Cat Pay the Devil (3 page)

S
he's shopped all day! Dulcie thought, racing home
across the roofs.
All she ever buys are jeans and sweatshirts; Wilma doesn't linger over satins and velvets the way I would—so it couldn't take her this long!
Dulcie loved soft, beautiful garments; when she was younger, she'd often stolen silken scarves or nighties, a cashmere sweater or a satin teddy from their good-natured neighbors, had dragged each item home to snuggle on—only to see Wilma return them with an embarrassed apology.

But such luxuries wouldn't delay Wilma. Dulcie's tall, silver-haired housemate would have left the city early; she liked to hit the road before work traffic grew heavy, would probably have left before breakfast, planning to stop for a bite on the way or to eat at a favorite restaurant in Gilroy. Now, though the long summer evening was still bright, it was nearly six—
twelve hours,
Dulcie thought.
Oh
,
she'll be home by now! Home when I get there! Oh
,
Wilma
,
please be sitting on the couch with your shoes off
,
your packages
strewn all over.
And she leaped from a tree to the next roof, dropped from the shingles onto a storefront sign, then down to a bench, and finally to the sidewalk, landing lightly between a bed of petunias and a metal news rack. Crouched to sprint across the street and up the block for home, she stopped, staring.

Even in the heat radiating from the sidewalk, suddenly she felt cold all over. She stood facing the news rack and the afternoon edition of the
Molena Point Gazette
in its metal holder, feeling as sick and weak as if she'd eaten poison.

 

ESCAPED CONVICT SHOOTS FEDERAL OFFICER

 

Dulcie couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Didn't know what to do but stand shivering and staring.

But then common sense took over—if the victim was Wilma, she'd already know, the police would have been to the house, Joe's housemate would know and would have found her and Joe even on the rooftops. It wasn't Wilma, couldn't be Wilma. But then when she scanned down the first column, again her heart pounded with hurt and rage.

The lead article might ordinarily have been of interest only to San Francisco readers, for the shooting had occurred in the city where the victim worked—but it was in the
Gazette
because he was well known in Molena Point as well. Mandell Bennett was in intensive care in San Francisco General Hospital. He had been found early this afternoon by a coworker, in the underground parking garage of his San Francisco office, lying beside his car. The paper did not identify the shooter, and no suspect had been apprehended. Dulcie stood staring up at the newspaper, unable to move—until a giggle behind her made her spin around.

Two people were watching her, two fat, fleshy tourists
in shorts staring down at her, cackling with amusement. “What's that cat
doing
? Reading the
paper
? What kind of animals do they keep here? Dogs in the restaurants, cats reading newspapers…”

Leaping at the paper rack, Dulcie snatched at an imaginary moth, batted it around the back of the stand, and took off running and dodging as if chasing it—reading the paper in public was a blunder the little cat would never, ordinarily, have committed. Behind her, the tourists laughed louder; but then when she glanced back, they had lost interest, had turned to admire a dreadful painting in a gallery window—and Dulcie raced for home.

 

Wilma Getz had indeed left the city early, heading out around six
A.M.
; after two days in court, she was looking forward to a rare binge of shopping. Having gassed up her car the night before, she drove south on Highway 101, enjoying a cinnamon roll from the hotel's continental breakfast bar, sipping coffee, and listening to a favorite Ella Fitzgerald tape that included “Lorelei” and “Too Darn Hot.” She seldom had the time or patience for a shopping spree, and didn't pay much attention to clothes; she was happy in jeans and well-chosen sweatshirts. But her jeans were growing threadbare, her sweatshirts baggy and faded, and every few years the mood hit her for something new, even for a bit of elegance. As she drove, she left her phone off, and had not glanced at a paper or turned on the news. Once she'd fulfilled her courtroom responsibilities, the extended weekend was a welcome vacation. Her governmental duties behind her, she didn't want to spoil her drive home with some local reporter's warped version of the revocation hearing, or with the sour sensationalism of national or world news that could
leave one filled only with questions. With her mind on a breakfast of a Mexican omelet in the small town of Gilroy, and then a grand and restorative few hours trying on and buying new clothes, she kept the music at a sensible level, the air conditioner turned to high, and enjoyed the smooth curves of the passing hills burnt dry by the hot sun, their winter emerald changed to summer brown. She planned to pick up a few early Christmas presents for her redheaded niece, too, to put away until the holidays, and of course she would find gifts for the three cats; Dulcie and Kit so dearly loved a new blanket, something soft and fresh. Joe Grey, just like a human male, was the hard one to shop for.

