Cat Laughing Last

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Dallas Garza sat at the desk in the first lighted office, deep in paperwork. But the instant Joe peered cautiously in around the door, Garza glanced up, suddenly all attention. "What the hell?"

  Joe stepped out into plain sight, his paws sweating, telling himself to stay cool.

  Garza laughed. "How the hell did you get in here?" He held out his hand to Joe. Annoyed, Joe approached him and rubbed his face against Garza's fingers. This was so demeaning, to have to ingratiate himself-but then, he did like Garza. It wasn't as if he was playing up to some stuffed-suit type.

  "You trying to adopt me, cat? You move into my house, and now here you are in the station. What happened to our beefed-up security? You must really want to be a cop's cat."

  Joe! The name is Joe!

  Garza rubbed Joe's ears the way he would a dog's, gave him a pat on the butt, and turned back to his reports. Casually Joe trotted away, hoping the detective wouldn't think to mention the incident to Max Harper. Harper would not be so forgiving. He soon found the report-writing room with its six computers, each in a private carrel, with bulletproof glass between. He found the coffee room, and had a little snack of someone's leftover doughnut. But it was the small, padded interrogation room that really interested him.

  The cubicle was just big enough for a little table and two chairs. A TV camera was mounted high in one corner. It would be connected to screens in other parts of the building, maybe in the communications room, Joe thought, and in Garza's and Harper's offices, areas where an enterprising cat might, with a cavalier smile and purr, pick up all manner of police intelligence.

  The door to the basement was kept closed. He knew that the disaster center down there had been upgraded with state-of-the-art communications equipment, a large supply of emergency food and water, six narrow bunk beds lining one wall, and improved bathing facilities. Harper had described with some pride this brains of rescue operations, to be used in case of flood, earthquake, riot, or war.

  Max Harper had created a new and improved crime-fighting plant with all the bells and whistles-efficient, but not cat friendly. Maybe Dulcie was right; maybe feline PR was the best antidote to all this upscale security.

  Times change, Joe thought. Everything today hinges on good PR. Whether you're a writer like Elliott Traynor or just an everyday cat sleuth, face it, networking's become important. He guessed he could go along with the program, could put forth a little in-your-face chutzpah. If Dulcie could play lonesome kitty, so could he.

  He didn't care to see the updated basement firing range; he'd rather just imagine the cavernous room from seeing similar ones on TV. He didn't like the smell of gunpowder. That stink brought back a couple of decidedly unpleasant moments in his career.

  Harper had described very graphically to Clyde how the firing booths had been improved, with thicker barriers between them, and more sophisticated targets; with moving figures electrically operated and enough sound effects and flashing lights to unnerve any shooter. Joe was headed back toward the dispatcher, slipping past Harper's lighted office hoping the captain wouldn't look up from his desk, when the dispatcher buzzed Harper. "Long distance, Captain."

  "Tell them-"

  "It's New York. Some literary agent."

  "A what?"

  "Literary agent," she said. "An Adele McElroy."

  Drawing back into the shadows, Joe listened with a thrill of interest. He heard Harper pick up and identify himself, then the captain was quiet for a moment. Then, "Of course I know Traynor. He's big news here in the village."

  Joe didn't like hearing only one side of a conversation. He began to fidget. When Harper paused again, he beat it into the first empty office.

  Leaping atop a makeshift desk of plywood balanced on sawhorses, he slipped the phone from its cradle.

  Silence. Wrong line. He punched the lighted button.

  "… all right," Harper was saying, "as far as I know. Yes, Mrs. Traynor's here with him. They've cast his play and are starting to rehearse. What is this about?"

  "Maybe nothing," the agent said. "Elliott is three months overdue on this book, and that's not like him. He's always ahead of schedule. And he's acting so very strange, he has me worried. We're good friends, Captain, social friends. But now suddenly he won't talk to me. Won't tell me what's wrong, yet I have the distinct impression something's very much amiss.

  "I'm concerned about him, Captain Harper, and I didn't know who else to call. Elliott's always been so conscientious, enthusiastic about his work, always had the material to me months ahead of time-and he has always confided in me.

