Cat Telling Tales (7 page)

“After Mama died, there was always a bottle. By the stove, by Gran's bed, under the covers. She stank of whiskey, and it made her mean. I hate the smell. She didn't want to eat, she'd come home from work with no groceries, nothing in the cupboard, maybe crackers. That's when I started working at the Peterson ranch, cleaning stalls. They didn't turn me away because I was so young, I'm good with animals, I did good work for them. I earned enough to buy beans and bread on the way home.”

Joe looked up the lane as Clyde pulled in off the highway, the red king cab kicking up gravel and dust against the taller grass at the edge of the long dirt drive. He parked near the stable, got out and slid his old, folded camping cot out of the bed of the truck, along with some folded blankets and a striped mattress just about thick enough to make a small cat comfortable. Billy dropped down off the fence, took the load from him. Max said, “Get your cot set up, then I want to walk down the hill, have a look at Gran's cave.”

Billy nodded and disappeared into the stable, as Max fetched a heavy flashlight from the cab of his truck. Joe waited until the chief and Billy headed down across the north pasture, then he slipped into the rank grass outside the fence and followed, slinking along unseen, the tall blades tickling his ears.

8

W
here the pasture fell away to the delta below, Joe crouched under the fence among the tall weeds, looking down on the burned shack. Detective Garza was moving slowly through, sorting among the debris, his jeans and blue sweatshirt smeared with ashes, the pockets of his dark windbreaker bulging with what were surely small items of possible evidence, each secured in a paper or plastic bag. Garza's tan Blazer stood parked near Hesmerra's rusty old Volvo with its thick coat of smoky ash. Directly below, Max and Billy were clearing the cave entrance, moving the rotting doors and cobwebby boards away from the opening.

As Max ducked down into the cave, shining the electric torch across dry earth, Joe slipped down the cliff between the two cars and under them, where he could see into the cave. Inside, the light of Max's torch swung slowly back and forth across the earthen ceiling and walls, across the heavy posts, the rough crossbeams and hard dirt floor. On an earthen shelf stood a cardboard carton with five screw-top whiskey bottles sticking up. Max pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and examined the circular strips of black plastic that sealed the lids, then picked up the carton and backed out. “Erik Kraft brought her whiskey, but he didn't know about the cave?”

“Not that I know of,” Billy said. “She'd put them in here after he left. I don't know why all the secrecy, but Gran was like that.” Billy peered at the bottles. “Are you thinking
he
poisoned them? Why would he do that? He liked Gran, he was kind to her, he gave her money, brought pizza, things to eat. He bought medicine once, when she had the flu.” But then the boy went quiet, very still, as if perhaps letting his thoughts touch something new and unwelcome.

Max studied his face then moved away, carrying the carton. As he set it down on the open tailgate of Dallas Garza's Blazer, beyond him Emmylou Warren appeared, coming down the lane from the highway. Joe could see a glimpse of her car, of its back bumper and a patch of green sticking out past the bushes that grew along the edge of the two-lane. Max and Billy saw her at the same moment.

Billy moved as if to go to her, but then seemed to change his mind, to think better of it, and turned his attention back to the whiskey, studying the seals more closely. “If none of those was poisoned, poison could still have been in the open one.”

Max nodded, his attention on Emmylou. She had stopped beyond the cars, stood watching Dallas sifting through the rubble. When Dallas saw her he came to join them, looking back at Emmylou. “I sent her away once. When I got here she was parked right down at the yellow tape, sitting in her car, crying.” He looked down at Billy. “She was worried about you. I told her you're all right.”

“Go on,” Max said to Billy, “go talk to her.”

Billy ran. When Emmylou saw him she let out a whoop and ran, too, flinging her arms around him and nearly toppling them both. Joe was crouched beneath Hesmerra's car, not six feet from them. Emmylou's sun-browned face was as wrinkled as crushed leather, her jeans worn and soft, her colorless T-shirt thin, with two holes in one sleeve. “You're all right!” She held Billy away, looking deeply at him. “I was in the market when I heard about the fire, about your gran. No one knew where you were, what happened to you. Where are your cats, are they all right? Where will you go, do you have—”

Billy nodded up toward the Harpers' place. “They're in Captain Harper's barn. I'll be staying there, too, for now. Did you find a place to live?”

