Cat on the Edge (6 page)

Exactly like her salmon. She could taste the smell.

The thin, hunched man had done this. Had poisoned her supper.

A growl rumbled deep in her throat. She hissed at her supper bowl, then put her shoulder against it. Pushing, she shoved it across the porch and over into the pansies.

Jumping down, she dug a hole and pushed the bowl in—her dear blue bowl, that she loved.

She buried the bowl and the salmon deep, pawing flowers and earth over the mess, stamping the dirt down with hard, angry slaps.

Finished, she scented along the steps and soon found the man's sour smell. She followed it. Ears back, tail jerking with rage, she tracked him across the garden through a low bed of leafy ajuga and along the sidewalk. Above her across the dark sky, clouds had rolled in to hide the moon. Following his trail, thinking about the poison, and thinking about his flying feet hazing her along the cliff, she flinched at every shadow.

Trotting up sidewalks and through gardens, she studied all the black concavities in the neighbors' dark yards, but she saw no unfamiliar shape, only the black silhouettes of bushes and trees. But his scent was there, on the sidewalk. She followed it for two blocks before she lost it among car smells and the reek of dog pee. And even after the trail had vanished she pushed on.

She didn't know what she meant to do if she found him. Sure, go for his throat. But her rage wouldn't let her rest. Her poisoned salmon was the last straw.

Near to midnight, when at last her anger had cooled, when she calmed, and admitted the odds, when only her fear remained, she crept into the bushes to hide and rest.
This is really not smart, to be out here alone
, she thought. Not when he was probably lurking somewhere near, or would soon return to make sure she was dead.

She rested fitfully, startling at every tiny breeze. And when, half an hour later, she heard Wilma's car pass on the street she rose eagerly and started home.

She was three blocks away when she heard Wilma pull into the drive, then heard the back door open and close. Then in a moment the front door opened, and Wilma was calling her. She let out a little responsive mewl, burst out of the bushes, and ran eagerly.

But as she passed a line of parked cars, she smelled him. She veered away, but he appeared from beside a carport, slipping out into the night. She ran.

Wilma called her again as she bolted away through the bushes—away from the man, but away from Wilma, too. Away from home.

She could not go home. Why had she thought she could go home?

He knew where she lived. Neither she nor Wilma would be safe. As he gave chase again, she streaked straight uphill between close-set cottages, flashing
up across the narrow village streets wondering if she must run forever. Heading higher, for the wild hills, she prayed she could lose him for good on the tangled, overgrown slopes.

Clyde sat on the edge of his bed staring at the receiver of the telephone he held in his shaking hand. He felt as if he'd taken a blow to the midsection. The voice of the caller reverberated as if from some unseen dimension, replaying back to him an impossible message.

It's me. It's Joe Grey…I thought you'd be worried…. I
am
your cat. Bedtime Buddy. Favorite Feline…. Cream and Wheaties with chopped liver…I don't like that woman. It sickens me to watch you in the shower washing her back
…

Some joke. Some twisted, sick joke.

Who had that been? Whose voice was that? Which one of his idiot friends? Who had the talent to pull off that kind of phone call? To make it sound so much like Joe Cat, and to tell him that personal stuff. Who
knew
that personal stuff? Who did he know who could pull that off, and not break up laughing?

He dropped the phone on the bed and stood up, looking around the dim bedroom. The rush of adrenaline generated by the phone call was making his stomach flip.

The drawn shades were awash with sunlight, bright rays creeping in around the edges.

He turned, stared at the phone. Maybe the phone hadn't rung at all. Maybe he'd dreamed that it was ringing. Probably he'd dreamed the whole damned conversation.

That was it. He'd dreamed that the phone rang, and he snatched it up in his sleep. He'd dreamed he was talking to Joe. That had to be the explanation. The only logical explanation. It couldn't have been one of his friends; no one else knew the things the caller had told him.

And no one—no one in the world could know exactly what he had shouted at Joe yesterday morning when Joe was pacing and muttering.
For Christ sake, Joe, stop it! It's too damned early to be horny!
No one in the world could mimic the exact, irritated sound of his own voice at that precise moment, his own angry, half-asleep growl.

It had been a dream, a figment conjured out of his own warped mind.

For a minute there he'd really bought it. He could still hear the caller's voice, so familiar, rasping and coolly amused, its harsh tone exactly like Joe Cat's insulting yowl.

He got up, staring at the phone, then picked up the receiver and dropped it back in its cradle.

But the next instant he snatched it up again and threw it on the rumpled bed. He didn't want it to ring. He wasn't answering any more phone calls. The receiver buzzed for a moment, then a taped female voice told him to hang up and dial again.

“I didn't dial!” he shouted at the taped voice. “And you can go to hell!”

He had to have some coffee. And he'd better get in the shower, get dressed for work.

