Cat Under Fire (8 page)

Near the end of the journal was a note about a Mrs. Blankenship, who seemed to be a neighbor. Janet described her as a harmless old dear who had nothing to do but watch other people from her bedroom window.

She has sent word by her daughter that she doesn't like me welding so near their house, that it isn't safe, and that the flashing light bothers her. I've put up heavy shutters in the studio, and started pulling my kitchen shade, too. Poor old woman doesn't have anything else to do with her time. Maybe she should get a dog
.

“That's the woman we saw staring out the window across the street,” Dulcie said. “It's the only house that
looks right over to the studio.” The houses on the street above were higher, farther away, and positioned so that probably no one cared what Janet did. But the house across the side street had a clear view. “I wonder,” she said softly, “what that old woman saw, the morning of the fire. There hasn't been any witness named Blankenship.”

“It was five in the morning. Why would an old woman be looking out her window at five in the morning?”

“Old people don't sleep well, they're up at all hours. Wilma wakes up in the middle of the night and reads. I have to burrow under the covers.”

Her green eyes widened. “Maybe I can find out; maybe I can hang out there for a while. Play up to the old lady.”

“Why not? You could do that. Get her to confide in you—tell her you're a talking cat, that you'd like to interview her. Like to ask her a few questions. Maybe you could borrow a press card, say you work for the
Gazette
.”

“I could play lost kitty. Hungry lost kitty. Little old ladies are suckers for that stuff.”

Silently he looked at her.

“It's worth a try. What harm?”

“That old woman might hate cats. Maybe she poisons cats.”

“If she hates cats, I'll leave. If she puts poison out, I won't eat it. Do you think I can't smell poison?”

“Sometimes, Dulcie…” But he sighed. What was the use?

She smiled and returned to the journal. “Why does Janet say this about Sicily Aronson, that Sicily is admirably calculating? What does she…?”

A sudden noise from the street startled them, the sound of a car door opening. They sprang to the window, looking down at the street.

A black Cadillac had parked at the curb. The driver's door was open, and, as they watched, a large woman began to extricate herself from beneath the steering
wheel. Dulcie's eyes widened. “Beverly. That's Beverly Jeannot, has to be. Why would she come up here?”

“Why not? It's her house now. You know Janet left her the house.”

“But the police tape is still up. I thought no one was supposed to come inside. I wonder if Captain Harper knows she's up here.”

“Dulcie, it's her house. Don't you think she has a right to come in?”

Behind the Cadillac a pale cream Mercedes of antique vintage pulled up. Dulcie stared, her tail twitching with surprise. They could see the driver's red hair massed like a flame. “Where did Charlie get a pretty car like that? She can hardly afford a cup of coffee.”

“That's Clyde's old Mercedes, the one he rebuilt. He must have loaned it to her. Maybe her old bus died. It wouldn't take much.”

Charlie swung out of the Mercedes as Beverly emerged from the Cadillac. Beverly Jeannot was an overstuffed, soft-looking woman with large jowls, a wide stubby nose, and short brown hair set into such perfect marcel waves she might just have come from a 1920s beauty salon.

She was done up in something long and floating and color coordinated, all in shades of pink and burgundy, with high-heeled burgundy shoes and a natty little burgundy handbag. Her overdone outfit made a sharp contrast to Charlie's skinny jeans and faded yellow sweatshirt. The two women were as different as a jelly donut and a gnawed chicken bone. Charlie carried a clipboard, a claw hammer, and a wrecking bar.

As the mismatched pair started up the hill, moving out of sight along the far side of the house, Dulcie stared at the books scattered on the bed. There was no way to get them back on the shelves—that would take forever. She leaped to the bed, pawed the cubbyhole closed, and nosed Janet's diary to the floor; leaping down she pushed it under the bed. They slid under
behind it, dragging it deeper beneath the fallen sheets as footsteps rang on the entry deck. They could hear the soft mumble of voices, then a wrenching screech as Charlie began to pull nails, releasing the boarded-over front door.

There were two thuds as Charlie leaned the plywood sheets against the house, then the soft, metallic click of the lock turning.