  "I know about the cancer, of course, I know he's continuing treatments out there. It may be nothing more than his not feeling well, the depression that can accompany ill health. I can't get anything out of the medical people here. I've called his doctors but they won't talk to me.

  "I can't help thinking there's something really wrong-more than the illness. I know it sounds strange, but-do you know him well?"

  "No, Ms. McElroy, I don't. I really don't see that-"

  "This-this may sound like nothing to you, but he's sending me chapters-a few at a time, which I asked him to do. Chapters that are… they have me upset about his mental state. They're so… so inferior to his usual work…"

  "That really isn't-"

  "We're talking a half-million-dollar advance, here. I don't think he's in any condition to write this book. But he won't talk to me. Nor will Vivi. This isn't like Elliott. And I… I need help here, and I don't know who else to call."

  Harper was silent.

  "I called a friend of his, out there, a Gabrielle Row, asked her if Elliott was all right. She said she really didn't know, that she didn't see that much of them, that they were only casual acquaintances. I had thought differently, from Elliott. I had trouble getting her number, and I still haven't reached Richard Casselrod, though I've left messages."

  "You want to fill me in on your relationship with Gabrielle and with Casselrod?"

  "Well, it's really Elliott and Vivi's relationship. Gabrielle was here in the city last fall. She had lunch with Elliott. And Casselrod was here in December for the antiques show. He contacted Elliott and spent some time with him, something to do with research on the new book."

  As far as Joe knew, Casselrod hadn't socialized with the Traynors in the village. Now, Harper was cool to the agent. "Can you be more specific about the problem?"

  "It's his writing, Captain. It's… I know this sounds silly, but these last chapters are so very different from Elliott's lyrical style, so different that I'm worried about his state of mind."

  "Ms. McElroy, there's nothing the police can do about Mr. Traynor's writing skills or his state of mind. I'm not some literary shrink committed to treating writer's block. If Traynor should become violent or present some kind of danger…"

  "Or, Captain, if he is in danger? I think that might be a possibility."

  "If he's threatened or harmed, Ms. McElroy, of course it's our business. But he would have to file a complaint."

  Why was Harper being so stuffy? And sarcastic! Joe felt a quick stab of anger at the man he admired. This woman sounded in real distress.

  And he could understand why, having read Traynor's latest work. If he were Traynor's agent, he'd be worried, too. This Adele McElroy was three thousand miles away, trying to deal with a writer who seemed to have lost his grip, who seemed to be dumping a million-dollar novel down the drain. She needed some help here. Why wouldn't Harper at least be civil? Joe wanted to tell her she should hop on a plane, get on out here, deal with Traynor in person.

  "Captain Harper, let me give you my number. Would you call me… if you find anything you think would be of help?"

  Harper grunted. She repeated her number. Hastily Joe memorized it, saying it over to himself. The handicap of being unable to write didn't bother him often. But when a problem did arise, it really bugged him-just as Harper's attitude was bugging him.

  Though to be fair, he had to consider the matter from Ha
rper's view. This really wasn't police business. Not unless a complaint was filed, as Harper said, or something happened to Traynor that would bring in the law. Max Harper was a cop, not a social worker.

  And yet, Joe thought, knowing Harper, and despite what Harper told Adele McElroy, he bet the captain would go the extra mile, that he'd look into Traynor's condition far more thoroughly than he had told Ms. McElroy he could do.

  After all, there was plenty of indication that Traynor might be going funny in the brain. Like shooting raccoons in his pantry- some people might consider that strange. And Traynor's extreme irritability. And Traynor demanding that Fern Barth play the lead, instead of Cora Lee, a decision any fool could see was softheaded. And Traynor's two disappearing acts from local restaurants, apparently to avoid a face-to-face with Ryan Flannery. Added up, all this seemed to Joe Grey to amount to a decidedly squirrelly mental condition.

  Sliding the phone back onto its cradle, Joe trotted down the hall, catching Dulcie's eye where she sat on the dispatcher's desk purring and preening. He watched Dulcie give the dispatcher an enthusiastic head rub, and drop to the floor meowing loudly.

