Cat Deck the Halls (24 page)

 

H
ALF A BLOCK
in front of the killer, the tortoiseshell kit had dropped to the sidewalk and stood looking at him, sick at what she was seeing. Then she slipped behind a potted fern and into an alley. There she paused, still watching him, wondering what to do now.

He was just a smear of black there in the dark under the vine. A dark figure, still and waiting. She had to tell someone, tell them he was there watching the condo, tell someone quick. But she didn't want to leave and lose sight of him. Not when he was so close to the little girl, not when he was watching for her to come out. Not now, when he might have decided to make sure she was silenced. Silenced before she could point him out, as clearly as she had found her doll.

She had to warn Juana, tell her the killer was just outside, tell her who he was.
Had
to tell her who he was. Had to find a phone, before Juana and the child left the condo or before he tried to break in.

Leaping up into a potted tree, she made a wild leap for the roof, heard the branch crack behind her. Scrambling up, nearly falling, she ran. Dulcie's house was the closest. Fleeing across shingles and tiles, flying from peak to peak, she nearly outran the wind that scudded behind her. She
reached Wilma's panting and her heart pounding, scrambled backward down the nearest oak, and fled in through Dulcie's cat door. The house was dark, as if Wilma had already left for Charlie's party. She bolted through kitchen and dining room straight for the living-room phone. Pausing with one black-and-brown paw lifted, and then with the perfect recall that Joe Grey and Dulcie so admired, she punched in the number for Detective Davis's cell phone.

I
N THE SOFTLY
lit café, a fire blazed on the hearth, its reflections dancing across the Christmas wreaths at the café windows and across the deep red poinsettias on the tables; firelight glanced through the archway into the bookstore, too, onto stacks of Charlie's books, onto the bookstore's Christmas tree, and onto enticing Christmas books that also stood waiting for small hands.

On the other side of the Hub, in the gallery, the white walls shone pristine, showing off only Charlie's black-and-white drawings and etchings.

This was the children's time, before the grown-ups arrived, and as Sicily welcomed the first visitors, Dorothy Street shepherded them on inside. None of them saw, behind their feet, the tortoiseshell kit slipping in, too.

Kit paused behind a sculpture stand, and then, seeing that no one had noticed her, she flew up the stairs that led to the gallery's balcony. Having used Wilma's phone to call Detective Davis, she'd left the darkened cottage again,
racing away to the party. As she sailed over the roofs, the wind's icy fingers had pushed down into her fur, chilling her through—even her paws felt frozen. Now, pausing halfway up the stairs, she turned to look down at the gallery and to bask in the delicious warmth that rose and spread from the blazing logs in the café's fireplace.

Below her, the gallery's white walls and panels handsomely set off Charlie's drawings and prints, and Kit listened to a slim, dark-haired teacher telling the children about the animals—the wild animals that Charlie saw among the Molena Point hills, and the dogs and cats and horses, some of whom lived on Charlie's ranch. As she explained which were drawings and which were etchings, Kit padded on up the stairs to the balcony and, warmer now, settled between two potted ferns to look down between the rails.

Fresh holly decorated the two archways; the windows of the raftered café were not only hung with wreaths but framed with evergreen branches, and in the garden beyond, five little trees wore fairy lights. Delicious smells rose from three long buffet tables in the center of the room, where hot entrées and salads and desserts waited, all arranged around a big bowl of Christmas eggnog. Soon, as the children finished up in the gallery, they'd be heading boisterously for the fine buffet.

Sicily Aronson had to be patient, caring person,
Kit thought,
to have invited that wriggly, busy, happy mob of kids before the elegant grown-up party began.
Licking her whiskers, Kit tasted the delicious supper smells of turkey tetrazzini, lasagna, tamale pie; and only reluctantly did she remember Lucinda's cautionary lecture.

“You must not,” Lucinda had said earlier that after
noon, “
must not
go begging among the gallery viewers, Kit,
or
among the children.”

“Oh,” Kit had said, “I would never…”

“And you must not,” Pedric had added prophetically, “panhandle the waiters and waitresses, in the kitchen.”

“Oh, I wouldn't…” Kit had looked back at her dear old couple with well-practiced innocence. And now, as the children swarmed into the café and around the buffet tables, she remained obediently on the balcony, doing just as Lucinda and Pedric expected of her. So far.
But,
Kit thought sweetly,
the night is still so young.

Dorothy Street and Sicily stood in the gallery archway below her, watching the children heap their plates, find tables, and tuck hungrily into the delicious fare.