As Beverly Jeannot's high heels struck across the living room tiles, the cats backed into the far corner, pulling Janet's diary with them, shoving it under a fold of quilt. And, tucked warm beneath the quilt beside the leather-bound book, Joe found himself listening intently, surprised at his own sharp curiosity.

For the first time since Janet's death, his interest in her killer was intense, predatory. Determined. Now, suddenly, he meant to find out who killed Janet.

Maybe it was his immediate, instinctive dislike of Beverly Jeannot.

Or maybe his concern grew from the strong sense of Janet surrounding them, her scent, her pictures, her words—her deepest feelings shared.

Beverly stepped up onto Janet's deck, pulling her skirts around her, staying well away from the fallen, burned oak tree that had smashed half the deck and the rail. Looking helplessly at the plywood that had been nailed over the front door, she waited for Charlie to provide access.

Hiding an irritated smile, Charlie began to pull nails, wondering what Beverly would do if she had to get into Janet's apartment without assistance. She hoped she could work for this woman without, somewhere along the way, losing control of her temper. Their first meeting, three days before, had been strained.

Because she didn't yet have an office in which to talk with Beverly, she'd suggested meeting for coffee at the Bakery. Beverly kept the appointment, but let her know right off that meeting in a public restaurant was not the way in which she liked to conduct business. Charlie didn't know how much privacy Beverly required to discuss repair and janitorial services. Beverly had looked a mile down her nose at the little tables on the Bakery's charming covered porch; though when their tea was served she tied right into the pastries, devouring the apricot crescent rolls greedily.

Charlie pulled the last nails, slipped the two sheets of plywood out from under the police tape, and leaned them against the house. She didn't have to like Beverly Jeannot in order to work for her, and this was the biggest cleaning and repair job she'd bid on. Following Beverly up along
the side of the house from the street below, she had hastily assessed the exterior damage. The smoke-stained siding would need pressure scrubbing, and that would mean covering the windows. She'd have to rent a pressure washer. It was too early on in the game to buy one—that would put her in debt for a year. The pump alone ran around eleven hundred, and the spray washer was probably more. A total of two to three thousand bucks.

Her profit from this job would go a long way toward paying for that kind of equipment—if she didn't lose her temper and blow it. Though it was more than Beverly's attitude that made her uncomfortable about this bid. She wasn't looking forward to cleaning the house where Janet Jeannot had been killed so brutally. She'd been a fan of Janet's, had admired Janet's work for years. She wasn't sure how she was going to feel, working there, where Janet had been murdered.

But that was childish, she was being childish. She couldn't help Janet; she couldn't change anything.

When she was still in art school, she had sometimes seen Janet at a gallery opening or a museum reception among a group of well-known painters. She had never had the nerve to approach the artist. Why should Janet Jeannot care that some gangling art student idolized her work?

But now she wished she had spoken to her. She hadn't learned until she moved to Molena Point three weeks ago, what a down-to-earth person Janet had been. Maybe a word of admiration, even from an art student, would have meant a little something.

Of course when she told Beverly, over coffee that day, how much she had admired Janet, she received only a haughty sniff. As if a common cleaning and repair person couldn't possibly distinguish an exciting painting from the Sunday comics. Now, following Beverly inside, she wondered if Beverly herself had appreciated Janet's work. Stepping over the burned threshold, Beverly gathered her skirts around her giving a little disgusted huff at the sour smell.

What did she expect, attar of lilies? There'd been a fire there: the white walls, the white rugs and furniture were dark from smoke, the rooms smelled of smoke and dampness, and strongly of mildew. There were drip lines running down the smoke-darkened paint where water had leaked in from the fire hoses.

“I will want all the food removed from the cupboards, and that cat stuff thrown out.” Beverly directed her glance to the dusty water and food bowls on the floor by the kitchen sink. “She kept a cat, but I suppose it's dead or has found somewhere else to live.

“I want you to clean the refrigerator thoroughly, and pack up all the dishes and cookware. Those will go to the Goodwill—there's nothing here worth keeping. I want the house completely emptied except for the rugs and furniture. You will see to having those properly cleaned, so that I can sell them.” Beverly stood waiting, as if to be sure that Charlie understood.