Emmylou gestured toward her car. “That's
my
home, for now,” she said, grinning. Behind them, Max watched Emmylou, his expression thoughtful. Was he, like Joe himself, curious about why she'd come up there? Wondering if she'd only been worried about Billy, or if she'd had some other reason?

As broke as she was, would she come nosing around looking for Hesmerra's hidden money, however little it might be? Had she meant to make off with it before the fire inspectors and detectives appeared on the scene? She
had
arrived before Garza. Had she already rooted through the burn and, knowing where Hesmerra hid the tin box, already stolen the money that was rightfully Billy's?

Max stepped over to join them. “We'll want you to come down to the station, Emmylou. For routine fingerprinting.”

Emmylou just looked at him, the expression in her faded brown eyes wary.

“A matter of elimination,” Max said. “If you were in the house, your prints could come up on broken dishes, glasses. With a set on file, we can eliminate you as someone who shouldn't have been there. I'd like you to come in today, if you could,” he said gently, “so we can move on with the investigation. Any of the officers can take your prints.”

Emmylou frowned. “You're saying someone
started
the fire? On purpose?”

“It's possible,” Max said. “Both the fire and Hesmerra's death are under investigation.”

She was quiet, studying his closed face. “I'll come,” she said, subdued. As she put her arm around Billy, Max turned away, stepping over to the burn to talk with Dallas. Billy said, “You can't live in your car for long, the street patrol will arrest you, or the sheriff will.”

“Remember my friend, Sammie Miller? She worked with Hesmerra for a while, cleaning? She came here a couple of times?”

Billy nodded. “You feed her cats when she's gone. Can't you stay with her?”

“She's away now, but this time she didn't leave her key. When she gets back, maybe I can stay there.” She smiled down at Billy. “I'll be fine, I'll come to see you. Maybe pick you up at school, give you a ride home. We can tie your bike on the back.” Before she turned away, to head for her old Chevy, Joe shot through the grass along the top of the cliff and dropped down to the car, where the driver's window was open; he shot through and into the backseat before she was halfway up the lane.

Pawing through the rubble, he scented among the clothes and blankets for the faintest smell of ashes, looking for Hesmerra's lost money, burrowing among cartons of canned goods and paperback books. How did she sleep in here? Actually, though, the plan was pretty neat: everything tucked on the floor up to the level of the backseat. A thin foam pad was folded up against the door; he imagined her laying it across the seat and her stacked belongings, to make a wide bed. She'd have to pull her knees up, though, as tall as she was. He was peering between the pad and the door when he heard her outside brushing off her jeans. As he turned, his hind paw slipped, sliding against cold metal—and he smelled burned wood and wet ashes.

Digging aside the blankets and some newspapers, he uncovered a tin box, tall and narrow, made to hold office files. His exploring paw came away liberally dusted with dirt and ashes. He froze when she passed the window. But she went on to the back of the car, and he heard the trunk pop open.

The latch of the box was of a kind hard for a cat to snap open, one of those affairs where a lever is pulled down, securing a metal bar into a hook. He fought it, shifting position until he had his claws under it, took a deep breath, pulled with all his might, praying he wouldn't tear his claws right out of their sockets.

Snap, the latch popped open with a scrape so loud she heard it, the trunk slammed and there she was at the side window. Quickly flipping the box open, he got one glimpse of the contents: not money, but letters and business papers. He clawed through sheets of figures. The name on the letterheads was Kraft Realty.

Behind him, the door jerked open. He spun around staring up at Emmylou with all the forlorn fear he could muster; choking out a shaky “Meow,” he backed away.

She laughed and reached to pet him. “You poor thing. What are you doing in here? You're not one of Billy's cats. Where did you come from?”

Joe looked at her helplessly. He was crouched to bolt past her when Max Harper appeared behind her, looking in.

“What the hell? Get out of there, Joe. What are you doing in there?” With no ceremony he reached in, lifted Joe gently by the back of his neck and one hand under his belly, and deposited him outside on the ground. “Why the hell are you so nosy?” he said with a dry little grin. “Get your tail up to the ranch, Clyde will be looking for you!”

