"And Wilma took you with her? Why would… Why would she…?"
"She made us promise to stay in her car, out of the way."
"And of course you did that. Stayed in her car, warm and dry and minding your own business. Never touched a paw outside the car, never went near the body and the police."
"You really don't think we would get in the way of the police. The fact that…"
"Please, Joe. It's too early."
"Bacon's burning," Joe said helpfully.
Clyde leaped to rescue the charred slices. As he tried to scrape the black off-which worked better with toast than with bacon-Joe pawed through the paper, wondering if the Gazette had had a front-page piece on Clyde and the pups, before the accident replaced it. Such a humorous story was exactly the land of local interest that the Gazette loved for page one.
Clawing out Section B, Joe began to smile.
There it was, right on the front, where no one in Molena Point would miss it.
He read the article with quiet satisfaction. Reporter Danny McCoy had been able to get a photograph, too. The shot showed the two rookies impounding the Harley as Clyde tried to coral the pups. The picture was taken at some distance, so it was a bit blurred-but still effective. Joe wanted to roll over laughing. "First-class circus," he said, addressing Clyde's back.
Clyde turned to stare at him. "The death of a man and the injury of a second man is a circus?"
"Not what I meant. That was certainly a tragedy. But this-" He stared pointedly at the page with Clyde's picture. "Tell me, how did they treat you in jail? I expect everyone in town got to enjoy the event- except yours truly. I hate when I miss your really illustrious moments."
"You want eggs and bacon and toast this morning? Or do you want that cut-rate brand of cat food that you said tastes like secondhand snuff mixed with floor wax?"
Joe subsided. He said nothing more until he had finished his burnt bacon and scrambled eggs. Completing his meal, he sat comfortably on the table, washing his paws and whiskers, cutting only an occasional glance in Clyde's direction. Clyde had not offered any gourmet embellishments this morning, no smoked kippers or a little dab of Beluga caviar or even a slice of Tilsit, to create a memorable dining experience.
Clyde finished his eggs without speaking. You wouldn't think that a little friendly ribbing would make him this mad. But maybe he wasn't feeling well. Joe studied him, looking for some sign of illness.
He saw only a deep, dark fury.
Finished eating, Clyde laid down his fork and gave Joe his full attention. "I really appreciate your alerting Danny McCoy to this choice bit of news." He looked Joe over coldly. "With your thoughtfulness, you have treated the entire population of Molena Point to a long and sadistic laugh at my expense."
"I didn't call Danny McCoy! Hey, I might enjoy the joke, but I wouldn't have given it to a reporter. Don't lay this on me, Clyde. Everyone saw you-and heard you, shouting at those rookies on the street. Shouting at the pups. McCoy heard the story the way he gets all of his information, probably two dozen shopkeepers called the Gazette. Why do you always think I have something to do with your self-inflicted misfortunes! That is so tacky. If you-"
"Of course you had something to do with it. Look at the smart-assed grin on your face. You hardly took time to feel sympathy for those poor Greenlaw men. Talk about cold-hearted. You couldn't wait to paw through the rest of the paper, find McCoy's story. You were grinning wide enough to make the Cheshire cat look like a death-row inmate."
"How could you see if I was grinning. You had your back to me. And wouldn't you smile, if I got arrested accosting a police officer?"
"I was not accosting Officer McFarland. I was rescuing the pups-your pups, if I might remind you- from a cruel incarceration at the dog pound."
"My pups? I was the one who wanted to take those two to the pound. I wanted to let the pound feed them and find homes for them. But not you. Mr. DoGooder. No, you couldn't bear the thought. 'Look at the poor babies, Joe. Look how they're starving. How could you lock them in cages? Oh, just wook at the oootsy wootsy doggies.' And now look at them; you've already spoiled Selig rotten."
"Well, at least I… " Clyde stopped, looked again at the paper. Picked it up, jerking it from under Joe's paws. "What's this?"
"What's what?"
"The Letters-to-the-Editor column. You didn't read it?"
"How could I read it? You've been picking at me all morning. When did I have time to read it?" Leaping to Clyde's shoulder, he balanced heavily, scanning the three columns of letters.