  Obediently Mabel Farthy came out from her cubicle. Maybe she had cats at home who had conditioned her to the imperative mew. Looking out carefully through the glass exterior door, she threw the lock and opened it.

  The cats trotted through. Looking back at her, they had to hide a laugh. She stood at the glass watching them but when she saw them looking she grinned sheepishly and returned to her station.

  The minute they were out of sight and earshot, Dulcie was all over Joe, lashing her tail, nudging him into the bushes so they could talk. "What was that about? What's with Elliott Traynor? His agent called? What's happening?"

  Moving along through the bushes that edged the sidewalk, Joe was quiet. Dulcie nudged him harder. "What? Talk to me! Tell me what's happening!"

  Joe turned to look at her. She looked so bright and sweet, peering at him through the camellia bushes-exactly like the first time he'd seen her. She'd been peering out at him, then, her dark tabby stripes blending with the foliage, her pink mouth turned up in a smile, her emerald green eyes flashing. In that one moment, he'd been hooked. Head over heels. He'd never regretted it.

  "Come on, Joe. Talk!"

  "Traynor's agent's worried about him. Partly because his work's overdue, partly because it isn't up to his usual standards- she's worried about his mental condition.

  "She said she'd called Gabrielle, that Gabrielle said she hadn't seen them, that they were barely acquainted. The agent said Elliott had told her otherwise.

  "And she said Richard Casselrod spent some time with the Traynors in New York last December."

  Dulcie sat down beneath a camellia bush. "We haven't seen Casselrod with Traynor or Vivi. I don't-"

  The kit appeared suddenly from nowhere, pushing under the bush beside Dulcie, batting at the fallen camellias. Pressing against Dulcie, she was very quiet. Dulcie nosed at her. "What, Kit? You feel all right?"

  "Fine," said the kit in a small voice.

  "You miss Cora Lee," Dulcie said. "She'll be home soon. Didn't you enjoy the library today?" Despite the success of Cora Lee's operation, everyone was concerned about her. "She'll be home soon, Kit. Home to Wilma's house until she feels stronger. Maybe you can sleep on her bed, if you're careful of her incision." Dulcie looked at Joe. "We need to-"

  "Check out Casselrod," Joe said. "See what we can find. Maybe letters or an address book, something to connect him to the Traynors. And don't you wonder about Gabrielle?" Joe gave her a long look, and sprang away, heading for the shops south of Ocean.

  Buffeted by the wind, and dodging tourists' feet, within ten minutes they were across the village and up onto the roofs of Hidalgo Plaza. Here on the tiles and shingles, the wind blew harder. Unimpeded by the barriers of solid walls, it shook the tops of the oak trees, the gusts so violent that it flattened the three cats against the slanting peaks. They had to dig in their claws and wait for the hardest blows to ease. Pummeled and prodded, they at last reached the lighted attic window of Gabrielle Row's sewing workroom.

  The open curtains revealed five sewing machines, three padded worktables as long as beds, and racks of hanging clothes and stacks of fabric. Beneath the fluorescent lights, Gabrielle stood alone leaning over a table cutting out a pattern pinned to a length of heavy white silk.

  "Could that be Catalina's wedding gown?" Dulcie said. "Or her nightie? Spanish brides had elaborate nightgowns."

  The kit wriggled close between them, her black-and-brown fur tugged by the wind. "So far away, that other world," the kit whispered.

  "What other world?" Joe said uneasily. He didn't like the kit's dreaming. "That talk isn't going to get us Gabrielle's address book."

  "Worlds beyond worlds," the kit said. "Centuries all gone, in another time. An address book? But we can just slip in through the window. Help me push."

  "Not here," Joe said. "We just wanted to make sure her apartment was empty." And fighting the wind he took off again over the roofs, then along an oak branch above an alley; then up a peak so steep they slid as they climbed and nearly tumbled down the far side, approaching Gabrielle's small third-floor window.