She'd had dinner last night with Mandell, a few hours to visit. He still covered Molena Point and the central coast, and she often saw him then, but dinner in the city had been special. Mandell was fun, and he made her laugh, though he was a no-nonsense officer. Bennett was from Georgia; he was half Cherokee and had retained in those sturdy genes not only a quick wit and a powerful instinct and skill for survival, but an easygoing humor that, no matter the circumstances, never seemed to fail him. Because of this and his inner strength, and the fact that he'd always been there for her, he was more like family than merely a friend. And though she'd tried, when he'd lost his wife six years ago to cancer, she had never felt that she'd been able to do anything significant to help ease his distress. No one could help much, that was a pain one must bear alone, a pain Mandell would carry to the end of his life.

During the hearing, Mandell had weathered Cage Jones's sullen anger with the cool equanimity he always mustered, while she had inwardly fumed. Their quiet dinner afterward had lifted her spirits, had helped her to get centered again. Maybe she'd grown soft, in retirement. The likes of Cage
Jones disgusted her far more now than when she'd dealt with him and his caliber of criminal. Dulcie had asked her once why she had chosen probation and parole as a profession, and she hadn't really had a good answer.

“Wanting to change the bad guys—until I learned that most of them wouldn't change, had no desire to change. And then wanting to keep them off the street, keep them from hurting others.”

She'd looked at Dulcie's wide green eyes. “Maybe a bit of a predatory streak in me? A bit confrontational? A streak of the cat in my nature?”

“Maybe,” Dulcie had said, laughing. “Maybe that's why we get along so well. And,” Dulcie continued, “that should help you understand why Joe and Kit and I love what we do.”

“I guess it does,” Wilma had said, diffidently stroking Dulcie's sleek tabby back, tracing a finger down her dark, silky stripes. “I guess I understand very well.”

The drive to Gilroy took her an hour and twenty minutes, from hotel parking lot to the sprawling discount mall. Her first stop was to gas up her car, and then to her favorite restaurant where she enjoyed a large and decadent breakfast. Locking her car, she'd made sure her glove compartment was safely locked, too. The .38 Smith & Wesson had been important when she worked corrections, but now, with those years long past, the revolver was simply insurance in case her car broke down or something else unexpected occurred, such as a carjacking or attempted robbery. Life bloomed with the unexpected, and she felt more comfortable prepared. Though the gun wasn't likely to be needed for a simple day of shopping; and her only known enemy of the moment was safely cooling his heels, watched over by San Francisco's finest.

She thought of checking the messages on her cell phone before she hit the stores; but she had called her close friend Clyde last night, and then called Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw. Dulcie had been there with the elderly couple, tucked up on the couch with Kit as Pedric recited an old Celtic fairy tale for the two cats. Pedric was an authority on Celtic myth and, as the cats' heritage lay within that distant and mysterious realm, they loved hearing his stories.

She supposed she could check for a message from Dulcie, but she'd talked with her just last night, and she'd be home in a few hours, even if she hit every store in the complex; she was trying to break herself of worrying about Dulcie. Ever since Dulcie and Joe discovered they could speak and understand the human language—were, as Dulcie put it, thinking like real human persons—Wilma had worried over the little tabby to the point of driving Dulcie crazy. Just as Clyde worried over Joe. When the two cats launched themselves into a life of spying and snooping, she and Clyde had worried big-time. The inherent dangers of such an occupation for two little cats had nearly undone them both.