SHOPLIFTING LOSSES TRIPLE IN RECENT WEEKS
What is Captain Harper doing to prevent the sudden increase in crime in our village? Molena Point relies heavily on the tourist trade, on its reputation for a slow, people-friendly, low-crime environment. We don't need shoplifters and petty thieves. The sudden outbreak of such crimes seems to have received no response from Police Captain Harper. Local businesses are losing money, our visitors have been approached by confidence artists, and the police are doing nothing to arrest and detain the lawbreakers.
Joe snorted. "Who wrote this? Some guy who doesn't like Harper. Probably some clown who lives on the wrong side of the law himself. Some cop-hater with an ax to grind." He dropped from Clyde's shoulder to the table and ripped his claws down the letters column. "The Gazette has no right to print such trash. If I paid for this paper, I'd cancel the damn subscription."
And he left the house, stopping to rake the living-room rug, then shouldering out through his cat door.
But, trotting quickly up the sunny street, he forgot the petty letter-writer, and fixed again on the tragedy of last night, on the dark, rainswept hill, on the swinging lights of the police torches.
Who else had been on Hellhag Hill last night, before the cops arrived? Who would want to kill Newlon Greenlaw and hurt Pedric? And Joe Grey wondered, would the little, wild tortoiseshell kit succeed in picking out the attacker?
But even if she did identify the man, still they needed proof. They couldn't drop a killer in Harper's lap without some hard facts, without enough solid physical evidence for Harper to take to the grand jury and for a prosecutor to take to court.
And Joe Grey moved on into the village, turning over in his sly feline mind every possible method he could think of for snaring the murderer.
19
THE TORTOISESHELL kit stood high up Hellhag Hill, above the cave, atop the pale rocks that flanked it. Joe and Dulcie saw her at once as they came up from the village onto the grassy verge along Highway One. The moment she spied them she lashed her bushy tail as if she had been impatiently waiting. The two cats, watching her, hurried across the empty two-lane highway and started up the hill. After the rain, the tall grass through which they padded was fresh and sweet-scented, alive with insects buzzing and rustling. Over their heads, sparrows and finches zoomed, diving low in the watery sunshine.
"Do you suppose," Dulcie said, slitting her eyes, "do you suppose it was Dirken on the hill last night?"
"Why Dirken?"
"He's the one doing all the digging and tearing the house apart. Whatever he's looking for, did Newlon and Pedric find it? And Dirken went after them? And did he think he'd killed Pedric, did he leave Pedric for dead?"
Pedric was still in the hospital, while Newlon waited in the morgue, duly tagged and examined by forensics. The official word was that he had died from a blow to the head, not from an accidental fall. Fragments of Molena Point's soft, creamy stone, which was used all over the village for fireplaces and garden walls, had been found in Newlon's abraded scalp, deep in the wound. The specific piece of stone that killed him had not been retrieved. The natural outcroppings on Hellhag Hill were granite.
"Interesting, too," Dulcie said, "that Cara Ray buttered up Newlon, then dumped him, and now he's dead."
She paused, glancing at Joe. "Maybe Dirken's looking for a will, to override Shamas's trust and leave the house to him? If he is, he wouldn't want Newlon and Pedric snooping around."
"Not likely there's a will," Joe said, "with the trust. Not in California, not according to Clyde. He says it isn't needed-unless you're disgustingly rich, as Clyde puts it."
"Well, but Shamas could have written one?"
"I suppose. What are you thinking?"
Dulcie flicked her ears. "Could Shamas have been fool enough to write Cara Ray into a will-and stupid enough to tell her?"
Joe smiled. "And to hurry the process along, she slips out on the deck of the Green Lady that night and pushes him in the drink."
"Possible," she said. "Would Cara Ray be strong enough to push a man overboard?"
"So someone helps her; she say's she'll cut him in."
"Newlon," Dulcie said. "Or Sam. Take your pick."
She glanced up to where the kit waited. "She is impatient." The dark kit was fidgeting from paw to paw, her ears back, her yellow eyes gleaming. The cats broke into a gallop, leaping through the grass; they were nearly to the cave when they crouched suddenly, low to the earth.
