Cat Under Fire (4 page)

Before the fire she and Joe had occasionally seen the white cat as they hunted the hills, and had glimpsed him leaping out through Janet's studio window, which the artist had kept open for him. They didn't see him often, and Dulcie thought he must have spent a lot of time in the house, sleeping. He was not a young cat.

After the fire, crews of villagers and SPCA volunteers had searched the hills for all the missing animals. They had found most of the dogs and cats, but they had found no trace of Janet's cat. Joe said he probably died in the fire; but no remains were found. It was a terrible thing to die in a fire; Dulcie was sickened to imagine such a death.

It was a week after the fire when she began to dream of the white cat. He was a longhaired torn, very elegant, with deep blue eyes. Her dreams were so clear that she
could see the rabies tag fixed to his blue collar, and the small brass plate with Janet's name. In each dream he wanted her to follow him, he would turn looking back at her, giving a switch of his tail and a flick of his ears. But each time, when she tried to follow, she woke.

Rob stood looking out into the hall through his barred door, then returned to the window. “The police are going up to Janet's this morning; they're going to look for her diary. God knows what's in it, cat. God knows what she said about me.”

She stared at him, puzzled, galvanized with interest. She'd heard nothing about a diary.

“Late yesterday a witness testified about the diary. That skinny old lady who said she saw my Suburban at Janet's the morning she was killed. She testified again, told the court that Janet had a diary.”

The witness was Elisa Trest. Dulcie had thought Elisa wasn't going on the stand until this morning. If she'd known that, she would have stayed later yesterday afternoon.

“That Trest woman used to clean for Janet. I remember her up there poking around. Dried-up, nosy old biddy. She couldn't have seen my car. Why would she lie about it? She's saying Janet kept her diary on the shelf in the bedroom, but I never saw it. If there was a diary, I bet the old woman read every word, the way her face turned pink.”

He sighed. “After we broke up, and I went with Mahl, I can imagine what Janet must have written about me. Well, it's out of my hands. But if the cops find it, that could mean another delay. Sometimes I think the delays are worse than a conviction; it's the delays that drain you, drag you down.

“But what do you care?” he said crossly. “What would a dumb cat care?”

Dulcie blinked.

He was like this sometimes, sweet and needing one minute, and angry the next. Well, the young man hurt;
and he was afraid. And she was the only one available to yell at. She narrowed her eyes, thinking about the diary, wondering if such evidence would help Rob or would strengthen the case against him. Wondering, if Detective Marritt found the journal, what he would do. And if Deonne Baron got hold of the diary, if she thought it would win the case, she was the kind of woman who would spread Janet's personal life all over the papers. Ms. Baron didn't care about Rob, Dulcie was convinced of that, but she was boldly aggressive about winning.

Dulcie lashed her tail, thinking. She wanted to see Janet's journal; she wanted a look at it before the police found it.

She turned, looking down into the police parking area. The officers' private cars were damp with overnight dew, the windshields fogged over. The shift hadn't changed. It wasn't yet eight o'clock, when the day watch came on, when Marritt would arrive at work and maybe head right up to Janet's to look for the diary.

She gave Rob a long look and left him, leaping across the three-story drop into the oak tree, scattering pigeons. Clinging to the branches, digging her claws deep into the rough bark, she backed down and took off, running.

A slash of morning sun careened across the kitchen table, warming Joe's fur where he lay sprawled on the morning paper. Below him Barney, the golden, and Rube, the Lab, fussed and paced waiting for their breakfasts. The cats had settled down, hunched, hungry, pretending patience. He glanced across through the wide window above the kitchen sink. A hummingbird flitted at the glass, then was gone. The neighborhood rooftops gleamed with slanting light as the sun lifted above the hills and far mountains. When he heard Clyde coming down the hall he stretched out more fully across the sports page, though he had already pretty much trashed it with his muddy feet, leaving long, satisfying streaks of soil and wet grass that obliterated portions of the text.

