Cat Deck the Halls (25 page)

Detective Davis, carrying the child, approached Donnie. The little girl fought to tear herself away, out of Juana's arms.

“Tell me why you're afraid,” Juana said clearly, “and then we'll get away from him.”

“Gun,” the child whispered. Her dark eyes were filled with fear—but then suddenly with something more. Suddenly the little girl looked around at the officers who confined Donnie, at the encouraging looks on their faces, and she seemed to take heart. Eleanor Sand nodded at her. Jimmie McFarland gave her a thumbs-up and a wink, and the child seemed to come more alive. Now, as she faced Donnie French, her dark eyes blazed not with fear but with a rage far stronger than fear.

“He shot a gun at my daddy,” she said, her voice little and thin. “He was my daddy's friend and he shot him and killed him.” She twisted away from him, hiding her face against Davis, but in an instant she turned back. “
He
killed my daddy!” she screamed, and she kicked and fought Juana, trying suddenly to get at the man, burning suddenly to strike him and hurt him.

“What is his name?” said Juana.

“James Kuda James Kuda James Kuda,”
the child screamed. She stared at him, shivering. Donnie stared back at her, his blue eyes filled with rage, and then the child collapsed against Davis, clutching her and weeping, weeping as if all the tears of her young life—over the death of her mother, the drowning of her siblings, and her father's grisly
murder—were suddenly released. Weeping and shivering in a paroxysm of near hysteria. It was at that moment that Max arrived, his jeans and windbreaker wrinkled and muddy and smelling of seawater.

Charlie didn't see him, where she stood by the far bookshelves with her arms around Cora Lee—whether to comfort Cora Lee or to hold her from interfering in the killer's arrest, the cats couldn't tell. But even as the chief walked in, someone
was
interfering, loudly. A dervish of green and spangles was jerking at two officers, trying to shoulder between them, hitting and swearing at them.

“Stop it!” Gabrielle screamed, pounding Officer Crowley's barrel chest. “Stop it! Get away from him!” But as she tried to free her fiancé, Officer Cameron grabbed her and pulled her back. Gabrielle fought Cameron, tried to fight them all. “Leave him
alone
! He's my
fiancé
. He lives here, he's Cora Lee's
cousin
! What is this? What are you doing to him? That child is lying. You can't arrest a man on some child's wild lie. Leave him alone, you can't…”

Cameron jerked her out of the way. “Stop it, Gabrielle. This is police business.” When Gabrielle tried to swing on Cameron, the officer jerked her arm behind her. “Keep it up, lady, if
you
want to spend the night in a cell.”

“I'm going to the mayor!” Gabrielle shouted. “You can't arrest an innocent man for some wild children's tale!” As the officers moved the prisoner away, Gabrielle broke away from Cameron, snatched her keys from her purse, and headed for the door.

J
AMES
K
UDA SAT
in the back of the squad car behind the wire barrier, highly amused by Gabrielle's rage. If she followed through with her threats, talked to the mayor and hired a lawyer, that would keep her busy for a while, hopefully keep her from nosing around. The car smelled of new leather. Pretty fancy upholstery for a cop car. These cops had it made, in their upscale tourist town with its big money. Well, he'd gotten a bit of it. Would have walked away with more if he'd played his cards closer. Though that would have been hard, in a little burg like this. He just hoped what he did get, stayed hidden, that Gabrielle didn't go poking around, that she'd spin her wheels trying to defend him, go to the mayor, keep her mind on that for a while, while he talked his way out of this. He always did. Easy enough to go for accidental death or self-defense.

If they did make him, which wasn't likely, it would be only a few years, and the money would be there when he
got out—and plenty more stashed from past
relationships,
as the ladies like to call them.

First thing, get a good lawyer. Gabrielle would help him with that if he could keep her blindsided. She'd never believe it was anything but self-defense, and not likely she'd go poking around in her computer for another couple of months, not until it was time to do her taxes or maybe even June when she'd roll over her CDs. His women seldom turned against him; they liked the sweet talk too much, and liked his sweet, loving ways.

Too bad he'd had to do Donnie, but there was no other way. Too much back in Texas that Donnie knew. Had to admit, he'd let his guard down, there. As loyal as Donnie was, in the beginning, that sure went sour. That was one of the reasons Donnie had wanted to come out to the coast. Make a new start, get away from him before the Texas cops came nosing around and caught Donnie up in the loop, too.