Charlie dutifully noted the details on the pad inserted in her clipboard, then picked up the wet throw rugs and carried them out to the deck. Wringing them out, she hung them over the undamaged portion of rail. She'd drop them off later for cleaning—a good professional would do a better job than she ever could with a rented steam cleaner. Straightening the rugs, looking down the hill, she admired the view. Maybe someday she'd have a place like this. She wondered where the cat was, the one that belonged to the dusty water and food bowls. That would be the white cat that Wilma had helped to search for. Wilma thought the poor thing had died in the fire; they'd found no sign of him.

She stood in the big living room for a few moments, assessing the smoke-stained walls. They'd need a heavy scrubbing before she painted. The floors would be fine with a good mopping; nothing could hurt that Mexican clay tile.

“I'm in here,” Beverly called imperiously.

Out of sight, Charlie stuck out her tongue, then moved obediently toward the bedroom.

This room was huge, too, and so bright it took her breath. It would make a wonderful studio. She'd kill for that view down the hills. Beverly stood beside the unmade bed, shuffling through a tangle of scrapbooks scattered across the rumpled sheets. The sheets were streaked with black dirt, too, and when she looked more closely she realized they were pawprints.

So Janet's cat had survived, had been in the house—or some cat had. Must have slipped in through the charred hole under the front door. Beverly seemed not to see the prints or was ignoring them, caring nothing about the cat.

Before she left, Charlie thought, she'd put out fresh water, food if she could find any, maybe leave the bowls under the entry deck where Beverly wouldn't notice.

“I'll want her clothes boxed up for charity. She had no valuable jewelry, only junk. Please look through the closet and dresser now, so you will know how many containers you will require. I will want a complete and detailed list for tax purposes.” Beverly flipped through each album, left them in an untidy pile, and turned to inspecting the bookshelves, moving books and glancing behind them. It occurred to Charlie to wonder if Beverly Jeannot really ought to be in there. Maybe she hadn't any more right to be in this house than the general public, until the police cordon was removed and the trial was finished.

Opening the dresser drawers, she found them half-empty. Not as if Janet's clothes had been removed, rather as if Janet hadn't had much, as if perhaps the artist saw no need for an abundance of clothing. Her few jeans and sweatshirts lay neatly folded. There was one nice sweater, in a plastic storage bag, a dozen pairs of socks, two pairs of panty hose. Janet had worn plain cotton panties. She didn't seem overly fond of brassieres—she had only one.

Beverly, preoccupied and intent, moved from the bookshelves to the desk, opening drawers, shuffling through the contents. Charlie watched her, then checked the closet. It
was half-empty, too. Janet must have unpacked from her San Francisco trip before she went to bed. There was a small, empty suitcase on the top shelf beside a folded garment bag. The clothes on the chair must be what she took off that night, as if she'd been too tired to put them away. The closet contained a wide, transparent storage bag with three dress-up outfits: a beige silk suit, a print dress, and a gold, low-cut cocktail dress. Two more pairs of jeans hung neatly beside a second windbreaker and some cotton shirts. This completed the wardrobe. She heard Beverly pick up the phone and punch in a number, listened to her asking for Police Captain Harper.

She could imagine how that imperious tone would go over if she used it on Harper.

She had met Max Harper only once, but she knew enough about him from Clyde to know the dry, lean man didn't tolerate being patronized. What cop did? Listening, she returned to the dresser and pretended to inventory jeans and sweatshirts.

Beverly must have pull, in spite of her rudeness, because within seconds she had Harper on the line.

Though likely it wasn't pull at all but Beverly's connection to Janet. For all she knew, Beverly herself might be suspect in some way.

“Captain Harper, the man you sent up here to search this house has left an unacceptable mess. I can't imagine why he would do this—he has pulled nearly all the books off the shelves for no apparent reason, has, in fact, trashed the entire bedroom.”

Charlie didn't see anything trashed. She could imagine the chief of police raising an amused eyebrow, puffing away on a cigarette while Beverly ranted.

