Cat Striking Back (8 page)

I
T WAS NEARLY
noon when Charlie Harper locked her small SUV and let herself in the front door of the Chapman house. Pausing on the threshold, the tall redhead brushed a scattering of straw from her faded jeans, a remnant from some last-minute stable chores at home. She stood for a moment looking around the big, square living room, trying to see, in daylight, anything strange that she might have missed last night, among the Chapmans' usual clutter. The bright room was inviting, with its creamy crown molding and cheerful, flowered couch and chairs arranged around the pale stone fireplace. Deep bay windows flanked the front door, and at the back, long glass sliders faced the deck—complete with pry marks, now, on the outside molding. Of all the houses that Charlie's Fix-it, Clean-it cared for, the homes on this street seemed to her particularly welcoming. Maybe, she thought, amused, that was because they all had resident cats to greet a friend or visitor.

She didn't do the cleaning for her company any longer, but she still saw to her clients' special needs and she always enjoyed caring for their pets while they were gone on business or vacation. Shrugging off her jacket, she wanted to head straight through to the laundry to make sure that Mango was inside and that she and her kittens were all right. Instead she stood listening, alert for the tiniest sound from the kitchen or from the rooms down the hall. The fact that Mango had gotten out continued to worry her. She knew that her crew hadn't been in the house since the Chapmans left last night, and even if they had, they were all totally reliable. Most of her fifteen crew members weren't just employees, they were her friends whom she trusted to be responsible.

The silence in the house was complete, not as if someone waited unseen, but with a sense of emptiness that convinced her she was alone. But still, as she turned from the entry to walk through the bright rooms, she carried a small canister of pepper spray concealed in her palm.

She saw nothing out of place. Theresa's clutter looked pretty much as it had last night, rumpled bedspread dragging on the floor at one corner and the pillows scattered across it, clothes piled on a chair, spilling to the floor. She checked the guest room, which looked a little better, checked the window locks, found them all secure.

But the cat had gotten out somehow. Mango herself hadn't closed the laundry window behind her as she made her escape, sweet Mango was just an ordinary cat, not like Joe and Dulcie and Kit, who could have managed such a feat.

She had inspected the house carefully last night after the phone call that brought her down the hills to the village. Before entering she'd put on gloves in case something did come up missing and she'd need to call the department, though she didn't want to do that. She'd examined the scars on the glass door sliding mechanism, examined the closed laundry-room window, noted the crumbs and glass rings on the kitchen table. There was always plenty at the Chapmans' for her girls to clean up, she'd thought, smiling. After she'd been through the house last night, she'd called her crew, had told them not to clean there until she notified them.

In case there
had
been a break-in, with items missing that she didn't realize among the clutter, her reputation, but more important, Max's reputation and that of Molena Point PD, were at stake. If one of her residential charges was burglarized, the few anticop types among the citizens of Molena Point would be thrilled, would be busy at once using the newspaper and word of mouth to smear the department, to put the law in as bad a light as their creative zeal could invent.

She wouldn't let that happen, she thought stubbornly. But she'd be glad when she sold the business and put an end to the worry—she'd built her cleaning and repair business from nothing and she was proud of what she'd made, but not proud enough to keep on with it at Max's expense.

She'd started with just enough money to buy an ancient RV, some used tools, and the bare essentials of cleaning equipment. Now, three years later, the service was so busy that often, when she couldn't get additional,
reliable employees, she had to turn away prospective new customers. After a couple of failed jobs earlier in her life, the experience of building the business had made her feel strong and independent for the first time, had assured her that, even after the false starts, she was capable of constructing a solid venue with which to support herself. So it wasn't easy, now, to put her successful baby on the market.

But the stress was getting to her. She always felt on guard, she was always aware of something possibly going awry that could put Max and the department in a bad light—and, too, now that she was finally doing the kind of artwork she'd always longed to do, and had discovered the joy of writing and illustrating her own books, as well, she hungered for more unbroken time.