Joe vanished. Scorched up the cliff into the tall grass, pretending to race away. Max Harper seldom touched him, and never unkindly, only sometimes to scratch his ears if Joe was lounging on his desk. Below him, Max and Emmylou stood talking, Harper making clear to her again that she was expected to come in and be fingerprinted, Emmylou still looking reluctant. As her car headed away up the narrow, rutted road, and Harper and Billy started back to the cave, Joe hightailed it for the ranch, his thoughts on the metal box and the documents it contained. Some were emblazoned with the letterhead of Kraft Realty, but there were half a dozen other real estate firms, as well, names that meant nothing to Joe. All the letters and documents he could see, in that quick glimpse, presented neatly typed accountings of funds ranging up into the high seven digits—ten million, twelve million. A financial smorgasbord that Joe found singularly interesting, considering that, from the burned smell, and the ashes and dirt coating the container, the collection had come from the burned house, had perhaps been buried in the earth, beneath the floor. Many of the dates were recent. Where had Hesmerra gotten these and why? Why would Erik Kraft give his business papers to Hesmerra Young?

Could she somehow have stolen them? But why? What good would his legal papers do her? If Kraft was her friend, why would she steal from him at all? Even if he was only a convenient source of whiskey and cash, why would she jeopardize that? Or had the old woman, when she died, been quietly pursuing some other agenda involving Erik Kraft, driven by some motive of her own?

9

D
ebbie Kraft arrived two days after the fire; she showed up just after midnight at the Damens' front door repeatedly ringing the bell, dragging Ryan and Clyde from sleep, sending the big Weimaraner into a fit of barking, ripping Joe Grey straight out of deep and pleasant dreams. Grumbling, he slipped out from his cushions, left his tower, and padded across the roof to the edge to look over.

They were crowded on the little porch around the front door, a young woman, two kids, three threadbare suitcases, a pile of ragtag carryalls and cloth bags with the contents oozing over the tops. The skinny woman, clutching her arms around herself against the night's chill, was dressed in black tights, a puffy black jacket, high-heeled black boots. The two little girls clung to her, the little one silent and still, the older kid whining and pulling on her. Above them at Ryan's studio window, Ryan appeared like a ghost in her white gauzy robe, looking down just as Joe was looking at the little group, at the dusty brown station wagon parked in the drive behind the king cab, the back so full of jumbled belongings the windows might as well have been boarded over.

The porch light went on. The front door opened. Clyde stood there bare-chested, in his sweatpants. Debbie's voice was shrill and animated, a gushing greeting from a woman Clyde had never met and, from the look on his face, didn't want to meet. There was a short exchange, then Debbie and the two girls swarmed in around him, dragging what baggage they could carry. Clyde, turning away resigned, left the door open so Debbie could haul in the rest.

Joe watched for only a minute, torn between the fear he'd miss something, and his sure knowledge that the rest of the night would be chaos, the woman's high, emotion-driven voice reaching up even into his tower. He wouldn't get a wink of sleep. If he had any sense he'd get the hell out of there. Whatever drama the night might hold, as the Damens got Debbie settled, he'd hear about in the morning.

He went. Heading across the rooftops toward the center of the village, beneath the bright full moon, he leaped over rivers of moonlight and over shadows as black as hell itself. If Dulcie was prowling the library, exploring among the books, maybe
she'd
give him a little sympathy for this midnight eviction that was, after all, the next thing to a full-blown home invasion.

From the roof of a shop behind the handsome Spanish-style library building, with its tan stucco and heavy timbers, he peered down at its back door that opened on the narrow alley. Yes, the faintest light shone out through Wilma's little office window, the ambient green glow of the computer. He caught Dulcie's fresh scent, too, on the tile roof and among the leaves of the bougainvillea vine as he descended. Nosing up the flap of Dulcie's cat door, he pushed on inside.

Wilma Getz's office was small, crowded, and cozy, her desk placed between two tall file cabinets stacked to the ceiling with books. Dulcie's housemate worked only part-time now in her position as a reference librarian, but she'd managed to keep her tiny office. Much of her work was done in there, on peripheral projects, including the library's old-fashioned vertical file. The library saved clips from the local paper and local magazines, historical information about Molena Point. And—because of Dulcie herself—they maintained an extensive collection about cats who lived in libraries across the country. Having a special interest in working cats, they saved, as well, clips about any number of cats in shops and business offices, a tribute to the talents and skills of even your ordinary, everyday feline.

Dulcie sat on the desk, her back to him, silhouetted by the glow of the computer, her peach-tinted ears nearly transparent in the light, her nimble paws playing across the keyboard, so engrossed she didn't hear him push the door in. Only when the plastic flapped back into place did she spin around, startled.