“As if we never feed them,” Dorothy said.

Sicily laughed. “Those kids eat better than most of the village.”

Kit studied the two women. Dorothy, so tailored in black velvet pants and a creamy V-neck tunic, a simple silver belt, and her dark hair plain and sleek. Sicily was dressed, tonight, in a red gauze caftan over a white silk sheath printed with red poinsettias, her long hair twisted up high and held with glittering red clips. Pizzazz, Charlie called it fondly.
Maybe,
Kit thought.
But Sicily Aronson wears exactly the clothes that make her feel good.

Detective Davis and the little girl had not arrived, and that worried Kit. When she'd placed the call in Wilma's empty house, Davis had thanked her and had promised she'd be careful. That had to mean that, despite the man following her, the detective was still headed for the party. Davis's implied information was a lot for a cop to tell a
snitch; that sharing made Kit feel warm and pleased, that Davis trusted her—that the detective trusted her unknown informant.

Or was Davis jiving her, leading her on because she didn't trust her, because she thought…Oh, Kit hoped not. That would be too bad.

She hoped, even more, that something would prove her wrong about the man she was sure was the killer, the man who had been watching Davis's condo, surely waiting for the little girl to appear. Waiting so boldly, right there on the street.

She was lost in thought when Detective Davis and the child did appear suddenly, at the back of the bookstore, coming in from the stockroom, through the back door. Maybe Davis had parked her unit in the alley. The little girl clung close to Juana as the two joined the children crowding in around Charlie's table, where stacks of books waited for Charlie to sign.

But Charlie wasn't there, she had not arrived. Up on the balcony, Kit was starting to worry about her when suddenly there she was hurrying in, all out of breath, and causing a little stir as she headed for the low, round signing table just inside the archway to the bookstore.

Charlie might have hurried,
Kit thought,
she might have a few red hairs out of place, but she looked beautiful.
She was wearing the simple gold sheath and the topaz choker Wilma had given her, and her red hair was piled high, strands escaping as usual from the clip that bound it. When all the children had gathered around the table, and Charlie had greeted them, the children sat down on the floor pillows that Sicily had piled and scattered all around, and
Charlie told them about the story she'd written, and why she'd wanted to write it. Davis's little charge sat among the youngest children; the detective took a chair near her, with her back to the wall, where she could see in all directions.

And as Charlie told about the little stray kitten who had no home and no mother, Kit squirmed farther out between the balcony rails, listening. Charlie told how the kitten had tagged along with a wild band because she was afraid to be alone in the wild hills, and how mean those cats had been to her.
That's me,
Kit thought.
That really did happen. That's me in the story and in the pictures.
And though she could never tell anyone that secret, Kit nearly burst with the excitement of starring in a real book that so many humans would read.

But then, as Charlie talked with the children, she glanced above their heads to the balcony, looking straight at Kit, and she gave Kit the faintest toss of her head. Clearly this meant,
Come down, Kit, come here and join us
.

Kit looked at her questioningly, and when Charlie gave a tiny nod, Kit flicked her tail and surged down the stairs and fled through the café, dodging table legs and children's feet, then padding diffidently between the seated children.

“She's my little model,” Charlie said as the children reached to stroke her. “A friend of mine trained her, and she's a very smart little cat.” The children shrieked with delight when Kit leaped onto the table beside Charlie, and they all rose and flocked around, reaching to pet Kit.

“Is the story real, then?” said a blond little boy.

“It's a made-up story,” Charlie said. “Made up from what I imagined a homeless kitten's life would be like. But
it's based on this little cat, she is indeed my model.” She smiled at the children. “I had to imagine how she would respond to the things that happened to her. No two cats are alike, you know, any more than are people.”

“But how did you
know
what happened to her, if it was all made up?” asked a solid-looking little boy.

“I did a lot of research into the habits of stray cats. Into things that do happen to them, and how they are able to survive. Often the strays live in colonies, for companionship and safety.
Made up
is sometimes best when you base your story on fact, on what really could be. I tried,” Charlie said, “not to put anything in that could not have happened, that would be impossible. You take all the facts of what
could
happen, and then you weave stories around them. Does that make sense?”

The children thought about this, and nodded that it made sense to them. They talked about imagination, and where it came from, and then Charlie began to sign their books. And Kit thought, as dozens of little hands stroked her, that she didn't mind
these
little strangers petting her. Not like strange grown-ups on the street. And she thought, watching Charlie,
She's signing my story! She's signing
Tattercoat. And Kit nearly burst with joy.