It took him several minutes to realize that this was Saturday and his day off, that he'd still be asleep if Joe hadn't called.

If Joe hadn't…

He'd better get hold of himself.

Cats did not make phone calls.

Cats did not speak human words.

Cats communicated with body language. Cats said things with angry glares, with tail lashings and butt wiggles. They let you know how they felt by squinching their ears down or poking you with a paw. By hissing at you, or flipping their tail and stalking away. That was cat talk. Cats did not speak the English language.

He stood scratching his stubbled chin, knowing in his gut that the phone call hadn't been a dream. Knowing that the ringing of the phone
had
waked him. Remembering the sunlight slashing beneath the shade into his eyes as he rolled over and grabbed the phone. Hearing that rasping voice.

The morning sun beat relentlessly against the window shades, thrusting its bright fingers more powerfully underneath like some nosy neighbor. His face itched; he hated it when his face itched. Staring at the demanding sunlight, imagining the bright day beyond the blinds, he got an unwanted mental picture of Joe stretched out in the sunshine somewhere, maybe beside someone's pool, talking over the poolside phone.

He flipped up a window shade, causing the stiff fabric to spin dangerously on its roller. He stood at the window, staring out at the street praying he would see Joe come strolling down the sidewalk.

And knowing he wouldn't.

Where the hell was the cat?

He needed coffee. He needed to talk to someone. He needed to see if the rest of the animals were different this morning.

What was he going to find in the kitchen? A tangle of chattering dogs and cats complaining about the quality of their breakfast? Bitching because he was late getting up?

He shuffled down the hall in his shorts; as he opened the kitchen door, a barrage of leaping canines hit him. The two warm, whining dogs pummeled and pushed. The cats yowled and wound around his bare ankles, tickling with their twining, furry greeting.

Neither the cats nor the dogs spoke a word. All remained satisfyingly mute. He petted Rube gratefully. The black Lab smiled up at him, then bent to lick his toes. Barney pushed against them both, growling as he competed for attention.

He scratched the dogs until they calmed down, then picked up all three cats, cuddling them in a huge hug, letting them rub their faces against his bristly cheeks.

When the cats began staring down from his arms at the counters, looking for some sign of breakfast, he put them down again on the floor. Stepping over the furry tangle, he filled the coffeepot with water
and got the can of coffee from the cupboard. But he was still so upset by the phone call he spilled half the coffee grounds, then lost count of how many scoops. He ended up dumping it all back in the can and starting over.

That call was the perfect end to a rotten week. First the break-in at the shop, when his automotive tools were stolen along with a collection of shop gauges that would be hard to replace. The senseless burglary enraged and puzzled him. The thief could just as easily have entered the main showroom instead of the shop, could have broken the lock on the big showroom overhead doors and driven off with several million dollars' worth of new, and vintage, foreign cars.

Why, with that fortune sitting in the showroom, had he chosen to burgle the shop?

Then three mornings later, Max Harper had shown up at the agency just before opening time, and that was when the real nightmare began.

The police chief had pulled his patrol car into the covered drive between the showroom and the shop. Harper's thin, lined face had been more than ordinarily glum.

He'd known Max Harper since they were in high school; they had done some ranch work together, summers, and had rodeoed together, riding the bulls. Harper had joined the police force after four years at San Jose State. He'd married while still in college; his wife, Millie, had been in the criminal justice program at San Jose, too, and had gone into law enforcement. She died two years ago, of a brain hemorrhage. The
pain of her death was still raw for Harper. You could see it hidden behind his natural wariness.

Harper didn't get out of the squad car, but sat behind the wheel frowning at him. “Beckwhite won't be in this morning.”

“So? How come you're relaying the message?” But he'd felt a chill begin. “What happened?”

Harper reached into his uniform pocket for a pack of cigarettes, and shook one out, and gave him a level look. “Beckwhite's dead. He was killed last night.” Harper watched him carefully, at the same time seeing every movement within the shop where three mechanics were laying out tools preparing for their morning's work.

His first thought, a trite reaction, was that Beckwhite couldn't be dead, that he'd seen Beckwhite only yesterday. No, any minute now Beckwhite would come strolling into the shop from the showroom, carrying a paper cup of coffee from the machine, his close-cropped military haircut catching a gleam from the overhead lights, his grin self-satisfied even at this early hour. No, Samuel Beckwhite wasn't dead.

“George Jolly found his body this morning, in the alley behind the deli. He'd been hit on the head, his skull cracked.” Harper struck a match and cupped his hand around the flame, though there was no wind. He blew smoke out through the opposite window. “No sign of anything that Beckwhite could have hit his head against. And it was too hard a blow for that. The coroner's looking at it. He's been dead since eight or nine last night.”

It had taken him a while to respond. “Has—has someone told his wife? Told Sheril?”

Harper nodded. “I went on up there.” He got a funny look on his face, but said nothing more.