  Though the glass, they could smell spices, and coffee grounds. Three potted plants stood on the deep sill, between the dark pane and the drawn curtain. The room beyond was dark. They pawed uselessly at the glass. It looked like it had never been opened. All the other apartment windows but one were inaccessible even to a cat, all faced a sheer, two-story drop to the street. Not a vine, not a trellis, not even a protruding windowsill.

  The larger window, which was tucked away around the corner among the rooftops, was heavily draped, too, emitting only the thinnest glow at one side, as if from a nightlight.

  "Double locked," Joe said, peering sideways along the glass. "A heavy sliding bolt."

  "Listen," Dulcie whispered. They all heard it, a click from somewhere deep within the apartment.

  Another click, and a soft thud. No lights came on. They'd heard no door open and close as if Gabrielle had finished work and hurried home. She'd hardly had time to do that; they'd come themselves swift as the wind, blown by the wind straight across the rooftops.

  From the kitchen, a stealthy sliding noise, like a drawer being pulled out. Another. And another. Then cupboard doors clicking open. Belatedly, a light went on in the kitchen, throwing a shadow on the opaque curtain; a shadow that rose tall, then dropped low as the searcher moved and knelt, opening cupboard doors.

  Unable to see in, and unable to reach any other window or try the front door, whose stairway they knew quite well opened from a locked foyer, the cats waited with tail-lashing frustration. The sounds ceased with a final click, and soft footsteps went away again, then a thud as of the front door closing.

  Peering over the edge of the roof above the lobby door, they watched a figure emerge, a tall man in a tan coat, with a floppy hat pulled down low. He hurried to the corner and disappeared around it, a slim man with a long, easy stride.

  Racing across the shingles they looked down at the side street where he moved quickly toward a tan Infinity. He pulled his hat off and slid in. He had light brown hair, neatly trimmed. The car was a sleek model with curving lines and a sunroof. As its lights came on, Joe leaned so far from the roof that little more than his rump remained on the shingles. When the car roared off he hung there a moment then backed away from the edge.

  "2ZJZ417," Joe said, smiling. "That's the car from the Pumpkin Coach that almost hit us." He looked away where the Infinity had disappeared. "Could be Augor Prey. The guy fits his description. Let's have a closer look." And they took off across the roof and down a pine tree to the street. Who knew what scent the tires may have left on the blacktop? Whatever might be there, Joe wanted to find it before wind and passing cars wiped it away.

  22

  The street was empty except for two parked cars half a block away. Despite the wind, the smell of exhaust st
ill clung along the concrete. Where the tan Infinity had parked, the pavement was patterned with fragments of crumbled eucalyptus leaves, already stirred by the wind, deposited in the shape of tire grids and decorated with crushed green berries.

  "Pyracantha berries," Joe said, sniffing. "Don't get that stuff on your nose, Kit. It's poison." The tomcat sat down on the curb. "If that was Augor Prey, maybe he's renting a room, like Harper thought."

  How many places in the village rented rooms, and had eucalyptus and pyracantha by the street or by a parking space? Two dozen? Three dozen? The cats looked at each other and shrugged.

  "What else have we got?" Dulcie said.

  Most likely the guy hadn't been lucky enough to get a garage. Garages in the village were scarcer than declawed cats in a room full of pit bulls. Even a single garage built for a 1920s flivver was a premium item much in demand. The first place that came to Joe's mind was up the hills on the north side. The other house was a block from the beach; both had a eucalyptus tree, pyracantha bushes, and rooms to rent.

  "But before we go chasing after Augor Prey," Joe said, "let's give Casselrod a try. See if we can find a connection between him and Traynor." He was silent a moment, his yellow eyes narrowed, his look turned inward as if listening to some interior wisdom.

  "What?" she said softly.

  "I keep thinking we're missing something. Something big and obvious, right in front of our noses."

  "Such as?"

  "I don't know, Dulcie. Are the chests the connection between Susan's break-in and Fern's murder? Are a few old Spanish chests enough to kill for?"

  "The chests, and Catalina's letters-at some ten thousand each. How many letters were there? Ten letters is a hundred thousand bucks." The concept of that much cash, to a cat, was surreal. Did you count that kind of money by how many cases of caviar that would buy?