They felt the vibration first through their paws, like an electrical charge. At the same instant the insects vanished, and all around them flocks of birds exploded straight up into the sky.
The jolt hit. Shook them hard. As if the world said, I am the power. They saw the kit sprawl, clinging to the boulder.
Then the earth was still.
The three cats waited.
Nothing more happened. The insects crept out and began to chirp again. The birds spiraled down and dived into the grass, snatching up bugs. An emboldened house finch sang his off-key cacophony as if he owned earth and sky.
And the cats saw that someone was on the road below them. Down on the black ribbon of asphalt, two small figures were rising-Wilma helping Lucinda up, dusting themselves off.
The two women stood talking, then climbed quickly toward the outcropping where they liked to sit- where the kit had been poised. Where, now, the rocks were empty.
The two cats moved away, intent on finding the kit-they hadn't gone far when the little mite was right before them, stepping out of the grass.
"I found him," she said softly. "A white trailer with a brown door."
"How do you know it's the killer's?" Joe said.
"He left his shoes on the stoop. I can smell the blood. He wiped them with something wet, but I can still smell it. He washed his shirt and hung it on a chair, where the sun shines in through the screen. It still smells of blood."
They rose and followed her up the hill, across the trailer park's brick walks, across a narrow, scruffy bed of poppies and beneath half a dozen trailers, trotting between their greasy wheels.
"This one," the kit said, slipping underneath, losing herself among the shadows.
Joe sniffed at the wheels and then at the little set of steps, flehming at the man's scent. "It might be Fulman; I never got a good smell of him. He's always with other people."
"He was alone with Cara Ray," Dulcie said.
"In the middle of a geranium bush, Dulcie, everything smells like geraniums."
"Well, if-" she began, then hushed as footsteps drummed overhead. They heard water running, heard a man cough.
Padding up the narrow steps, Joe peered in through the screen men backed away.
"It's Fulman," he said. "In his undershirt and shorts, eating a salami sandwich." He turned to look at the kit. "You sure it was that man?"
"That man. He hit the old man. He makes my fur bristle."
"Well, we can't toss the trailer with him in it. Have to hope he goes out."
Moving back down the hill, the three cats settled in the grass some way above Wilma and Lucinda. The two women had brought a picnic lunch; the cats could smell crab salad. Licking whiskers, they watched Wilma unwrap a small loaf of French bread and take a bottle of wine from her worn picnic basket.
Softly, Dulcie said, "Tell us why the other cats are so shy-and so angry."
"Angry because they can't go home," the kit said. "Because the shaking earth drove them out. Afraid to go down again."
Joe frowned. "Down again, where?" He looked toward the cave. "You didn't come from-in there?"
"From a place like it. I was little, I hardly remember. The earth shook. The clowder ran and ran-through the dark-up onto hills like these. That way," she said, gazing away south where the coastline led wild and endless along the ragged edge of the continent.
"We were in a city when I was little. Somewhere down the coast. We ran from packs of dogs at the edge of a city. I remember garbage in alleys. I could never keep up. My mother was dead. The big cats didn't care about me, but I didn't want to be alone. I knew we were different from other cats, and I didn't want to be in those alleys alone.
"We went away from the garbage place and through the city to the hills. The others would never wait for me. I ran and ran. I ate grasshoppers and lizards and bugs, and sometimes a butterfly. I never learned to hunt right; no one wanted to show me.
"Then the world shook again, and we ran again. We came here. I was bigger then, I could keep up. Or I'd find them the next morning when they stopped to sleep.
"Hungry," she said. "Always hungry." She glanced down the hill at the picnickers, sniffing the sweet scent of their luxurious meal.
Dulcie licked the kit's ear.
"Well, that was how we came here. Along that cliff and these hills. They told me, home is here, too. They mean the cave. They mean it will lead to the same place the other cave did. They said we could go home again into this hill if the earth would stop shaking. They want to go in, and down to that place, but they are afraid." She placed her black-mottled paw softly over Dulcie's bigger paw. "I do not want to go there; it is all elder there."
"Elder," Dulcie said. "Elder and evil, as in the old stories."