He had to hope these village cops
were
the soft-living type, with their minds on their fancy cars and on socializing, hope they were like New Orleans cops, partying on duty, taxiing big-name civilians around to the fancy restaurants in their squad cars.

Shackled in the backseat like some dangerous ex-con, he squirmed as the unit pulled in between two chain-link fences and parked in back of the station, next to their two-bit jail. How had this happened, that he got caught? Who blew the whistle on him?

It wasn't that kid, scared all the time—until tonight. No, something had happened before that. He'd kept out of her way, made sure she didn't see him, so it had to be someone else that made him. He just couldn't figure out who.

Earlier tonight, when he saw that detective's lights go out, he could have sworn the woman and kid had gone to bed, that she wasn't going out again, wasn't going to the damned party, and that had been his mistake. But it was Gabrielle's fault, wanting to hit every party, get dressed up fancy, show off her diamond ring and her boobs.

Could
that kid have seen him, sometime earlier that he didn't know about? Seen him, and pointed him out to that detective Davis? And then the detective had set him up, brought the kid there to the opening. Someone had done a number on him, they'd had half the damned force there in civilian clothes. Now, he'd better be thinking what to do about it, how to slip out of this one.

But maybe, after all, Gabrielle had the right idea. One little kid. What kind of witness was that? A good lawyer, knowing the kid's background, could easily prove that, seeing her mother die, then most of her family drown, she was real screwed up, emotionally unstable, as they called it. If that kid was all the prosecution had to go on, a good lawyer could make Swiss cheese of their case.

Maybe he
should
have killed the kid when he had the chance. Had he turned soft? But he didn't want a kid's death on his record. With an adult, he could go for self-defense. But a kid? No way; they'd send him up good, for a kid.

The uniform swung out of the car, pulled him out, shoving his head down so they wouldn't crack his brain and face a lawsuit. He should have cut out earlier, before the party. He knew that party was a bad idea. Should have given Gabrielle some excuse that would buy him a few hours, tell her there was another job offer up in the city, that he didn't want to miss it. At least he'd wiped the account pages off
the computer, told her he thought there'd been a power surge. Surge arresters didn't catch them all; he'd told her enough about that, early on, to leave her comfortable with the explanation.

But now the cops would call Donnie's sister-in-law. And Cora Lee would, too. Louise was the kid's only remaining family, outside of Cora Lee. He just hoped Louise hadn't found Cora Lee's letters that never reached Donnie, that he should have burned. Why was it he liked to save things? He'd hidden them real well, though—little mementos of past accomplishments.

No, she'd never find those letters where he'd stashed them. Kicking himself for letting his guard down, later he stumbled through the cell door, shoved by the fat cop, stood surveying the filthy bunk as he heard the lock click behind him. He should have run. Should have burned the letters…Should, should, should…All his careful planning down the drain. And, sitting down alone in his cell, James Kuda put his head in his hands, trying to figure how he
was
going to get out of this one.

 

I
N THE BOOKSTORE
, the cats, at the first sign of trouble before the pseudo Donnie French was arrested, had leaped to the top of a bookshelf where they could see what was happening and were out of the way of fast-moving feet. Joe and Dulcie were as surprised as their human friends at what was happening. Only Kit looked smug, watching the action with a cool little smile twitching her whiskers. Dulcie and Joe looked hard at her.

“You better tell us,” Joe said, trying not to smile. “What have you done, this time?”

“I got the killer arrested,” Kit said, failing to look modest. But too much was happening below them for her to explain. As the killer was cuffed and Gabrielle tried to interfere and then headed for the door, it was Charlie who stopped her, grabbing her shoulder, spinning her around and snatching her keys.

“Leave it, Gabrielle.” Charlie's green eyes blazed, her cheeks were flushed and her red hair was all coming loose. “Let the police sort it out. Let it be, until you're calmer.”

“Those cops are making a huge mistake,” Gabrielle snapped. “All they want is another statistic, someone to arrest! I
won't
see Donnie locked in that dirty jail! If Harper does that…The police can be sued, and I intend to talk to the mayor.
And
to get a lawyer in the morning.”

It was then that Max stepped in, took Gabrielle quietly aside, and asked her when she had last checked the balances of her savings accounts and CDs. Her rage at Harper exploded. She tried to hit him, and screamed insults in his face. Max held her wrists until she calmed. “Listen to me, Gabrielle. Did he use your computer? Didn't you tell Charlie he made some repairs and loaded some programs for you?”