She stared down at him, her green eyes wide, guilt writ large on her sweet, striped face. What was this? What was she up to? What was so secret that she didn't want him to see? Leaping up beside her, he nestled close to her warm shoulder. When she lifted a paw to darken the screen, he swiped it away. She hissed, and cut him an irritated look, her striped tail lashing.

The short lines of type on the screen, even to the antiliterate tomcat, were obviously poetry. Was she reading dirty verses, something ugly that humans had put on the Web? He'd never known his lady to go for smut. But then, scanning the lines, his eyes widened.

There was no title, no author's name, nothing but the nine lines of poetry, and he could feel her shy embarrassment as he read.

What a lovely cat she is

Posed behind the curtain's gauze

Like a princess robed in gold.

Coy her gaze through laces gleaming,

What dainty vision does she embrace

Behind that dear, exquisite face?

I step to the veil, draw back its folds,

And there it lies, at my feet,

The bloody rat she's brought to eat.

“You wrote this,” he said, grinning. Her tail went very still, he could feel the uncertain tremor of her heartbeat through the warmth of her tabby fur. He read the lines again, and at the last line, he couldn't help it, he let out a loud guffaw that echoed through the office and into the empty library. “How long have you been doing this? Is there more? You're writing from the human viewpoint.”

If a cat could blush, her little striped face would be pink as cotton candy. “It made you laugh,” she said, pleased.

“Does Wilma know?”

“How could she not? It's her computer. I guess I could have set up an access code, but . . . She thinks . . . She's pleased,” Dulcie said modestly.

Joe nuzzled her cheek. “I like it. It makes pictures, it does make me laugh. How do you do that? How do you even begin, where does it come from?”

Dulcie's tail swung more easily. “I don't know, it's just . . . there. In my head. I write it down before it gets away.”

“Can I see more?”

“Not tonight, you didn't come to read poetry,” she said, looking deep into his eyes. “What's happened?” she said. “What's the matter?”

“Debbie Kraft. Arrived at midnight. Enough luggage to stay a year.”

She gave him a sympathetic nudge. “Ryan and Clyde don't need this. You think they'll let her stay? But she must be devastated, grieving for her mother. No matter what Billy says about Debbie never seeing her.”

“She didn't sound devastated. She sounded rude and pushy.”

Dulcie was quiet a moment, then, “I was thinking about the fire, about Emmylou prowling in the rubble. About the tin box she apparently took from Hesmerra's, the Kraft Realty papers. Wilma was talking with Chichi Barbi, and
she
said Hesmerra applied with her for a job.” Chichi Barbi had, late last year, bought Charlie Harper's cleaning service, Charlie's Fix It, Clean It. “Chichi said when she hired Hesmerra, the old woman dickered and argued about locations and hours. Said she was dead set to get on the crew that cleans the house of one of the Kraft Realtors. And then later, the minute the Realtor moved away, Hesmerra quit her job.”

Dulcie gave him a sly smile. “Next thing you know, Hesmerra's working nights for the firm that cleans the Kraft offices. And now, Kraft papers turn up in her burned house? How does that add up?”

“How indeed,” Joe said. “Particularly when her two daughters are married to the two owners of Kraft Realty?”

“When Wilma suggested Hesmerra used her pull with one of her daughters to get the Kraft job, Chichi said she doubted it. Said those girls aren't friendly with their mother. And, she said, Kraft has a strict policy about hiring family. She thought the cleaning company didn't know who Hesmerra was.”

Joe said, “Maybe Erik Kraft put in a word, bent the rules to help her out? Or, again, maybe he didn't have a clue. And, if she did lift those papers, what did she mean to do with them?” He licked his whiskers, thinking. “First she cleans for one of the Kraft Realtors, then turns up cleaning the Kraft offices. Then she turns up dead. Which Realtor's house?”

“That Alain Bent woman, the tall elegant one. That painted white brick up on the hill above where Ryan and Clyde bought their last cottage, where so many houses went vacant, that's her house.” Dulcie rose from the computer. “Alain Bent and Erik Kraft worked together, they were sales partners, like a team, until she left the village. She kept the house, maybe until prices go up. Come on, I'll show you, their picture's spread all over.” Leaping down, she pushed open the inner door to the big, echoing reading room.

The high-raftered room seemed vast when it was empty of patrons and lit by only the soft glow of the moon shining in through the tall windows; moonlight threw twisted tree shadows across the reading tables, and across the leather couches that stood empty before the tall stone fireplace.

