Cat Laughing Last

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  "Of course not! Are you sure there was no one? You're saying that man got up and walked away?"

  "There was no one in the breakfast room. The glass door was unlocked and ajar. Did you leave it that way?"

  "I left it locked. I would have heard it open. I looked in the window, standing on that plastic pot, and he was there. I came right to the car, locked myself in, and called you. Well, I guess he could have opened it then, when I was calling, and I wouldn't have heard. But he was so still, and so much blood…"

  "Could you describe again exactly what you saw?"

  "A man. He looked dead. Lying on his stomach. Denim shirt and jeans. Lying in blood. His own blood, I supposed. Spilled printer toner mixed with blood, floating on top. Blood running into the spilled potting soil. He… the man was turned away, I couldn't see his face. He had short brown hair, and he was thin." She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the scene, then looked up at Garza. "I think he was young. Smooth neck, smooth hands."

  "Was he wearing rings or a watch?"

  She closed her eyed again, but she couldn't remember. Just kept seeing the blood.

  "Did you notice anything else? His shoes? What kind of shoes?"

  Again she tried to bring back the scene. "Blood and potting soil, or toner, on his shoes. They must have been jogging shoes. Yes, white. Blood and toner staining the white."

  Garza nodded. "There was a blood trail out the glass door and across the patio. But no one in the house. Your keyboard is filled with blood and could have prints. May we take it as evidence?"

  "I have another, I just recently bought that curved one-to help prevent wrist problems, you know."

  Garza nodded. "And you're all right waiting here while we finish the initial investigation?"

  "I'm fine." But, I'm hungry, she thought. I want my coffee.

  She could go to the neighbors, beg a cup of coffee. But she didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to answer questions. And she didn't want to ask to go in the house while they were taking evidence. They wouldn't want her there getting in the way, maybe destroying something they felt was important.

  As Garza turned away, a plain green Chevy pulled up the drive, parking beside Susan's car. Detective Juana Davis got out, a squarely built Latina woman in her mid-thirties with short black hair. She smiled and waved to Susan, and went inside with Garza. Susan sat in her car thinking about having to clean up that mess, and about this loss to the Senior Survival club fund. They'd had no one item of value, but many small treasures that altogether would have brought a nice sum on the Web-now all shattered and destroyed. And she thought about the five members of the Senior Survival club buying a house together, wondered if five women living together might be more secure, maybe take better precautions-or if five lone women in a house would be sitting ducks for anyone who wanted to harm them.

  I'm getting paranoid, this is crazy, this is not the way I look at life. She stroked Lamb and looked into his eyes, and saw such steadfast courage that she was ashamed of her own cowardice.

  It was half an hour later that Davis came out to tell Susan that the trail of blood led across her backyard, across her neighbors' side yard, and disappeared at the curb of the street below her house.

  "The victim may have gotten into a car. Do you remember a car parked down there?" Davis pushed back her short hair. She was in uniform, though usually the detectives dressed in civilian clothes.

  "I didn't come home along the lower street," Susan said. "I came up the other way, directly from the village. Walking. I'd been walking Lamb, on the beach."

  Davis nodded. Her dark Latin eyes warmed to Susan, and she reached to pat her arm. "You'll continue to wait until Detective Garza can talk with you again? Are you comfortable?"

  "Of course," Susan said, badly wanting her coffee.

  The detectives spent nearly two hours going over the scene, photographing, dusting for prints, taking blood samples from several locations, and taking Susan's own fingerprints for comparison. After about an hour, Davis asked her if she wanted to come in and make coffee.

  As she sipped that first, welcome cup, Detective Garza sat with her in her living room, refusing coffee, asking endless questions. She allowed him to examine her hands and arms for any cuts or scrapes or bruises. She tried not to let that ruffle her. This was part of his job, to be sure she hadn't been involved, that she wasn't holding back information.

  "Who knows your routine, Mrs. Brittain? Who would know that you are in the habit of walking early in the morning?"

  "All my neighbors know that. And my women friends. Wilma Getz… Shall I give you a list?"

