Cat Shining Bright

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  “. . . walked right out of that small-town jail,” Randall was saying, a smile in his gruff voice. “I told you my stomach hurt. I made it seem worse, like maybe appendicitis. That shook up the rookie on guard, he came right on in, the dummy. I knocked him out, took his keys and gun, locked him in and beat it out of there, out the back gate to the street. Tourists everywhere, I just fell in among them—they hadn’t made me change clothes because I was headed for county jail as soon as they interrogated me. They’d took my belt, though. And my phone and billfold.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Woman working in her yard, back among some cottages. She left the front door unlocked. Don’t worry, I can see her from the window, she didn’t hear the phone ring, I put a pillow over it. I saw her husband leave, there’s not another sound in the house.”

  “Oh hell, Randall. Get out of there.”

  “Can you come get me?”

  “Where? You can’t stay there.”

  “It’ll take me a while through these fenced backyards—they’re bound to have patrols out. I can hide safe in that . . .” Footsteps were coming, Lena’s steps. Quickly they slipped the phone back on its cradle and dove under Voletta’s bed. At the other end of the hall, Rick was saying, “Hell, you can’t go there. That’s the first . . .” A pause, then, “That’s a damned stupid idea. But all right—though it could put us in a hell of a mess.”

  He listened again, then, “I said, all right. Now get the hell out of that house before someone comes in.”

  Above the cats, Lena was searching the drawers of Voletta’s nightstand. She rummaged until she found a bottle of pills, maybe Voletta’s pain medication. Turning to the mirror, she fussed with her hair, using Voletta’s brush before she returned to the kitchen.

  In the other room, Rick had apparently hung up the phone. When the cats could hear him changing clothes, Kit beat it to the living room, leaving Pan slipping down the hall and under the hall table to watch him. Was Egan still in jail, had Randall just left him there?

  Kit, crowded under the couch against Dulcie, wondered if, the next time someone cleaned house—and it could sure use it—they would puzzle over cat hairs mixed with the dust bunnies.

  Rick came into the kitchen jangling his keys, Lena following him. “Going to pick up Randall.”

  “Pick him up?” Voletta said. “He’s out of jail? How come they let him out?”

  “He broke out,” Rick said, laughing. “Knocked out the guard. He left Egan locked up.”

  Rick laid his keys on the table, picked up his cup to swallow down the last sip of coffee. Fast as a viper Lena grabbed the keys. “I’m going with you.” She spun around, headed for the bedroom, perhaps for her purse.

  He snatched at her, hit her a glancing blow. “You’re staying here.” She hit him, pulled away, and raced to their corner bedroom.

  In the hall, Pan crept out from beneath the table far enough to see her pull on a leather jacket and open the dresser drawer. She found a clean handkerchief, used it to lift out a revolver. She used a corner of the cloth to open the cylinder and check the load then wrapped the gun and slipped it in her jacket pocket. She fished through a lower drawer beneath silk undergarments, dropped some small item in her left pocket, stuffed her cell phone in on top. She raced for the kitchen, flung out the door leaving it open behind her, jumped in the car just as Rick put it in gear. Voletta watched them, not interfering, sour and expressionless.

  When Lena ran for the kitchen, passing the couch a few feet from Dulcie’s and Kit’s noses, Dulcie lay quietly watching her. She didn’t want to follow and get tangled in this, she’d had enough of being trapped in cars. But Kit and Pan, their heads filled with Rick’s phone conversation, sped for the front door they’d left cracked open, leaped up the vine beside the porch, were across the roof to the back just as Lena raced out. All the car windows were open against the warm morning. Kit crouched to leap through behind Rick’s head into the backseat. There in the shadows they’d never be noticed, they could find where Randall was hiding, they could find a phone and call in, they could—

  Sharp teeth in the nape of her neck jerked her away from the roof’s edge, Pan’s growl low and angry. Shouldering her down, he pressed her so firmly to the shingles that she couldn’t move, even when he let go his bite.