Clyde pushed open the kitchen door, carrying his empty coffee mug and a clean white lab coat. The dogs leaped at him, whining, and the three cats wound around his ankles, preening and purring. He dropped the lab coat over the back of a chair and knelt, hugging and baby talking the fawning beasts as if he hadn't seen them in months. Dressed in faded jeans and a red polo shirt, he was well scrubbed, freshly shaven, his cheeks still faintly damp. His black hair, handsomely blow-dried, would within an hour be wild as a squirrel's first try at nest building. Rising from his kneeling position, he straightened the pristine lab coat until it hung without a wrinkle. The starched white coat was a gross affectation—it
would look fine on a doctor. Clyde had taken to wearing these garments only recently: Clyde Damen, Physician of Foreign Engines, resident M.D. to Molena Point's ailing Rolls Royces and Mercedeses. He even had the damned coats commercially laundered and starched.

Clyde acknowledged Joe with a soft shove to the shoulder and stood studying Joe's sprawled form draped across the sports page. “You have mud on your paws. Can't you wash before you come in the house? And why the hell do you always have to lie on the sports page? What's wrong with the editorials? You've left half the yard on it.”

“Why should I lie on the editorials? You don't read the editorials. Your life would be incredibly dull without my little homey touches.”

“My breakfast table would be cleaner, too.” Clyde gave him a long look and set about opening cans of dog food and cat food and boxes of kibble. He filled five separate bowls, setting them down on the linoleum far enough apart to maintain a semblance of peace among the three cats and two dogs, to avoid unnecessary snapping. As the beasts ate, he propped open the door to the backyard so they could have a run when they were finished. He filled his coffee cup, pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard, dumped some into a bowl, and poured on milk. Every morning, watching him do this, Joe wondered what would happen if he absently dumped in dog kibble. But hey, add a little sugar, who would know? Clyde set the bowl on the table. “What do you want to eat?”

“Thanks, I've had breakfast.”

“I can imagine. Blood and intestines.” He sucked at his coffee, reaching for the front page. “‘Baron's call for delay denied.' Damned lawyers would string it out forever.” He looked up at Joe. “I suppose Dulcie's down there again this morning. Tell me why she's so determined. Where did she get this fixation that Lake's innocent?”

Joe sighed and rolled over, then sat up irritably, biting at a flea. “It's her dreams,” he said uneasily. “Those dreams about Janet's white cat. I told you, she's convinced the cat
is still alive, that he's trying to tell her something.” He licked a whisker. “I wish those searchers had found the cat either dead or alive, then maybe she wouldn't be dreaming about him.”

“The white cat's dead. He's dead or he'd have gone home—what's left of home. The neighbors would have seen him.”

Joe preferred to think the cat was alive, that Dulcie was at least dreaming of a live cat and not a ghost.

The white cat's picture had been in the papers, as reporters dredged up every detail of Janet's life. If anyone in Molena Point had seen him, they would have taken him in, or notified the animal shelter, or called the
Gazette
.

“I find it interesting.” Joe said, “that Janet's sister Beverly didn't make a fuss about the cat, that she didn't go out herself to look for him.”

“The cat's dead,” Clyde repeated.

“Maybe,” Joe said uncomfortably.

“Dulcie's lost her head over this. Look at the evidence. Lake's Suburban was seen that morning in Janet's driveway—who could mistake that old heap. And after Janet and Lake broke up, Lake was so vindictive that Janet refused to talk to him. Don't you think that made him mad? These days, people kill for less.”

Joe snorted. “If you murdered every woman you broke up with, Molena Point would be half-empty.” He licked mud off his leg. “Anyway, the car is circumstantial. The witness only said it looked like Lake's Suburban—there are plenty of those old Chevys around. It was still dark, how much could she see?”

Clyde spooned more sugar onto his cereal. “Anyway the grand jury had to think there was sufficient evidence to indict Lake. They don't take a man to trial for nothing.”