  "Yes, with addresses and phone numbers, if you would. Anyone else?"

  "Other dog walkers would know. Anyone used to seeing me and Lamb in the village or on the beach. This is a small town, Detective Garza. Everyone knows your business." Garza had only been in the village a few months; but surely even working in San Francisco, he'd be aware that some of the neighborhoods were like a small town, where everyone knew everyone else. And Garza knew the village, he had vacationed here for years.

  "When can I begin to clean up?" she asked. "Do I have to leave that mess?"

  "For a while you do. We'll be putting up crime scene tape, we'll want everything left untouched until we notify you. Can you stay with a friend for a few nights? Stay out of the house until we're finished?"

  "I'll call Wilma. I'm supposed to meet her and some friends for brunch, but I…"

  "It might help to have friends around you. And please don't leave your dog here, for his own safety."

  "No, I wouldn't leave Lamb. He'll go with me."

  "He's a fine, dignified fellow. Does he hunt?"

  "No. My daughter never trained him. She got him for companionship. She's working in San Francisco now, so I inherited Lamb. Do you have dogs?"

  "I used to raise pointers. I have two that I'll be bringing down later, when I get the backyard fixed up for them." He smiled. "Go on to brunch, Mrs. Brittain-you and Lamb. I'll wait while you pack an overnight bag."

  She gave Detective Garza her spare house key that she kept in her dresser, and packed a bag while he waited. His presence in the house was reassuring. Before she left, they checked the doors and windows together. As she drove away, she saw Detective Davis canvassing the neighborhood to see who might have been at home, who might have heard or seen anything unusual. The disappearance of the body-of the wounded man-distressed her. She didn't like the idea that he might return.

  But, comforted by the officers' thoroughness, she began to feel easier. She was not a flighty woman, she was not going to get hysterical over this. After the wreck that had left her so crippled, which had taken a year to recover from, she had been able to keep herself together. So why go to pieces over something so much smaller? All the time she was in the wheelchair she had not lost her nerve or resolve-at least, not very often. She told herself that this break-in, this ugly invasion of her privacy, was nothing compared to that nightmare. Yet she couldn't shake the sense of being totally violated.

  She supposed everyone felt this way when such a thing happened, felt incredibly angry at their own helplessness. If she could get her hands on either of those men, even the hurt one, and if she was strong enough, she wouldn't answer for what she might do.

  Parking a block from the Swiss Cafe, she smoothed her short hair and put on some lipstick. Detective Garza was right, she needed her friends. Clipping on Lamb's leash, she let him out of the car and headed for brunch, praying that she wouldn't end up crying in her pancakes, making a fool of herself.

  4

  When the ambulance screamed again through the village, Mavity Flowers jumped, startled, dropping the handful of old beaded evening bags she'd been sorting through. That violent noise tore right through a person. She never got used to it, not since the ambulance came when her husband died, when Lou was taken away.

  Pushing back her kinky gray hair, she knelt to pick up the little old purses, clutching them against her white uniform. Ri
sing, she laid them out across the cluttered table atop a mess of other bargains so she could choose the best ones. You'd think she'd be used to sirens at her age, and with so many older folk in the village. The ambulance went out often, even if only for some poor soul who had taken a bad fall-went out more frequently than she liked to think about. She felt uneasy suddenly, thinking about her Senior Survival friends. But Cora Lee and Gabrielle were right there at the sale. Wilma never came to these events-but Wilma was healthy as a horse, working out twice a week and walking every day.

  She hadn't seen Susan, and that was strange. Susan got up so early, she was always among the first, eager to get the best buys.

  Looking around for her, Mavity wanted to use the McLearys' phone, see if she was all right.

  But that was foolish, that was the kind of fussing that would deeply annoy Susan. She was too independent to tolerate her friends' checking on her for no sensible reason.

  Mavity knelt to pick up the purses, selecting the nicest ones, and looking to see if any beads were missing. She hoped that when her time came to depart this world, there would be no need for sirens. That she'd go fast, that she wouldn't have some terrible, debilitating stroke to leave her lingering. It terrified her to think of growing weak and helpless, of being unable to care for herself.