And at that instant, as if the small cat had summoned demons, another quake hit.
First the quick tingling through their paws as the world gathered itself. Then the jolt. It threw Dulcie and the kit against a boulder, knocked Joe sideways. Dulcie kicked at the air and flipped over. The kit crept to her, and she gathered the little one close, licking her.
Below them, Lucinda was sprawled, and Wilma crawling on hands and knees to reach her-and still the earth shook and rocked them, the hardest, longest surge the cats had ever known. Clinging tight to the traitorous earth, they refused to be dislodged; fear held them, as fear freezes a hunted rabbit, turning it mindless and numb.
Then all was still.
The earth was still.
They stood up, watched Wilma rise and lift Lucinda to sit against a boulder. The only movement in all the world, then, seemed the pounding of the sea beating through their paws.
And the tortoiseshell kit, who, before this day, had hidden each rime Lucinda brought food, who had never shown herself to any human, padded down the hill.
She stood looking at Lucinda, her round yellow eyes fixed fiercely on Lucinda's frightened face.
Lucinda's eyes widened.
Wilma remained very still. Joe and Dulcie were still.
Lucinda asked, "Are you all right, kitten?"
The waif purred, her thin sides vibrating. She stepped closer.
Lucinda put out her hand. "The quake didn't hurt you? Poor, poor kitten."
The kit tilted her little face in a question. She moved closer still, her long bushy tail and thick pantaloons comical on that thin little body. Lucinda said later that her black-and-brown-mottled coat was as beautiful as hand-dyed silk. The kit went to Lucinda and rubbed against her hand.
And Dulcie, watching, felt a sharp jealousy stab through her. Oh, she thought, I don't want you to go to Lucinda. I want you to come to me.
But what a selfish thought. What's the matter with me?
The kitten had turned, was staring at Dulcie. The expression on her little streaked face changed suddenly, from joy to alarm. And she fled. She was gone, flying down the hill, vanishing in the long grass.
"Oh," Lucinda said. "Why did she run? What did I do to frighten her?"
<
br /> But behind Lucinda, Wilma looked accusingly at Dulcie. And Dulcie hung her head: something in her expression or in her body language had told the kit her thoughts, as surely as if she had spoken.
Lucinda looked after the kit with longing. "Such a tiny little mite. And all alone. So thin and frail."
Wilma helped Lucinda to stand up and brush off, and supported her until she was steady on her feet. She picked up the picnic things, and as they started down the hill again, Wilma looked up sternly at Joe and Dulcie.
"Come on, you two."
Chastened, Dulcie followed her. Joe, watching them, fell into line. Lucinda seemed too shaken by the quake and by her encounter with the little wild cat to wonder at Joe and Dulcie's willingness to trot obediently home beside Wilma.
Reaching the village, they found shopkeepers and customers standing in the streets among broken glass, broken shingles, shattered roof tiles. The cats could see no fallen walls, no buildings that looked badly damaged- only one small section of broken wall where a bay window jutted over the street. Bricks had fallen out, but the window glass itself was still in place.
Everyone on the street was talking at once, giving each other advice, recounting what life-threatening objects had fallen narrowly missing them. Wilma, glancing down at the cats, led her little entourage quickly across Ocean's grassy median, away from the crowd and debris. Lucinda remained quiet. Not until they were half a block from her house did she make any sound.
Stopping suddenly and staring ahead, she let out a startled gasp.
Lucinda's Victorian home stood solidly enough. But her entire parlor seemed to have been removed, by the quake, onto the front lawn. Delicate settees and little tables stood about in little groups. A circle of needlepoint dining chairs accommodated eight Greenlaw women chatting and taking their ease.
As they approached, Dirken and his cousin Joey emerged from the house carrying the dining table. Behind them, three of the bigger Greenlaw children appeared, hauling out cans of food, stacks of plates, and a potful of silverware-whether to prepare an emergency meal or to cart away Lucinda's possessions wasn't clear. Beside the drive, a mattress lay tilted against a tree, and at the edge of the lawn, a pile of bedding and pillows beckoned to the tired and weary.
Cat to the Dogs Page 17