From the first, Dulcie hadn't liked Wilma fussing, and had set her straight with such insistence that she'd backed off. That hadn't been easy. But the thought made Wilma smile, because soon the tables were turned. When the tortoiseshell kit arrived on the scene, a starving orphan kitten then, and had taken up with the Greenlaws and with Joe and Dulcie, she had proved to be far more of a handful than either of the older cats had ever been—and soon it was their turn to worry. Kit was fascinated with criminal investigation, and she was fearless.

Molena Point might be small, but there was a lot of money in the village—multimillion-dollar homes; wealthy estates on the outskirts; a handful of movie stars, retired and otherwise. And there were moneyed tourists drawn not only by
the charm of the village but by fine golf courses, antique-car competitions, and a world-class horse show. When Kit joined Joe and Dulcie's clandestine investigations of burglaries, thefts, and the crimes of passion that occurred beneath the sleepy facade of a small town, her approach was wild indeed; she launched into the investigations with all four paws, ears back, and tail lashing—too often putting herself in harm's way, so that Dulcie and Joe did indeed fret over her.

“Payback time,” Wilma had told them, though she, too, worried about the kit. But at least now the older cats understood what such worrying was about.

Finishing her coffee and paying her bill, she left the restaurant. The mall parking lot was only half full, the shop doors just opening, but already the heavy July heat was enervating. She hoped it was nicer at home, that the sea's fog had moved in to cool the village, to cool her cottage that, even with thick stone walls, could in this weather grow too hot for her taste or Dulcie's. Moving her car over in front of her favorite discount stores, sitting for a moment looking at her short shopping list, she had a fierce, empty feeling of missing home; felt an unaccustomed nostalgia for her cozy living room with its soft blue velvet chair and love seat, the huge, bright landscape above the stone fireplace between the walls of books, her cherry desk before the window where Dulcie liked to sit. She felt empty suddenly, as if she'd been gone for months.

But she'd be home in a few hours. She was just tired, and feeling bruised after the court hearing, after having to dredge up all Jones's ugly history and listen to his squirming protestations. She was just wanting to be snug at home, where she could restore her sense of the goodness of the world. Annoyed with herself, she swung out and locked the car, and, mustering a bit of shopper's eagerness and excitement, she headed for the first row of stores.

R
acing home, Dulcie couldn't get Mandell Bennett out
of her mind, a vision of the strong, dark-haired, soft-spoken man falling beneath a blaze of gunfire—and she imagined Wilma falling…falling…But that had not happened! She had to stop this, she mustn't think this…Courting bad luck, Lucinda would say.

Wilma's car was not in the drive, and there was no scent of exhaust as if she had pulled into the garage. Dulcie pushed resolutely through her cat door into the service porch then into the kitchen.

Crossing the blue linoleum, there was no scent of Wilma. She padded into the dining room, stood beneath a dark, carved chair, her paws on the Persian rug, looking through to the living room. There was no one there. The vivid oil painting over the fireplace, with its red rooftops and dark oaks, seemed faded; the blue velvet love seat, Wilma's cherrywood desk, the potted plants, the bright books in the
bookcases—all seemed abandoned without Wilma, diminished and forlorn.

She knew she was being melodramatic, overreacting. Turning away, she hurried down the hall to Wilma's bright bedroom, stood looking in at the cheerful flowered chintz and white wicker, the red iron woodstove—then she fled back to the living room, leaped to the desk, and again pressed the message button.

Nothing, no message. Punching the speaker button, then the one for Wilma's cell phone, she recorded a few listless words. The effort seemed useless, she'd already jammed Wilma's cell phone with messages. Shouldering quickly out through her cat door again, then through Wilma's wildly blooming garden, she leaped once more to the rooftops and raced through waves of rising heat across the hot shingles and tiles, straight to Joe Grey and Kit. Above her, the sky was deepening into evening, the gleam of the low, slanting sun glancing golden across the roofs ahead of her. She found Joe and Kit atop a little penthouse where the faintest breeze fingered their fur. The kit was curled on the high roof, dozing, but Joe Grey paced, now as restless as Dulcie herself. As if, having had a restorative nap, he could no longer stay still.