But as the little nameless girl rose to pet Kit, Detective Davis rose, too, and stood directly behind her, carefully watching the room. The gallery and café were filling up now with adult guests, and Davis was growing edgy. And Kit realized that cops in plain clothes were mingling with the crowd, that there were maybe two dozen officers she knew, wandering around like ordinary villagers. She hadn't
seen them come in, she'd been so engrossed in Charlie and the children—and in her own starring role—that she'd missed this vital infiltration.

Beside her, Charlie, signing books, was watching the officers, too. Kit thought Davis must have told her that the killer might appear, because Charlie was as alert as Max's people. She was ready to move, to get the children out of the way.
Oh, my,
Kit thought.
What will happen? What will happen now? Oh, but Davis won't take risks. She wouldn't…These officers wouldn't…
Kit stood on the table beside Charlie, shivering so hard she barely felt the children's hands smoothing her fur. Was this the only way? When she'd told Davis what she'd seen, did Davis think this was the only way to trap the killer?

Trying to watch the whole room at once, Kit was so shaken she didn't realize that Joe Grey and Dulcie had slipped in and were watching, too. Not until she caught a movement from the far balcony, where Joe and Dulcie were now looking out between the rails—at her, at the cops, at the children gathered around Charlie's book table, and at the little silent little girl.

 

B
ELOW THE TWO
cats, waiters were carrying trays of champagne among the crowd; and in the gallery, already five pieces had “sold” stickers fixed to their title cards. One was a drawing of Joe standing on a rock above the sea looking as big and powerful as a cougar, and Dulcie was sorry to see that one go, she had longed to have it for
her own, to see it in their living room hanging just beside Wilma's desk. But then Joe nudged her, and she realized something was happening. A tension radiated from Charlie and Kit, and from Juana Davis. All three looked wary, and ready to move. And when Kit looked up to the rail at them, she looked so alarmed that Dulcie and Joe tensed, ready to run—or attack. And there were so many officers in civilian clothes mingling with the crowd, every one of them on the alert. Dorothy Street and the teachers were rounding up the children to head for the school's buses, hurrying them along. And Officer Sand and several more officers had moved closer around Davis's silent little charge.

Then, as the Patty Rose children streamed out to the street, Cora Lee and Mavity came in with young Lori Reed; and behind them came Gabrielle and Donnie, Gabrielle overdressed as usual, in a green satin gown spangled with glitters and a tangle of mirror-bright necklaces draping her low décolletage, and a pale fur wrap around her shoulders. She held her left hand up to her throat, where her diamond engagement ring would not be missed. Donnie was more tastefully turned out in a dark sport coat and dark tie, pale blue shirt, and cream slacks.

The silent little girl, standing with Davis at Charlie's table, looked up between the officers who surrounded her—and suddenly she spun around, trying to pull away from Davis. Davis held her tight, pressing the child against her. The child's face had drained of all remaining color. Her little body was rigid.

“Poor little…” Dulcie began.

But Joe Grey was racing for the stairs.

Dulcie sped after him, dodging between high heels and polished oxfords, between pant legs and long silk skirts. Ahead there was such a crowd of officers they could see nothing but pant legs. Sneaking through behind the crowd, they crept beneath Charlie's table.

The room had gone silent. Officers crowded around Donnie French, harshly pushing Gabrielle back. The little girl, backing against Davis, was staring at Donnie, trying hard to speak.

“Tell me,” Juana said softly, kneeling, holding the child close. “Who are you afraid of?” The child pushed harder against her. “Tell me,” Juana said. “It's important. Did someone frighten you? Who are you afraid of? What did he do?”

The crowd was silent. Not a whisper, not a sound.

The child clutched Davis as if she could hide herself. “Please,” Davis said, turning her gently around to look into the crowd again. Most of those surrounding her were officers, only a handful of civilians. The child, pushing back against Davis as if she could vanish, looked up at the wall of faces, and swallowed. Then, softly, she whispered, “Him.” Her little voice was faint. “Him,” she whispered, pointing into the circle of officers—pointing at Donnie French. Donnie's face changed from quizzical to cold, to an expression that was icy with fear. He spun around, seeking a way out. As Davis picked up the child, two officers jerked Donnie's arms behind him. Moving swiftly, they cuffed him. Shielded by other officers, only a few guests could see what was happening. Across the bookstore, the guests who had
turned away from the cash register were held back by Officers Brennan and McFarland.