  “What were you thinking?” he growled. “There’ve been enough wild car rides. What did you mean to do? You have no idea where they’re going.”

  “I . . . but I . . .” She scowled at him, her yellow eyes blazing—and she exploded out of his grip, attacking him, biting him; they were into an angry scuffle, snarling and kicking. Kit had never dreamed they’d fight like this, she loved Pan. But now, raking him with her hind paws, she broke away and headed again for the edge of the roof—just as the blue Ford took off speeding across the big yard and onto the narrow road.

  They were gone.

  Neither Kit nor Pan knew where, they had no idea where the killer would be hiding.

  Rick drove, scowling. “Your aunt—could she guess where we’re headed? Sure as hell she’ll call the cops.”

  “Why would she call the cops? She’s as guilty as we are. And how could she guess? She didn’t hear anything, you never said where he is.”

  “She calls the cops, it’ll be the last thing she does.”

  She stared at him. “Don’t be such an ass. You’re in a vicious mood.”

  He looked at her with surprise. “What the hell’s with you?”

  “Tired, Rick. You’re getting as mean and rude as your father was—or as mean as Randall. Why did I marry someone so like Cal Alderson? I’m tired of Randall’s sarcasm. I’m tired of his cheap womanizing, of his coming home with another woman’s stink on him. I’m tired of him making me a part of this heist business. I’m tired of having to get up in the middle of the night and drive hot cars all over hell, my belly twisting for fear the cops will tail us. Tell the truth, I’m tired of Randall! I told him it was better to move the cars one at a time, not head out of there with a whole line of cars lit up like some damned parade. Now look at the mess he’s in—that we’re all in.”

  “I think the cops were tipped,” Rick said. “Someone ratted on us.” He gave her a look cold as ice.

  She said nothing.

  “You tip the cops, Ma?”

  “No, I didn’t tip the cops. Go to hell.” Then, smiling, “But I thought about it.”

  “Maybe it was your aunt. After I came out from Texas and joined up with Randall . . . Well, hell, she never did like me. And why does she think Egan hung the moon, for crissake?”

  Lena was silent, sudden tears running down. Her brown hair was mussed, her face pale but blotched with red. She felt carefully in her purse for a tissue but didn’t find one.

  “As mad as you are at Randall,” Rick said, “I’m surprised you didn’t try to call the law.”

  “How could I have? You wouldn’t wait for me, you didn’t say where he was. And Voletta wouldn’t, even if she knew where he’s going.”

  But there was someone to call the law. As the blue Ford headed for the village, Kit and Pan streaked up to the ruins where Ryan’s truck was parked. Digging out the old cell phone that Ryan kept there—the phone with no GPS and no ID—they called the department. They had no destination, but they had the car’s description and part of the license number.

  23

  Joe’s quarantine grew boring pretty fast, he felt like a parolee under home confinement. It was a wonder he didn’t have an electronic leg bracelet to keep track of where he was, to make sure he didn’t stray. As for Rock, even with Joe for company he never liked being left for long without humans. Now, with his little white cat gone too, his little napping buddy, he was miserable and brooding, morosely pacing the house. If Joe started up to his tower, Rock would bark up a storm. The tomcat, dropping down again to the bedroom, pounced on Rock and teased him until at last the big dog gave chase: they ran up and down stairs, leaped over chairs, played tag until bot
h were panting and the living room furnishings and rug were awry. Only then, when Joe had worn Rock out, when the silver dog climbed into Joe’s chair for a nap, did Joe Grey head for his rooftop aerie.

  Clyde had agreed that the tower was part of the house, so was also quarantine territory. He wouldn’t agree to the roof itself, but Joe reasoned that of course roof and house were all one structure. Padding on through his tower into the sunshine that warmed the shingles, he stretched and yawned. He rolled on his back, he snoozed for a few moments in the sun; but then he sat up, and considered.

  No one had ever said exactly where the roof ended. With the line of roofs on their block all so close, and joined by tree branches reaching across lacing them together, no one had ever drawn a line to show where that vast, shingled territory ceased to be a single entity. If one could move so easily from one patch of shingles to the next over heavy, tangled branches, then in sensible feline logic the roof ended at the next cross street.