She had just signed a new book contract, she needed time for that work, and Charlie's Fix-it, Clean-it had morphed from a milestone of personal triumph to what she had begun to think of as a millstone weighing her down.

Never happy,
she thought wryly.
But we
do
change, that's what life's about, to grow and learn. That's what we're here for.

Moving through the kitchen to the laundry, she breathed easier when she saw Mango snuggled down in the box with her kittens. Kneeling to pet the little family, she puzzled again over why anyone would jimmy the glass door and apparently break in and yet, as far as she could see, would take nothing.

She looked around the laundry half expecting to have to clean up mouse blood or whatever might remain after Joe Grey had brought his promised gift to Mango. Scraping up mouse guts wasn't a job she relished, but she didn't
see a sign of any leftovers. She didn't remember the dishpan being on the floor by the cat box. She picked it up and set it back on the counter, then fetched a flashlight from the laundry shelf and, kneeling again, sent a beam of light under the washer and dryer, hoping not to see a small dead body where an injured mouse had escaped. She'd at least prefer little beady eyes peering out.

Happily, the space beneath the machines was empty. If indeed Joe had brought a gift, Mango had cleaned it up nicely. She'd brought Mango an apricot this morning, which Theresa had told her the funny little cat loved. Theresa doted on her cats.

Charlie was fond of Theresa. Despite her tendency to make up harmless stories, to change facts on the spur of the moment—Charlie didn't like to call it lying—she was a gentle, sweet-tempered young woman most of the time. Unless something sent her into one of her upsets, which could put her almost out of control. In some ways, dark-haired Theresa Chapman had plenty of self-confidence; she did as she pleased and didn't let Carl run her. Yet in other ways, at other times, she showed no confidence at all; she would back off submissively from Carl and allow him to bully her.

Mango, as she left her box to eat the apricot, glanced uneasily at the closed kitchen door. Charlie watched her, petting the kittens and listening again to the house. She knew it was empty—but Mango would be nervous if someone had gotten in last night; she wouldn't know they weren't still there. Charlie was just glad that she and her kits were all right, that no one had harmed them. Two of the kits were yellow, two brown tabby, and one a deep
rust as red as Charlie's own hair. Leaning over, she laid a lock of her long hair down across the kitten, who happily snatched at it. The reds matched perfectly, and she thought that would amuse Theresa.

Last night when she'd examined the pry marks on the outside molding, she'd tried to call the Chapmans, thinking that maybe Theresa had locked herself out at some point, and had had to get in that way, that that would explain the damage.

There'd been no answer, and she'd tried again this morning. The trouble with vacationers, they left their cell phones in their hotel rooms, didn't want to be bothered. They figured they'd return their messages later, and then forgot or didn't want the interruption from their carefree days. Maybe they'd gotten her messages and thought the scratched door wasn't serious enough to bother about, as long as the cats were all right. In her message, she had assured them of that. She had no other number to try, no name of any hotel. Theresa said she wasn't sure, herself, which little towns they would be staying in, that they meant to head up the coast for a few days, that after that Carl had grand plans. All pretty vague, Charlie thought, smiling. Theresa had confided in her that the two had had their troubles, so maybe an unstructured vacation was intended to be low key and healing.

Because Charlie had found Mango safe inside again, thanks to Joe and Dulcie, she hadn't included that near disaster in her messages to the Chapmans; that would make Theresa frantic. She didn't like keeping things from her clients but in this case she'd thought it best. Of the four families who were presently on vacation, all four owned
cats, but Theresa was by far the most obsessive about her pets' welfare.

When Charlie had first inspected the damaged door, she'd been concerned about Theresa's collection of lovely miniature paintings, but they all seemed accounted for. They were all in place this morning, the miniatures, mostly landscapes with a few figure studies, hung close together in multiple rows, covering two dining room walls, light from the big bay window washing over their jewel-like colors. There were no spaces where paintings were missing, and she'd found no change in spacing, where they might have been rearranged. Certainly the most valuable ones were there, the two dozen best-known artists whose work was distinctive. The paintings were dear to Theresa, she would immerse herself in them, as one would get lost in a piece of music, and Charlie understood that.