  Even though she was getting up in years, she felt young inside, and she kept herself in good shape, cleaning houses all day. She could still walk a mile into the village, buy her groceries, and carry them home again, and not be breathing hard when she plunked the bags down on the kitchen table. Still wore a size 4, even if all she bought was white uniforms in the used-clothing shops. Only when she looked in the mirror at her wrinkles and crow's-feet did she see the truth about her age.

  She had no children to look out for her if she got sick. Now that her niece was dead, she had only her brother Greeley, and what good was he? Older than she was, and he'd be all thumbs, trying to care for a person. Irresponsible, too. Living down there in Panama like some foreigner. The last time he flew up to see her, look at the trouble they'd had, him stealing, right there under her nose, robbing from the village stores.

  No, she couldn't depend on Greeley. When her time came, she prayed for one massive stroke. Zip. Gone-to whatever lay beyond.

  Maybe she'd see Lou again, maybe not. Two old folks wandering hand in hand again. Or maybe they'd be young again. No aches and pains. Wouldn't that be nice.

  She hadn't been to church for years, didn't remember how a priest described Heaven. Well, if there wasn't any Heaven, if there was nothing after this life, she wouldn't know it, would she? Might as well think like there was, and enjoy the promise.

  Anyway, now she wouldn't be alone if she got decrepit, now she had a new kind of family to depend on, and to depend on her.

  She'd balked at first at the idea of the Senior Survival club; it had seemed silly, and she'd never been a joiner. But maybe it would work. They were committed now, the five of them set on making their lives easier by their own efforts, not depending on some agency that they had no control over. Susan said they were reinventing their futures. Well, they weren't planning on nothing fancy, no grand cruises or flights to Europe. Just a way to grow old with more security, by helping each other, using the money they were making right now as they picked over the McLearys' cast-off junk, plus the money they'd all make selling their houses.

  Mavity had to smile. This all sounded like a confidence scheme. Except there was no outsider to rip them off. It had been their own idea, the five of them, all friends for years. Four of them widowed, and Wilma divorced, all alone now and tossing out ideas for their futures. She paused a moment, looking across the garden at her friends, at Gabrielle, and at Cora Lee. And for a moment, she couldn't help it; she felt a nudge of envy.

  Mavity's daydreaming again," Dulcie said. "Woolgathering." She watched Mavity, who was watching Gabrielle and Cora Lee, and she could almost guess what Mavity was thinking- a little of Mavity's indulgent daydreaming. Across the McLeary garden, Gabrielle was inspecting a tableful of silverware, her tall slim figure handsome in her pale blazer, her short, soft blond hair catching the sunlight. Beyond her, Cora Lee French sorted through some boxes of books, her cafe-au-lait coloring and long white sundress making her look about seventeen, despite the salt and pepper in her black hair.

  "What are you grinning about?" Joe asked, cutting her a look.

  "About Mavity-at what she's thinking."

  "What? You're psychic suddenly?"

  "She's thinking, In my next life, I'll be tall and willowy like Gabrielle and Cora Lee."

  "Come on, Dulcie…"

  "She is. I've heard her say it often enough, rambling on while she's helping Charlie clean someone's house. It's Mavity's one discontent, that she isn't tall. If I was born again tall and slim and beautiful, and with a little cash, I'd know I was in heaven."

  "You're making fun of her."

  "Not at all. I love Mavity," Dulcie said, her green eyes widening, her tail lashing. "But that is what she's thinking. And probably thinking, too, Well you can't have everything… And maybe, I'm healthy and independent. I can outwork most women half my age." And the cats looked down fondly on little Mavity Flowers, hoping she'd be tall in the next life, the way she wanted to be.

  They watched her select a pearl-beaded bag and tuck it with five other evening bags into her two-wheeled, wire mesh cart, laying half a dozen hand-embroidered hankies on top so they wouldn't wrinkle. All would bring a nice profit on eBay. Amazing, the things people would buy on the Web. They'd listened to the ladies tell how they'd cleaned out their own mother's attics years before, and sent to charity items they wished they had back. Old Sandwich glass, Dulcie remembered, that Gabrielle had once thought was so tacky. And the old brass binoculars that Wilma said would now bring eighty or ninety dollars.