  Off he trotted, filled with his virtuous decision that he was still in the quarantine area. At the side street where the roofs ended he crouched, looking down. Of course he would go no farther.

  Two blocks away stood Barbara Conley’s house, yellow crime tape still surrounding the property. He was watching it idly when he saw, in the high attic window, a shadow move, a figure looking out.

  There was no police car parked nearby, no car in front or in the drive—and no one should be there but the cops, the house was off-limits. Curious, he abandoned all thoughts of his quarantine in favor of expediency. Whatever was going on was more important than the unlikely danger that he’d bite someone and give them rabies.

  Crossing the streets on overhanging branches, soon he crouched in the rain gutter just across the street from Barbara’s house. Directly below, only scattered cars were parked, though usually the curb was bumper to bumper. A blue Ford cruised slowly by, heading west toward the seashore, the driver slowing to gawk at the crime tape. The driver . . . Joe came to full attention.

  Egan Borden. Long thin face, pale blond hair, a thrust of his broad slanted shoulders against the side window—but Egan was in jail. Joe had seen him shackled and shoved into a squad car. The man drove on to the next intersection, made a U-turn, came back and parked just below Joe, headed in the direction of the freeway. Now Joe could see his passenger, a thin middle-aged woman with medium-length brown hair. Lena? He had seen her around Voletta Nestor’s place when he rode up to the ruins with Ryan; he had heard Ryan describe her, not flatteringly. Their voices were sharp with argument. Straining to hear, he almost lost his footing, almost fell off the gutter.

  Backing away, forgetting about quarantine promises, he slipped down a stone pine that grew against the end of the house. There he crouched in the bushes beside the car not three feet from Lena’s open window. When Egan started to get out, she reached a hand to stop him.

  “Stay here, Rick. For once, will you do it my way!”

  Rick? This was Rick Alderson? The executed guy’s kid who might be in jail or might not, who might have warrants out for him or might not? Rearing up to get a better look, still Joe couldn’t see much of him. Where had he come from? What was he doing in Molena Point? And who the hell was Egan?

  “I told him I’d park around the corner,” Rick said. “He can see out the side window. What do you mean to do?”

  “Just stay in the car and watch for Randall, we don’t know if he’s even here yet. How dumb can he get, breaking out of jail? What a stupid place to hide, right under the cops’ noses. Stay here and watch for street patrol. I’ll see if he’s in there.”

  “When he sees the car, he’ll come out. What’s taking him so long? If someone sees you go in there, if you blow his cover, he’ll be mad as hell.”

  “I told you, the way Randall’s treated me, I don’t give a damn. I don’t feel the same about him anymore, I hate his guts. It’s you who wanted to rescue him.”

  “He’s my father—my stepfather! He didn’t always treat you this way. And he always treated me decent. Why were you so hot to come along, when you hate him?”

  She leaned over, looked through the windshield at the upper story of the frame house, up at the attic window high in the peak. Did she see the faint movement there, a disappearing shadow beyond the dirty glass? She had her hand on the door handle.

  “How you going to get in? If he has the key from under the back porch . . .”

  “I have the front-door key—I think that’s what this is. Randall took it off his key ring, the morning after the murder. Took it off and hid it. What else could it be but Barbara Conley’s key? He wanted to get rid of it before the cops found it on him.”

  “What else do you have in your purse? Is that Randall’s gun, wrapped in that handkerchief?”

  “You’re a nosy bastard. Yes, it’s Randall’s gun. I know enough about you, Rick, that the cops don’t know, you’d better mind your own business.”

  He raised his hand to slap her; he seemed to have no more love for his mother than she for him, had no compunction against hitting her. But then, what kind of mother was she? She had run off and left him there that night, a seven-year-old kid in the midst of a grisly murder. She had run away and never tried to help him.