Joe shrugged. “Grand jury thinks he could be guilty. Dulcie swears he's not. What am I supposed to say to her? She won't listen.”

“Just because she's gotten friendly with Lake, hanging out in his cell—just because Lake is a cat lover…”

“She doesn't go into the jail. She watches from his window,” he said, hissing. He might be critical of Dulcie, but when Clyde started trashing her he got angry. “She doesn't think he's a cat lover; she just thinks he's innocent. And it's not only from listening to Lake,” he said defensively. “It's from other stuff she's heard.”

“Like what?”

Joe shrugged. “Like there might be another witness, who hasn't come forward.”

“Who said?”

“Talk around the village.”

“Well of course that's reliable. Village gossip is always…”

“Maybe it's not gossip. Maybe there's something to it. You can pick up a lot of information hanging around the restaurants and shops.”

Clyde stopped eating. “What, exactly, do you mean by hanging around? Is that like the morning I caught you two cadging scraps under the table at Mollie's?” He fixed Joe with a hard look. “Have you two been in the shops again? Sneaking around into the restaurants? Don't you know there's a health law?”

“Dulcie and I are healthy. We won't catch anything.”

Clyde sighed. “You two are lucky you live in Molena Point. Anywhere else, the shopkeepers would call the pound.”

“Give it a rest. I've heard it a million times. ‘Molena Point residents are good to you, you ought to return their thoughtfulness, try to act decent, remember your manners. Molena Point is cat heaven. You two don't know how lucky you are.' You tell me that every time I complain about any little thing. ‘You live anywhere else, Joe, you wouldn't have half the freedom or half the perks.'”

“You better believe it. And you'd better stay out of the cafés.”

“I thought we were talking about the trial.”

“We were talking about the trial.” Clyde's voice had risen. “And doesn't it mean anything to Dulcie that of
the four suspects, Lake is the one the police arrested and charged with murder? And are you forgetting that Lake had a key to Janet's place?”

Joe licked a spill of milk from the table. “So he had a key. Kendrick Mahl had a key. And so did Sicily. Anyway, Janet had to be killed by someone who knew about welding equipment, and Kendrick Mahl gets the vote for that. Mahl has to know about gas welding—he handles the work of four metal sculptors.”

“That doesn't make him a welder. And Mahl was questioned and released.”

“Besides,” Joe said, “everyone knows he hated Janet.” It was common knowledge in the village that Mahl had never forgiven Janet for leaving him. “And what about sister Beverly? From the way people—including you—describe her, she sounds like a real piece of work. She didn't waste any love on Janet.” Joe twitched an ear, flicked a whisker. “No, I wouldn't rule out Beverly.”

“That doesn't make sense. If sister Beverly killed her, she wouldn't burn Janet's paintings. Beverly
inherited
Janet's work. Would have been over a million bucks' worth. Why would she set fire to a fortune?

“And why,” Clyde continued, “would Sicily Aronson kill her? She made a bundle of money as Janet's agent. Now, with Janet dead, that's dried up. She'll sell the last few paintings, probably for huge prices, but that will finish it.”

He looked at Joe bleakly. “Not only Janet, but most of her work is gone. Everything she hoped—that she cared about, gone.

“She said—told me once, if she never had children, at least her work would live after her. That generations down the line, maybe something of what she saw and loved might still have meaning for someone.”

Joe said nothing. He'd seen villagers slip into the Aronson Gallery to spend a few minutes looking at Janet's paintings as if that pleasure turned a simple shopping trip into a special morning. He had seen villagers
wave to Janet on the street and turn away smiling deeply, as if they were warmed just by the sight of her. Janet's death had generated such intense anger in the village that for a while the county had considered moving the trial to a more neutral town.

Before Lake was indicted, Detective Marritt and the Molena Point police and the county investigators had spent weeks sifting the ashes and debris of her burned studio, sorting and photographing bits of burned cloth, sorting through pieces of blackened metal and wood, bagging the charred debris for the county lab.