On the table nearest to the magazine racks, Dulcie had laid out half a dozen brightly colored Molena Point magazines. They were older copies, as if the newest volumes were still on some librarian's desk. Each was open to a two-page real estate ad, the corners of the pages dimpled by the marks of little cat teeth. The full-color ads, arranged with four elegant residences to a page, included all the best real estate offices in the village, and each ad included a picture of the listing salesperson. In nine Kraft Realty spreads, partners Alain Bent and Erik Kraft were featured together, in their handsome two-agent sales pitch. Both were tall and slim, Alain's dark hair sleeked back in a chignon at the nape of her neck, her black business suit trim and well tailored. Erik's black hair was short, neatly trimmed, his sport coat casual and expensive, his open collar showing a deep tan. In one shot he was wearing white shorts and a white polo shirt, his legs and arms tanned and well muscled.

“Nice-looking couple,” Joe said suspiciously. “Debbie's ex-husband, and his beautiful sales partner.”

Dulcie's tail twitched, and she smiled a wicked little cat smile. “You're thinking he could have left Debbie for Alain?”

Joe shrugged. Who knew, with humans?

“So,” she said. “What does this add up to? Erik Kraft and Alain Bent work their listings together. Hesmerra stole papers from the Kraft offices, and was snooping in Alain Bent's house, then turns up murdered. Emmylou Warren steals the papers. Hesmerra's two sons-in-law own Kraft Realty. And, to add to the mix, Debbie Kraft arrives in the village just two days after her mother is poisoned.”

Joe rose and began to pace, padding across the magazine pages looking down at them as if the puzzle might be all laid out before him, but not yet making sense. Dulcie had started to speak when she spun around. Together they stared across the room at the tall windows as a scratching sound was repeated, soft but insistent.

A branch swung against the glass where no other branches moved, there was no wind to stir its wild sweeping back and forth; then they saw the dark shape swinging on it, riding the pine limb. The branch went flying as Kit dropped to the windowsill.

She pressed her face to the glass, looking in. When she saw Joe and Dulcie her tail lashed with impatience, and she disappeared again, dropping to the ground. In a moment they heard the cat door swinging, and Kit came bolting through into the reading room. She leaped to the table, sliding on the slick magazines and nearly careening over the side.

“What's all this? What are you doing? When I couldn't find you I went to Joe's house and in on the rafter but you have company, a woman talking and talking real shrill and a whining kid, and when I went in Ryan's studio Rock and Snowball were huddled up on the daybed so miserable they scared me, and then I saw the picture on the mantel standing up beside a letter and I jumped up and—”

“Slow down!” Dulcie and Joe yowled together.

“Who was that woman?” Kit said, her yellow eyes wide. “I read the letter, what nerve. But—”

Joe said, “You saw the red tomcat, the picture of him.”

“He looks like Misto, only younger,” Kit said. “Red stripes instead of yellow and Misto said his son was that color and his name was Pan and I raced out to find you and they lived in Eugene where that letter came from, too. He
looks
like Misto and did you see he has exactly the same mark on his shoulder and the letter said he just got lost and they didn't even look for him, they didn't try to find him, they didn't care where he went, they didn't care if he's hurt or dead and—”

“Slow down, Kit!” Dulcie hissed, her ears flat.

Kit tried, but she couldn't contain her excitement. “If he lived in that nursing home we can find him on the computer, there are all kinds of things about cats and dogs in nursing homes and hospitals and—”

“Stop!” Dulcie cried, losing patience; of course Kit was right, she'd seen hundreds of entries about animals in hospitals, cats in a children's hospital, therapy animals—if she could just find this cat, this particular nursing home. Leaping down, she raced for Wilma's office, Joe and Kit right on her tail, and the three crowded onto the desk around the computer.

It took her a while, her paws pinched tight as she carefully pressed the keys, pulling up a number of subjects until she'd found the Eugene nursing home and then a clip about their amazing therapy cat. Kit was so fascinated she pawed eagerly at the screen, her eyes widening at the young red tom, who was held in the arms of a white-coated doctor—a strapping red tabby with a thoughtful expression, his knowing look far wiser than that of any ordinary cat. And the pattern on his shoulder was just the same as Misto's, a clear medallion of concentric swirls narrowing in toward the center. Kit was so excited she was shivering. “We have to tell Misto, we have to go right now and wake him up and show him the picture and—”