  Lena got out, slid the wrapped gun into her right pocket. The tomcat followed her among the tree shadows as she headed across the street. She stepped up on the narrow porch, tried the key, and unlocked the door. She stood in the open door listening, looking around the living room. In that instant Joe Grey was behind her and inside, slipping beyond a wicker chest. The house had that empty, musty, unoccupied smell.

  “Randall?” she whispered softly and moved on in, leaving the door on the latch. Again, a louder whisper. “Randall?”

  No answer.

  She began to prowl the rooms, her footsteps echoing faintly, her hand in her pocket on the gun. Joe could see into the kitchen, and into the hall where there would be bedrooms. If she found Randall, what did she mean to do? Hadn’t they come to rescue him, to get him away from the cops? Then why the gun? Would she shoot a cop, would she put herself in that jeopardy to save a husband she’d grown to hate?

  Having covered all the rooms, she opened the door of the hall closet. There wasn’t much there, a few coats thrown to the floor. She knelt, examined the floor, brushed at something that looked like dirt or sawdust, then looked up.

  A string hung from the ceiling, with a metal washer knotted at the end. She used both hands to pull open the trapdoor, its mechanism lowering a folding wooden ladder.

  “Randall?”

  A moan echoed from the hollow attic. Quickly she climbed—as Joe Grey slipped into the closet behind the pile of coats.

  “Randall? Come on, the car’s waiting.”

  A long silence, then another moan. Joe heard her move across the attic, imagined her ducking under its beams. He could see enough of its low ceiling to wonder how much head room Randall had, up there. When he heard another groan, Joe abandoned common sense, scrambled up the ladder and crouched among the shadows. The long dim space was lighted only by a tiny window at each end.

  Randall lay on the dusty wooden floor, his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped around himself, his face, even in shadow, pale and twisted. It was strange to see the heavy, muscled man huddled on the floor, helpless. Lena knelt beside him, her expression unreadable. “What is it? What’s wrong? Were you shot?” She leaned down, looking for blood, her expression half of concern and half of cold satisfaction.

  “Not shot,” he mumbled. “The pain . . . Can you get me down the steps? Something’s bad wrong. I think I need a doctor . . . someone that won’t call the cops.”

  She reached in the pocket where she’d had the key. Joe saw her phone light up, saw her press a single button. When Randall realized she was calling 911 he tried to get up, tried to grab the phone. “I said a doctor, not the cops!” He fell back clutching his belly, letting out an animal-like cry. She stood looking down at him, dropped the phone in her pocket,
and removed the wrapped revolver. Cradling it, she looked steadily at Randall, her expression ice-cold.

  “Where’s the book, Randall?”

  “Cops have it,” he groaned.

  “Well, that was smart. That’s a one-of-a-kind edition. When a collector sees what’s in it, it’s worth more than a few hundred thousand. That information, if it’s true . . .”

  From a few blocks away, a medics’ siren screamed—and from the street below they heard a car take off, moving fast. Lena, ducking under the rafters, raced to the little window to peer out.

  “Gone! The damned bastard took off on me!” Spinning around she paused again over Randall, the revolver pointed directly at him. “You sure the cops have the book?”

  “They have the whole damn car. Book was . . . right there in the back.” Again a groan, and he pulled up his legs to ease his belly. Outside, the sirens screamed to a halt. Joe watched Lena unwrap the revolver not touching the metal, keeping only the grip wrapped. She stood a moment, the gun pointed at him, a hungry look on her face.

  At last she knelt, moved his hands from his belly, rolled him on his side making him cry out with pain, and slipped the gun in his pocket. She eased the handkerchief out and stuffed it in her own pocket, and she fled down the ladder into the shadowed closet. Left the ladder down for the cops to see, and ran out the back door. Joe could hear her outside crashing through the bushes. Would she vanish, to lose herself in the village? Or did she think Rick would wait for her, farther up the block? Fat chance, the tomcat thought.

  But he was wrong. As the cop cars and medics pulled in, Joe was out the back door behind Lena, chasing her through the neighbors’ yards to the next street where he heard a horn toot softly.