Gabrielle didn't answer. Her sullen rage would not let her look at Max.

“Didn't you tell Charlie that Donnie was a wizard with the computer, that there was nothing he couldn't fix, that he had straightened out your online problems and made some of your programs easier to manage?”

Gabrielle was white and still.

“Go home, Gabrielle. Check your online accounts before you come charging into the station saying things you might regret.”

Gabrielle looked at Max, pulled away from him, and sat down at an empty table, glaring sullenly. Max turned away and left for the station, pausing to kiss Charlie. “I won't be long. With Dallas in the hospital, I need to—”

“What happened?” Charlie said. “How bad is he?”

He looked down at her. “It's a shoulder wound. He was chasing the three who hurt Ryan.”

“I didn't…I talked with Mabel. But maybe she didn't want to tell me, just before the party?”

“Shot him twice in the shoulder, but they missed the bone. He's out of surgery and in the room next to Ryan's. They have a guard at their doors.” He kissed her again. “I won't be long. Are you going to take Cora Lee home?”

She nodded. “She'll want to call Donnie's sister-in-law, in Texas.”

“I'll swing by there when I'm finished; we can leave your car, and ride home together.”

And as Sicily pitched in to try to resurrect the party, to try to ease folks and cheer them, Charlie returned to Cora Lee, who sat alone in a far corner quietly weeping for her murdered cousin.

L
EAVING THE GALLERY
after James Kuda was arrested, Detectives Davis and Sand headed for Juana's condo with the distraught and frightened little girl. In the apartment, Juana turned on the lights and lit a fire while Eleanor gave the child a quick warm bath and put her into pajamas. She sat on the couch holding her, a warm quilt tucked around them. Juana made cocoa, put Christmas cookies on a plate, and carried the tray in by the fire; though she was concerned about their small charge, she was so encouraged that the child could speak and that her spirit had rallied. As horrifying as the sight of the killer had been, this little girl had stood up to him. Healthy anger, Juana thought, had wonderful curative powers as the child fought her way out of a grim darkness. This little girl didn't shrink for long, when she faced the man who'd shot her daddy, she was mad as hell, and that, in Juana's book, was healthy progress.

The child, now warm and cozy under the quilt, snuggled up to Eleanor, and gulped down her cocoa and cookies
as if she were starving; when Juana took the empty mug from her, to refill it, she reached up suddenly to her.

“What?” Juana said. “You want the mug back?”

A shake of the head.
No
.

“You want to get up again?”

Another shake. “No,” she whispered. Her white little face was still blotched from crying, and her expression was so needy. “Corlie,” she said. “My name is Corlie.”

“Thank you,” Juana said, sitting down beside them. “That's very special, to know your name. And do you have a last name?”

“My name is Corlie Lee French,” she said in such a soft whisper that the detective could barely hear.

“Corlie Lee French,” Juana said. “I like that.”

“That man…” she whispered, looking bleakly at the officers.

“Did you know him?” Juana said softly.

“He was my daddy's friend!”
she said in a fast, shivering breath, and hid her face against Eleanor. Eleanor was quiet, holding her—until suddenly a car light blazed across the top of the drawn draperies, and remained there, unmoving.

Tucking the child down on the couch beneath the quilt, the officers rose and moved to the drawn draperies, standing at either side to look out through the crack where draperies met wall. Though Donnie/James Kuda was headed for jail, they didn't know whether someone else might be involved. They didn't know yet whether the Wickens were part of this, or whether the two cases were unconnected.

Earlier in the evening, when the snitch had called her, Juana had turned out the lights and then called the depart
ment, quickly putting officers in place. Looking down at the street from the darkened window, she had seen the man standing in the shadows just as the snitch had described, a dark presence beneath a tangle of vine against the black windows of a closed shop. She had seen no one else on the street, until a shadow came slipping along an alley.

But the shadow was one of their own, an officer she'd just put in place. She saw, one street over, another darkly clad officer move into position. Satisfied but wary, she had watched until, half an hour later, the dark figure against the building gave up his vigil, maybe deciding Juana was in for the night. She had watched him step out from beneath the vine and slip away up the street, and had listened on the police radio as the two officers followed on foot to where he got into a tan pickup a block away. She had watched the officers' unmarked car move out a block behind him. And then, on a secure line, she had set the rest of the plan in place.