“What do you mean, I'm not allowed in the house? This is my house now. Have you forgotten that Janet left the house to me? Surely your police rules apply simply to the general public. I don't…”

Abruptly Beverly stopped talking, was quiet for some minutes, then, “Captain Harper, I came up here on
legitimate business. I would remind you that I don't live in Molena Point, and that my time here is limited. I came up here to assess the interior damage and to arrange for much-needed repairs—once you have released the premises. I'm sure you know that much of the damage was caused by your police officers and city firemen. I am, in fact, facing monumental cleaning and repair costs, thanks to you city workers.”

There was another long silence, then Beverly gave a sharp huff of exasperation and hung up, banging the receiver. Charlie pretended to be absorbed in noting the number of moving boxes she'd want. She paced off the size of the rooms in preparation for ordering paint, then went down to the Mercedes to retrieve a box of paint chips from her canvas tote. Beverly wanted a perfect match to the existing white walls. This seemed a needless expense, to have the paint specially mixed, when the woman was going to sell the house. Particularly when she was in such a hurry.

But what does a simple cleaning person know
?

Returning from the car, she looked up at the house with a stab of longing, dreaming how it would be to have that lovely apartment. The studio above could be rebuilt, with plenty of space for tool storage and building supplies, maybe room left over for a small rental.

Sure, just whip out the checkbook and plunk down half a million or maybe more, and it's mine
. Molena Point property was incredibly expensive.

Back in the house again, she sorted through paint chips,
India Ivory, Rich Almond, Pagan White, Winter Snow, Narcissus
. She chose
Pale Bone
, matching it to a little patch of wall down behind the couch that seemed to have escaped smoke damage.

But when she checked the color with Beverly, Beverly huffed and had to try a dozen samples. She returned to the
Pale Bone
as if she had just discovered it. In a few minutes she was back in the bedroom. Charlie could hear her still rummaging, heard her open the
closet door, heard the hangers slide, heard her unzip the suitcase, zip it up again. Whatever the woman was looking for, she hadn't found it yet.

Well at least the police knew she was there. If Harper didn't want her nosing around, he'd send a squad car.

In the kitchen cupboard she found a supply of cat kibble and a dozen small cans of gourmet cat food. Reluctant to move the bowls on the floor and generate questions, she dug out an aluminum pie tin and a chipped china bowl. Filling the bowl with water, she carried it all outside, poured kibble into the pie tin, placed it and the kibble box and bowl of water just under the deck. She could see, down the hill, the house she was now working on, just a few blocks south. She could run up to this house easily to replenish the food and water. If the cat did come back, she could see if it was hurt and take care of it.

Returning to the bedroom, she startled Beverly. The woman turned abruptly from the empty bookshelves. Having pulled off all the remaining books, she looked cross and frustrated.

“When you get Janet's clothes packed, get them off at once to the Junior League or the Goodwill, then take these albums and scrapbooks to her agent. It is the Aronson Gallery, on San Carlos.”

Charlie nodded and held her tongue.

“Any of Janet's sketches, or sketchbooks—or any journals, are to be given to me. Pack them carefully in a large, suitably flat box. Don't fold the sketches, please. Anything drawn or written by Janet's hand must come to me. Bring them to my motel. Don't leave them in the house while you are working.

“The bedding and towels can go with the clothes and kitchen things. In short, everything to charity except albums, scrapbooks, diaries, or journals, and any remaining artwork. And of course the rugs and furniture, which I will sell.”

For a woman whose sister had died so recently, and
so horribly, Beverly Jeannot was maintaining a remarkable strength of spirit. Charlie pretended to take notes, but they weren't needed. Beverly's sharp instructions had etched themselves on each individual brain cell.

“You understand that you cannot start any work until the police legally remove the barrier,” Beverly said. “I have no idea how long this trial will take. Once it ends, beginning the day it ends, when the premises are released, I want the work started immediately and done with dispatch. The living room cleaned and painted, the outside of the house scrubbed, the windows washed. The remains of the studio fire must be removed and the area swept clean so the builders can start, and the entire yard must be cleaned and raked.” She looked Charlie over. “How long will that require? I hope no more than two or three days. Can you assure me that you have sufficient crew to handle the job expeditiously? If you cannot, I would like to know at once.”

“My crews will be on the job the moment the police allow us to enter. I'll do the bid this evening, fax it to your motel. Will that be satisfactory?”