Charlie tried not to have favorites among her clients, but was that really possible? Theresa was a favorite of the whole neighborhood because of her sunny disposition and, in part, because she was so vulnerable. A slim, tanned, willowy young woman in her midthirties, Theresa had no notion of how beautiful she was. Her dark brown hair, brown eyes, her long face with her rosy, prominent cheeks made a striking combination—though Theresa wouldn't hear of it. She said her “chubby” cheeks made her look like a chipmunk, and no one could tell her any different. She was not only lovely, but bright and cheerful—except that with any small disaster, particularly one that involved an animal, she would weep. Theresa's tears came easily, as did her sense of betrayal, and her resulting temper. If Theresa
thought a friend had crossed her, her bitterness was cold and complete.

The four families, because of their schedules, were vacationing at about the same time of year. Eleen Longley of course went on vacation the minute school was out, the minute her students vanished from her life for a few serene months. She and Earl usually took a two-or three-week driving trip. He, being an architect, could pretty much plan his trips around hers. Eleen was a small, dark-haired young woman, bright and lively, with a natural charm that drew people to her—more lively and determined perhaps than Earl could easily handle. Charlie had seen her stubborn moods, and some would call her hardheaded. But Charlie liked her; she'd seen the gentle side of Eleen, with her cats and with the neighbors' small children.

The Watermans' vacation trip was usually on their anniversary. That was the one cruise a year where blond, willowy Rita Waterman didn't work as a tour guide. This year, though, they hadn't booked a cruise. The last time Charlie had seen Rita, they were thinking of spending their first week in San Francisco, and were debating whether to book a last-minute flight to Greece or to the Antilles. Wherever they were, Charlie could reach them by cell phone if the need arose. She imagined Rita on the white beaches of some exotic island, showing off her tan, swimming in the warm Caribbean waters or that of the Greek islands. For a moment, she let herself imagine living that glamorous life, she and Max being waited on by stewards bearing exotic drinks and delicious tidbits—even if for only a few weeks. To see Max have a rest would be worth a lot. And the chance to see new parts of the world
attracted her, the beautiful blue waters, a chance to touch a bit of the past among Greece's crumbling ruins.

But the downside of a cruise, the busy social milieu, too many people and too much meaningless conversation, didn't appeal to her, and would drive Max crazy. If she were offered the trade, she'd turn that down in a New York minute and stick to their own quiet joys, with their friends, with the horses and their other animals, in their small village.

But that glamorous life suited Rita Waterman very well; she seemed truly to enjoy the busy life. Rita was a jewelry buff; she dressed in simple, well-cut clothes that showed off various pieces of her striking collection of antique costume jewelry that came from all over the world. With her statuesque beauty and cool manners, Rita seemed always reined in, always in charge of herself. But underneath, Charlie knew, she was as vulnerable as anyone else. Charlie, when she'd first started cleaning their house and had still done much of the physical work, overheard some of their arguments, some real explosions of temper and tears from Rita.

She was certain those digressions didn't occur in public. Rita's husband, Ben, had some medical problems, which he seemed to manage well. Maybe that was why he didn't join her on her tours. He stayed home, “batching” and, apparently reluctantly, feeding whatever cats Rita had at the moment. The couple was a ripe source of neighborhood gossip, as their friends wondered about Rita's glamorous journeys alone, far from home and husband. Though certainly when she was home they had a busy social life, season tickets to concerts and plays, and
they were involved in various charity functions, as well as casual dinners with their neighbors.

Charlie was amused by her own sudden interest in her clients' personal lives. A year ago, she couldn't have cared less. Only since she'd developed an interest in writing fiction had other people's lives begun to fascinate her. With one illustrated “book for all ages” in the stores and another in the works, she'd suddenly found the intricacies of other people's lives piquing her curiosity to the point where she was considering an adult novel. Turning gossip to gold, she thought, amused.