in one of those maddening moments when she and the cats longed to talk, but could say not a word. Of everyone present, it was only Max—the most keenly attuned to the subtleties of body language and behavior—who didn't know the truth.

E
IGHTY MILES NORTH
of Molena Point, traveling the narrow two-lane along the edge of the cliff high above the Pacific, there was hardly any traffic. Above him the sky was clear, not a cloud, just the way he liked it—except that the sea was too bright, its flat surface metallic with reflected sun, that shot through the windshield at an angle that he couldn't block with the visor.

The road was so narrow that when an occasional car did approach him, he had to press the RV precariously close to the rocky cliff that rose jaggedly on his right. His face hurt like hell and he kept thinking about infection. Cats were dirty creatures, and he was sure there was still glass embedded in the wounds, so deep he might never get it out. Every few miles he checked himself in the mirror to see if he was bleeding again. He'd put flesh-colored Band-Aids on only the worst wounds, otherwise his whole face would be covered. He felt better, though, with some breakfast in him.

In the steamy, boxlike restaurant with its dark-stained plywood walls smelling of the fishing wharf, he'd ordered ham, three eggs over easy, potatoes, and three biscuits, washing it all down with a big carafe of coffee. His bandages and bloody scratches had gotten wary looks from the half dozen tourists sitting in the plywood booths. One skinny woman in a purple sweater had looked so shocked that she half rose to leave, then glowered at her husband when he pulled her back into the booth. Two locals at the counter—wizened old men dressed in leathers that stunk of fish, their faces wrinkled and dark from sea and sun, had given him darkly amused stares. Both of them were drinking beer that was colored pink by the red wine they'd poured into it. Four empty wineglasses were lined up precisely beside their beer bottles. The waitress, an overweight redhead with a checkered apron pulled tight over her belly, took one look at him and asked, smartly, if he'd been in a catfight. He'd eaten quickly, didn't tip her, paid his bill, and left.

Now, moving north up the precarious coastal two-lane, he glanced at his watch. One thirty. Not too bad considering how late he'd slept. He'd be in the city by three, unload the goods with the fence. Be out of there with the money and on the road again with plenty of time to dump the RV, leaving it on some back street where the homeless would strip it to sell for parts. Plenty of time to catch a bus to the nearest out-of-the-way car lot, some small operation where the salesman wouldn't get fidgety if he paid in cash. Pick up a nondescript vehicle and head on north.

If he was ever questioned about the car that was now in the rented garage outside Molena Point, he'd say
she
took
it when she ran off and left him. That he didn't know why she'd taken it back there. He could get rid of it later, slip back into the village, drive it off to some chop shop.

As he plied the narrow highway north of Half Moon Bay, most of the sparse traffic was moving south, hugging the road above the sheer drop, detained from some fatal misjudgment only by occasional short lengths of guardrail. He kept the windows open, letting the cool, damp air soothe his burning face. The echo of the sea far below crashing against the rocks pleased him, he liked its wildness, he liked the thrill of danger. It was the same as the thrill of their thefts, they skirted the edge but always moved on unharmed. She'd loved that, loved the excitement that they
could
get caught but never did. She'd loved selecting their targets beforehand from within an intimate group, she'd loved their duplicity.
She
was the one who insisted they slip away with only the items she'd chosen and take nothing else. They'd had a good thing going. Live in a neighborhood a few years, get cozy with the neighbors, join the local organizations, go to the concerts and amateur plays, even the school functions when the neighbors' kids were involved—that was key, getting involved. During that time while they were settling in, listening to their neighbors' problems and sometimes trying to help, babysitting their kids, they could often pull a few jobs in some previous neighborhood if it was close enough. Pick a time when there was a funeral or a wedding that would involve most of the residents. Then afterward allow enough time to lapse so everyone grew complacent again, thinking the thieves had moved on. They had done this on the East Coast, too, before they'd come out to California. To
rip off their adopted neighborhood, that was the thrill, and they'd planned their moves carefully.

And then she'd gotten in one of her moods, had to have one more fling sunbathing, and look what it got her, she'd messed up everything.

Taking his time around the hairpin turns, wary of some approaching driver trying to pass another on the narrow road, he played the radio, pushing the buttons for a new station whenever he got bored, selecting alternately the talk shows, the hourly news, some nutcase discussing alternative medicine, and a station that specialized in UFO sightings. Anything to keep his thoughts moving, not dwell on her. And not dwell on those cursed cats last night. The sea air was calming, but then going around a curve the wind hit his face hard, making the wounds burn like fire, so painful that he felt the cats on him again, clawing and biting. Even with the distraction of the radio, he kept seeing them exploding in his face, their eyes like fire. When he took his hands off the wheel, they were shaking. His stomach, full of breakfast now, was getting queasy again as it had last night. Last night he'd lain awake for hours sweating, seeing that pale cat bursting out at him through the broken window, feeling enraged cats all over him. That kept him awake until he got up, found the sleeping pills they sometimes used, took two, and then at last dozed off. But even then, he slept fitfully, would jerk awake, his face burning. Once he woke seeing Poe's cat plastered inside a wall staring out at him, and then saw
those
cats screaming up from her grave letting the whole world know where she was buried.

Trying to pass a slow-moving truck on the two-lane,
he pulled his thoughts back to the road, looking ahead as far as he could to negotiate the curve. He couldn't drive these hairpin curves with his mind obsessing over cats. The road was precarious here, the drop precipitous, straight down maybe a hundred feet. He'd passed the truck without mishap and was headed downhill when the steering wheel jerked in his hand, jerked again, back and forth. Oh, Christ, not here, not another tire! Wheel felt like it was alive, nearly pulling itself from his grip. He steered into the cliff to slow the heavy vehicle, afraid to apply the brakes and make it skid. But when he tried to edge it into the cliff to make it stop, the wheel jerked harder, he hit the cliff too hard and careened away, and
had
to use the brakes. He hit them only gently but the vehicle dropped hard in the left front where he'd had the flat, far more out of control. What was wrong? The way it wobbled back and forth, it felt like the whole wheel was coming off. He had a flash of changing the tire, of putting on the lug nuts wondering which way they should go, which way he'd removed them. Feeling in the dark the sharp corners on one side, the rounded corners on the other. Had he got them wrong, or not tightened them sufficiently? Had he put them on backward, and they'd worked loose? The RV careened toward the edge so hard he could no longer steer. Felt like the wheel was half off, wobbling bad, the RV skidded straight for the edge, the steering wheel in his hands useless. He grabbed at the door.

The car was out over space, falling and rolling in midair as he fought the door. When he got it open, it swung and hit him. He managed to kick free and jump, the RV falling beside him. Its heavy bulk bounced against him
and then he was under it, trying to swim through the air to get away from the hurtling vehicle. It twisted and came down on him and hit the sea—he hit the water on his back, the RV on top, driving him down, the jolt was like hitting concrete. Explosions of unbearable light shot through his head and then that pale cat exploding in his face; the whole world filled with cats screaming and raking him, and then
her
face,
her
face laughing at him and she had the blazing eyes of a cat. Her face was the screaming face of the cat closing over him…

The weight of the RV drove him deep, forcing water into his mouth and nose and lungs as tons of metal carried him to the bottom and crushed him against the seafloor. He knew no more. Nor would he ever know more, the sea roiled and shook the drowned vehicle, and after a long while the RV eased up again, releasing him as a limp floater.