The shock of Beckwhite's death had left the agency staff confused, had thrown the conduct of day-to-day business into chaos. The murder had been all over the papers, local and San Francisco.

And the murder, for various reasons, had left him feeling uneasy. That unease was heightened considerably when, yesterday morning as he was looking for Joe Cat, he discovered that someone had tried to break into the house through the living room window.

When he saw the splintered wood, he had barged outdoors in his shorts and found a larger hole on that side, ragged and broken as if gouged by a tire iron or by a large screwdriver.

He had hurried back inside, staring around the living room. Nothing was gone—TV and VCR were there, CD player, all the electronic equipment. And then, because Joe Cat wasn't nearby yowling for his breakfast, he grew concerned for all the animals. He headed for the kitchen; but when he flung open the kitchen door, the dogs were rarin' to go, charging past him straight for the living room. Leaping at the window, roaring and snarling, they had put on an amazing surge of adrenaline for two fat old farts.

The window was so freshly splintered that it still smelled like new lumber. He had found no other damage to the outside of the house, and no sign that anyone had gotten inside. When he checked the study, nothing was amiss. The one item that
concerned him was still on the desk, the small notebook lay in plain sight beside his checkbook. He had stuffed it under some papers, intending to hide it later.

The attempted burglary, just after Beckwhite's death, had disturbed him enough to make him load the .38 snub nose he kept for traveling, and slip it into his night table. He could not help equating the burglary in some way with Beckwhite's murder.

He'd known Samuel Beckwhite for six years; they were business associates though he did not work for Beckwhite. He rented the big repair shop portion of the agency in exchange for maintenance and repair on the agency's foreign cars, and he serviced the vehicles belonging to the agency's regular customers. A friend from his high school days, Jimmie Osborne, had brought him and Beckwhite together originally, suggesting the business arrangement. Jimmie was agency manager; he had worked for Beckwhite since a year after Jimmie and Kate were married.

He never could figure out why Kate had married Jimmie. Golden-haired Kate Anderson had been some catch for sour, humorless Jimmie Osborne.

Standing in the kitchen waiting for the coffee water to suck up into the machine, he finally realized he hadn't turned on the coffeemaker. He flipped the switch, the red light came on, and the machine gasped a pneumatic wheeze. He yawned and adjusted his binding shorts. He hadn't slept well. Every little noise had brought him up listening for the scrape of claws or the slap of the cat door.
And of course the early phone call jerking him from sleep, and that rasping voice, hadn't helped.

I
am
your cat…It's me, Joe Grey
.

Forget it. Get your mind off it
.

He removed the glass carafe and poured a cup of coffee, but the machine hadn't quite finished. In insolent defiance at his meddling it dribbled coffee down onto the heating unit. The animals kept pushing at him, wanting breakfast.

He wondered who would eventually take over at the shop, or if Beckwhite's would be sold.

Jimmie Osborne was next in command, though Sheril Beckwhite, of course, was the new owner. Since Beckwhite's death, the office was chaotic. No one seemed able to carry on efficiently. There were endless glitches in the paperwork, unnecessary rewriting of sales contracts. And the relationship between Sheril and Jimmie didn't add to agency morale. Who could have confidence in Jimmie's managerial functions when they were conducted mostly in bed?

Everyone knew about the affair. He'd wondered whether Beckwhite had known. He felt sure that Kate didn't know. Kate wouldn't dream that Jimmie would cheat on her.

He wouldn't have remained friends with Jimmie, except for Kate. He and Jimmie had had little in common, even in high school. But he enjoyed Kate, saw things in Kate that Jimmie didn't see or didn't care to see. She was wry and funny, and he liked her comfortable empathy for animals. She really loved his two old dogs and the cats, and she shared with
him a kind of warped, animal-centered humor that bored Jimmie. He and Kate always had a good time together, while Jimmie yawned.

He would never overstep the bonds of friendship with the Osbornes, he had never touched Kate. But she was beautiful and fun to be with, and without Jimmie their relationship might have evolved into a good deal more.

It surprised him sometimes that Jimmie put up with their evenings together, with their potluck barbecues and casual spaghetti dinners; and with the animals, particularly the cats. Jimmie said he was allergic to animals, but he never sneezed. The animals avoided him, though, all but Joe Cat.

Joe always went straight to Osborne the minute they arrived, rubbing against his pant legs, methodically covering Jimmie's freshly cleaned slacks with gray and white hairs. And Joe liked to sit on the couch beside Jimmie. He would remain close as Jimmie fidgeted. But before Jimmie got up the nerve to shove him off he would leap on the coffee table, deliberately spilling Jimmie's drink.

Cats loved to do that stuff—they found high amusement in tormenting those who disliked or feared them. And Kate watched Joe's pranks with a little secret laugh. Though she would never deliberately hurt Jimmie.