She knew it wasn't Wilma that Joe was fretting about—he was yearning to get back to Molena Point PD, to the dispatcher's desk and its rich sources of information. Joe's whole being was focused on last night's break-in murder; something about this shooting had deeply puzzled the tomcat, had taken hold of him from the very beginning. He'd been grumpy and preoccupied all day, waiting for the lab reports, waiting to cadge a look at whatever information might come in over the wire.

 

Joe was indeed growing grumpy. The murder had occurred at around three
A.M
. There had been no sirens, and he hadn't learned about it until that morning over the radio while Clyde made breakfast—an omelet for the two of them, the usual canned feast and kibble for the three family cats. Halfway through the news, Joe had pawed the morning paper open across the breakfast table, and there it was.

While Linda Tucker's husband, a real estate agent, was in Santa Cruz at a training conference, Linda had been shot once in the forehead, with a small-caliber bullet, while she slept.

Clawing the page over to read the rest of the article, Joe had quickly devoured his breakfast omelet and taken off, up to the roof and across the rooftops to Molena Point PD, where he slipped in on the heels of two officers coming on duty. Leaping to the dispatcher's desk, he had rolled over and purred, making nice, picking up what news he could—and when that source dried up, when no more information seemed forthcoming, he had headed for the murder scene.

He had found Dulcie and Kit already there, having heard the news when Kit's humans, Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw, turned on the TV before breakfast to see if the weather might cool off.

No such encouraging weather report was at hand, but when reports of the murder came on the screen, and before Lucinda could stop them, Dulcie and Kit had fled out the dining room window and across the oak branch to Kit's private tree house, where they scrambled backward to the ground, claws raking the oak bark, and headed for the murder scene. There, Joe and his tabby lady, and Kit, had waited, hidden and watching, until Detective Garza and three other officers had secured the scene and left, at around ten
A.M.
—and quickly they had slipped into the house, past
a uniformed guard and under the yellow tape, to search for scents that the police had no way to detect, and for any tiny, hidden items that the officers might somehow have missed.

The Tucker house had been torn apart, drawers pulled out and dumped, furniture turned over. And yet, for the first time in all the crime scenes the cats had prowled, they'd found nothing of value that the law hadn't already photographed and bagged as evidence; they had detected not even the scent of the intruder, a clue that human officers would, of course, miss. The house reeked so of the husband's cigar smoke that they could smell nothing beyond it. Even the scents of the three other cops and Detective Garza, laid back and forth across the house, were muddied by the stink of cigars. The only other notable smells were a spoiled onion in the kitchen cupboard and the unpleasant odors associated with the death of the deceased.

Later in the day, Joe had returned to the PD twice to prowl the dispatcher's desk and then the chief's office. He knew it would take a few days to get the ballistics report. As far as the cats knew, the police had not found the gun; the bullet was from a .22 fired at point-blank range. It had made an ugly, torn wound at the back of the head. Not that the deceased cared; if Linda Tucker was looking down from heaven, she probably cared only that she was dead and wanted to see her killer apprehended and punished.

Joe Grey wondered sometimes about the dead.
Did
they look down, watching the investigations? And if they did, why couldn't they, one way or another, give a sign? Why couldn't a murdered woman point a ghostly finger? How convenient that would be—if a cop knew how to read those unearthly signals.

The ransacked Tucker house was a mess in the crime photographs, which Dallas Garza studied later at his desk,
going over and over them. Yet, for all the mess, according to the bereaved husband only jewelry had been taken, and some cash from Linda's purse. Tucker had arrived home about five
A.M.
, an hour after the Santa Cruz police located him asleep in his hotel room in that small coastal town. There had been some mix-up at the desk about his reservation, and he had been moved from one hotel to another because of overbooking, so it had taken officers a while to find him. When he did arrive home, and when at last he pulled himself together sufficiently to go through the mess in the house, he was certain that nothing else was missing. Linda's body had been taken to the county morgue, where it would remain until disposition of the case.

It seemed a cut-and-dried case of break-and-enter; perhaps when Linda woke up she had made some move that caused the thief to think she was reaching for a gun, perhaps she had slipped her hand under the pillow or toward a drawer, and in panic he had shot her.