And the police had gone over Janet's apartment just as carefully. Sheltered beneath the concrete slab floor of the studio, the apartment had been left untouched by the fire. The police had fingerprinted, photographed, taken lint samples from every inch of Janet's home.

Clyde added more cereal to his bowl, and more milk. “Just suppose for a minute that Lake
didn't
kill her.”

“So, suppose.”

“So the killer's still free, Joe.” Clyde gave him a long look. “So, is he going to take kindly to Dulcie snooping around looking for new evidence?”

Joe smirked. “I'm not sure I understand you. You're saying Janet's killer is going to be afraid of a kitty cat?”

Clyde didn't say a word. They both knew what he was thinking. At last Joe cut the bravado, his expression sobered. “You think someone besides you and Wilma knows about Dulcie and me—the way Lee Wark knew?”

“Wark was after you and Dulcie like a butcher after a side of beef. So why not someone else?”

“But Wark was a fluke. A Welshman who grew up knowing some pretty strange history. That won't happen again. How many Welshmen can there be in Molena Point.”

Clyde rose and refilled his coffee mug. “I'm only saying, you and Dulcie keep nosing around, and there's going to be trouble.”

My sentiments exactly
, Joe thought. But he wasn't taking
sides against Dulcie. Shrugging, he began to clean his claws, stretching them wide and licking between, scattering dirt on the table.

“Do you always have to wash when you don't want to listen! Face it, Joe. Ever since you two got involved in Samuel Beckwhite's murder, you think you're some kind of detectives—feline Sam Spades.” He sat down, digging fiercely at his cereal. “Don't you understand that cats don't solve murders, that cats…”

Joe leaped from the table to the kitchen sink, turning his back, staring sullenly out the window. “Who solved Beckwhite's murder? Who led the police to the auto agency, to where the money was hidden?”

“The police came because gunshots were reported.”

“Sure gunshots were reported.” He spun around staring at Clyde. “That nut nearly killed me and Dulcie before the cops got there. And who do you think saw Wark and Osborne change the VIN plates on the stolen cars? Who do you think saw them take the money out of the cars and stash it? Who made sure the cops found it?”

“All I'm saying is, you and Dulcie are…”

Joe flexed his claws, fixing Clyde with a narrow yellow gaze, his ears flat to his head.

Clyde sucked up coffee. “I know you two broke the Beckwhite murder, but that doesn't mean you need to spend the rest of your lives trying to solve murders that are already—that are…Why can't you just be happy? Why can't you two just enjoy life and leave this alone?” He got up and rinsed out his cereal bowl, brushing against Joe. “I understand why you and Dulcie were interested in Beckwhite—you saw Wark kill him. But this…Neither you nor Dulcie has any direct interest in Janet's murder.”

Joe had said exactly the same thing to Dulcie, but he didn't like Clyde saying it. “Dulcie knew her just as well as I did. Dulcie was fond of Janet, and she loved Janet's work. That painting Janet traded to Wilma—Dulcie lies on the couch for hours, sprawled on her back, staring up at that painting.”

Clyde set his bowl to drain on the counter. “The point is, if Lake didn't kill her, and if you two keep prodding at this, the real killer is going to find you just the way Wark did.”

Joe examined his back claws.

“Oh hell. It's no good talking to you. Wait until Dulcie gets caught sneaking into the courtroom, and then see…”

“She doesn't sneak into the courtroom. She listens from the ledge—that ledge that runs along under the clerestory windows. It's October, Clyde. Balmy. All the windows are open. All she has to do is skin up one of the oak trees behind the courthouse and there she is, exclusive box seat.” He grinned. “Box seat she has to share with about a hundred pigeons. The first day, it took her two hours to clean the pigeon crap off her paws and her behind. She said it tasted gross.”

“Didn't you help her?”

Joe stared at him coldly. “I'm not licking pigeon crap off her. Now she carries a hand towel up with her, to sit on.”