  Water under the bridge, Mavity would say, and that made Dulcie purr. What's gone is gone. She could just hear her. Look at what's right here under your nose, don't be crying for what's lost, that you can't bring back.

  "You are making fun of her," Joe said. "You're smirking like the Cheshire cat."

  "I'm not. Anyway, Mavity doesn't care what anyone thinks- she wouldn't care what a cat thinks. Look, she's going to buy those used uniforms, too, like she always does."

  Joe didn't reply. He was watching an old man try out a set of golf clubs. Old guy had a real hook. He ought to take up checkers.

  Dulcie smiled as Mavity held a white uniform against herself for size. Mavity bought the generic uniforms that would do for any trade, beautician, waitress, or her own job of housecleaning. The little, spry woman was proud of her work. Her square, blunt hands were rough from scrubbing, but gentle when they petted a cat. Her face was brown and lined from the California sun and from the sea wind that blew down the bay into her small house when she left the windows open. Fishing shack, Mavity would say, if the truth be told.

  But now Mavity's house was called a bayside cottage, and worth half a million. Mavity said that she and Lou had paid thirty thousand for it, forty years ago when they were first married. Just a little house on stilts, at the muddy edge where the marsh met Molena Point Bay. Amazing, everyone said, what had happened to the Molena Point economy-to the whole country's economy. Mavity was, through no effort of her own, a well-to-do property owner.

  Except that soon the house wouldn't be hers. The home she'd kept dear since her husband died was, the ladies said, about to be gobbled up in the all-powerful sweep of village politics. About to be condemned, as was the whole row of bayside houses.

  "Well, Mavity has a good job," Dulcie said. Working for Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It, she couldn't have a better boss. Tall, redheaded Charlie Getz was such a no-nonsense person. And now since Charlie had bought that old rundown duplex, she and Mavity were working on it, painting and sanding the floors. Mavity liked working in an empty place more than she liked cleaning while someone was in the house. She always said she didn't like anyone looking over her shoulder,
and Dulcie understood that.

  Vivi Traynor was still picking and poking, now among some stacked boxes. When Charlie cleaned for them, she'd told Wilma, she had to be really quiet. She said Elliott was the temperamental kind of writer, couldn't stand noise. She said less complimentary things about Vivi. One thing was sure, Vivi Traynor was young enough to be the novelist's granddaughter.

  Snippy, too, Dulcie thought. With a giggle like a freight train whistle. And Dulcie had seen Vivi flirting with the village men. Though if her famous husband was too busy with his writing to care, why should anyone else? He stayed at home in the afternoons and in the evening, shut up in his study, but most mornings when Charlie did up the place, the Traynors were at the little theater.

  Vivi, having apparently found no treasure worth purchasing, rose from the clutter of boxes. She stood glancing around her, jingling her car keys and jangling those bangle bracelets she always wore, then she moved on again, looking, slipping among stacks of broken toys and used clothing. Dulcie watched her lift a folded bedspread to see what was underneath, then rifle through a stack of suitcases, shifting the dusty valises and opening them. She was very focused, as if she were looking for something special. As she pried and prodded, never stopping to admire any item, her face was frozen with distaste-maybe she couldn't bear dirt or the smell of old things; but her black eyes darted everywhere, looking. And across the yard, Gabrielle had stopped collecting sale items, and stood very still, watching Vivi.

  Strange that Gabrielle hadn't greeted Vivi, that the two women hadn't acknowledged the other. But Gabrielle was like that, she wouldn't press their brief acquaintance. Despite her look of smooth sophistication, Gabrielle was shy and reserved-she had met the Traynors during a trip she'd made last fall to New York, one of those senior tours. She had gone to school with Elliott's sister, and had called them, then stopped by their apartment to extend her condolences for the sister's death, a year earlier.