And yet, the murder bothered Joe Grey. As, he thought, it seemed to bother Detective Garza and Captain Harper. Now, sixteen hours after the killing, the tomcat paced the shingled roof, his mind totally on the dead woman.

“Something isn't right,” he muttered, turning a narrow yellow gaze on Dulcie. “Garza missed something at the scene, and we missed it, too.”

Dulcie knew Joe hated to muff a case, but it was all she could do to pay attention, her own mind on Mandell's brutal shooting and worry over Wilma. Joe looked at her intently.

“Why would a real estate agent go to a training conference?”

“I don't know, Joe! To learn something new. Or maybe to train others. How would I know? I just saw the afternoon paper, and—”

“Garza's report said Tucker was certain nothing else had been taken. Very certain. Garza watched Tucker go through the house, through all the junk dumped out of the dressers and her jewelry box and the desk. He—”

“Joe, I—”

Joe's short gray fur gleamed like silver in the falling light of evening. “Garza said Tucker was very certain nothing else was taken, and that's what bothers me—just like it bothers Garza. No hesitation, just a steady reassurance that nothing else was missing.”

He looked intently at Dulcie, his yellow eyes blazing. “Is that normal human behavior? How many people can tell right away that nothing is missing, no little bauble, a forgotten necklace—his wife shot to death and the house a mess, he should have been all at loose ends, confused and uncertain, unsure of anything.” He was so wound up that Dulcie gave up trying to tell him that Mandell had been shot.

“After the death of a loved one,” Joe said, “most folks are totally befuddled, all rage and grief, and their senses go bonkers. Their perceptions are all unhinged, they can't remember anything clearly. But not Clarence Tucker,” the tomcat said, hissing. “He seems to have a total grip on reality.”

“He's a real estate agent,” Dulcie said softly. “And a very deliberate kind of man. Precise. I've watched him, in restaurants. Hardly ever looks at a menu. Knows what they have and exactly what he wants.”

Molena Point's patio restaurants welcomed well-behaved village cats just as they welcomed leashed dogs; and it was amazing how much information a cat could pick up along with the bits of lobster and steak that might be proffered by cat-friendly diners. “Such a man
might
act logical and have his wits about him, Joe, but still be hurting bad inside.”

Joe just looked at her. He wasn't buying that. “Garza's report…Garza thought there was something off about Tucker.” The tomcat reared up, staring away over the rooftops in the direction of Molena Point PD. “Maybe something more has come in, a fax or an e-mail. Maybe Dallas has something more. Come on, Kit, get a move on.” He looked hard at Dulcie. “You coming?”

Dulcie turned her back on him. “You go,” she said shortly.

“Wilma's fine!” he said, frowning so hard the white strip down his forehead was a narrow line. “She'll be home soon, tired, will probably stop at Jolly's Deli to pick up supper for the two of you. Come on, we'll only be a few minutes.”

Dulcie sighed. She wanted badly to tell him about Mandell; she longed for Joe's help, but he was too preoccupied. And the fact was, how could a cat stop Cage Jones? If Jones was set on…“Oh!” she said suddenly. “Oh! The sheriff's office!” And she fled for home, chagrined that she hadn't thought, sooner, of the Santa Clara County sheriff.

Watching her race away, Joe shook his head. Cage Jones, if he had a lick of sense, would be miles from the Bay Area by now, probably on a plane, under an assumed name. Why would he hang around where every cop in the state was looking for him? And dismissing the escaped prisoner, his mind fixed on the Tucker murder, Joe headed for Molena Point PD and its electronic world of fast information. He assumed Kit was behind him—but Kit followed neither Joe Grey nor Dulcie.

No one seemed to care where she went. Looking from one fleeing cat to the other, both deep in their own concerns, she felt hurt and abandoned—and disappointed in Joe. She knew Joe's mind was on the murder-burglary, but Dulcie was so upset, and Joe Grey didn't see the dark tabby's dis
tress—or did he just not care? Frightened and unsettled, her heart filled with Dulcie's fear for Wilma and with Joe Grey's disregard, Kit leaped after Dulcie, racing to catch up, her mottled paws flying over the shingles, her yellow eyes huge and anxious.