Soon the officers tailing the pickup had a make on the truck's plates, giving a recent transfer of title to one Donnie French. Cora Lee's cousin Donnie, just as the snitch had said. Thinking, then, that this man was the real Donnie French, she had felt a wave of bitter dismay for Cora Lee, who had been so very happy to rejoin her family.

Hoping that Donnie thought she and the child were tucked in for the night, and hoping that he was headed for Charlie's opening, she had helped little Corlie dress, telling her it was a game. “We'll get dressed in the dark. Can you do that?”

The child had known something was up, but she'd dressed quickly and obediently. She had seemed, then, as if
she wanted to speak, Juana thought. But she hadn't, she'd been still and silent as they slipped down the back stairs, where McFarland had a car waiting.

Sitting in the passenger seat holding the child, Juana had asked her, “Do you remember Officer McFarland?”

No sound, no answer; but a small little hand had reached over to the steering wheel, to touch McFarland's big, warm hand.

 

C
HARLIE, TOO, LIT
a fire on the hearth, a comforting fire in the seniors' house, while Lori made cocoa—both friends employing the homely gestures of caring and nurturing, to try to ease Cora Lee. Cora Lee, seated near the fire, tremulously picked up the phone to call Donnie's sister-in-law. Before dialing, she looked up at Charlie.

“Would you mind if I turn on the speaker? I'm so befuddled. I'd like you to hear, too, to help me keep things straight. Oh, Charlie, I dread so to speak to her. Louise and Donnie were close after Barbara died.” Cora Lee had found Louise's number in their downstairs apartment where James Kuda had been staying.

Now, calling Louise in Texas, reluctantly waking her, she told Louise that Donnie was dead, that he had been murdered, and that his little girl was safe. “I had thought that all three children had drowned…One child survived, then?”

When Louise was at last able to talk, and to make some sense, she assured Cora Lee that Donnie's smallest daugh
ter, Corlie, had indeed survived the storm and that she had been with him on their flight to California.

“Corlie was the only one of Donnie's girls to survive the collapse and flooding of the school, the only one of the three who could be reached in time.”

It took a long time for Louise to tell what she could piece together of James's Kuda's deception. Donnie had known Kuda for years. “James Kuda was in and out of prison,” Louise said. “I didn't like having him here, I thought him a bad influence on Donnie. He was staying with Donnie, here, until he got on his feet, as he put it. But he…Well, he is charming. He did a lot of repairs to our house, and he…he looked so much like Donnie looked before he lost his hair that…Well, I guess I softened to him. Softened too much,” Louise said bitterly.

She was quiet for a few moments while Cora Lee tried to comfort her. “You didn't know, you couldn't have known…”

“They named Corlie for you,” Louise said. “Corlie Lee, because when you were kids…”

“He called me Corlie,” Cora Lee said, wiping a tear. Then, “His was such a late marriage. I was so glad for him—it did seem strange to have young nieces when I should, at my age, be talking about great-nieces. And now…Now we have only little Corlie.”

It took some time for Louise to find Donnie's original letters hidden in the room where James Kuda had stayed. She called Cora Lee back, and then faxed them to her: the letters to Cora Lee that James had always taken to mail for Donnie when he went out early to bike or to run, the letters
that were never mailed—that had been replaced by Kuda's versions: letters giving a new flight time, many weeks ahead of when Donnie had been scheduled to arrive in San Jose, rent a car, and drive down to Molena Point.

“Kuda left here six weeks before Donnie was to fly to California,” Louise said. “He told us he was going back to New Orleans for a while, to help with the flood cleanup.” Then, “Why?” she said. “Why did he kill him?”

Charlie looked up when Max arrived, and beckoned him in, and in a minute Cora Lee handed him the phone.

“I'll be talking with the Texas Bureau of Investigation in the morning,” he told Louise. “If you would close Kuda's room, don't search further or touch or change anything. They'll have a man out there to go through everything and take evidence. We'll run his record, but please tell them whatever you can about his background.”

Louise said, “They may find quite a lot. I heard them talking one night, Donnie and James. They stopped when I came in the room. I never…Well, I didn't ask Donnie about it, later. I was afraid of what I might find out about Donnie, too. Donnie wanted Kuda there, and he'd been through so much…I didn't want to fight with him. Any kind of stress was hard on him, but squabbling was terrible for Corlie. Corlie…She was in the hospital room, in her mother's arms, when Barbara died. Her mother holding her, when she died. That took the life right out of the child.

“She didn't cry for her mother,” Louise said. “And she did not speak again.”