Cat Bearing Gifts

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Dedication

  For the cats who remember

  their previous lives

  in centuries passed and gone

  Epigraph

  There is a Celtic belief that cats’ eyes are windows through which human beings may explore an inner world. In examining the power that the cat has to raise our feelings and to stimulate our imagination we can hardly fail to learn more about human nature in the process . . . The cat has not only been thought of as wholly good or evil, but has also been recognized as forming a bridge between the two. [Cat] has the power deeply to enrich our lives if, instead of obsessively loving or hating [him], we adopt a realistic attitude towards its paradoxical nature, and allow it to communicate its wisdom.

  —PATRICIA DALE-GREEN, Cult of the Cat

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Also by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  THE CONFUSING EVENTS that early fall in Molena Point began perhaps with the return of Kate Osborne, the beguiling blond divorcée arriving back in California richer than sin and with a story as strange as the melodies spun by a modern Pied Piper to mesmerize the unwary. Or maybe the strangeness started with the old, faded photograph of a child from a half century past and the memories she awakened in the yellow tomcat; maybe that was the beginning of the odd occurrences that stirred through the coastal village, setting the five cats off on new paths, propelling them into two forgotten worlds as exotic as the nightmares that jerk us awake in the small hours, frightened and amazed.

  The village of Molena Point hugs the California coast a hundred and fifty miles below San Francisco harbor, its own smaller bay cutting into the land in a deep underwater abyss, its shore rising abruptly in a ragged cliff along which Highway One cuts as frail as a spider’s thread. Maybe the tale commences here on the narrow two-lane that wanders twisting and uncertain high above the pounding waves.

  It was growing dark when Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw and their tortoiseshell cat left their favorite seafood restaurant north of Santa Cruz. Lucinda had carried Kit to their table hidden in her canvas tote, the smug and purring tortie curled up inside anticipating lobster and scallops slipped to her during their leisurely meal. Now the threesome, replete with a good dinner and comfortable in their new, only slightly used, Lincoln Town Car, continued on south where they had reservations at a motel that welcomed cats—an establishment that even accommodated dogs if they didn’t chase the cats or pee on someone’s sandals.

  They’d departed San Francisco in late afternoon, Pedric driving, the setting sun in their eyes as it sank into the sea, its reflections glancing off the dark stone cliff that soon rose on their left, towering black above them. The Lincoln took the precipitous curves with a calm and steady assurance that eased Lucinda’s thoughts of the hundred-foot drop below them into a cold and churning sea. In the seat behind the thin, older couple, tortoiseshell Kit sprawled atop a mountain of packages, her fluffy tail twitching as she looked far down at the boiling waves, and then looked up at the dark, wooded hills rising above the cliff against the orange-streaked sky. The trip home, for Kit, was bittersweet. She loved the city, she had loved going around to all the exclusive designer’s shops, riding in Lucinda’s big carryall like a spoiled lapdog, reaching out a curious paw to feel the rich upholstery fabrics and the sleekly finished furniture that Lucinda and Pedric had considered. She loved the city restaurants, the exotic foods, she had rumbled with purrs when they dined grandly at the beautiful old Mark Hopkins Hotel, had peered out from her canvas lair secretly amusing herself watching her fellow diners. Part of her little cat self hadn’t wanted to leave San Francisco, yet part of her longed to be home, to be back in her own village with her feline pals and her human friends, to sleep at night high in her own tree house among her soft cushions with the stars bright around her and the sea wind riffling the branches of her oak tree. Most of all, she longed to be home with her true love.

  It had been a stormy romance since the big red tomcat showed up in Molena Point nearly seven months earlier, when he and Kit had first discovered one another, on the cold, windy shore. Pan appeared in the village just two months after Christmas, right at the time of the amazing snowstorm, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in Molena Point for forty years—but the likes of that handsome tomcat, Kit had never seen. Almost at once, she was smitten.

  Oh, my, how Pan did purr for her, and how nicely he hunted with her, letting her take the lead, often easing back and letting her make the kill—but yet how bold he was when they argued, decisive and macho and completely enchanting. Even as much as she’d loved San Francisco, she felt lost and small when she was parted from him. Why can’t I be in two places at once, why can’t I be at home with Pan and Joe Grey and Dulcie and Misto and our human friends, and have all the pleasures of San Francisco, too, all together in the same place? Why do you have to choose one instead of the other?

  In the city, the Greenlaws had hit every decorators’ showroom of any consequence, thanks to their friend, interior designer Kate Osborne, who had unlimited access to those exclusive venues. How fetching Kate had looked, ushering them into the showrooms, her short, flyaway blond hair catching the light, her green eyes laughing as if life were a delicious joke, and always dressed in something creamy and silky, casual and elegant. Kate’s scent of sandalwood blended deliciously, too, with the showrooms’ aromas of teak and imported woods and fine fabrics.

  Lucinda and Pedric had made wonderful purchases toward refurbishing their Molena Point house. Ten new dining chairs and five small, hand-carved tables were being shipped down to the village, along with a carved Brazilian coffee table, three hand-embossed chests of drawers, and six lengths of upholstery fabric that were far too beautiful for Kit to ever spoil with a careless rake of her claws. The bundles of fabrics and boxes of small accessories filled the Lincoln’s ample trunk and wide backseat, along with the Greenlaws’ early Christmas shopping, with gifts for all their friends; Kit rode along atop a veritable treasure of purchases—to say nothing of even greater riches hidden all around her, inside the doors of the Lincoln where no one would ever find them.

  They had stayed with Kate in her apartment with a grand view of the bay where, lounging on the windowsills, Kit could watch San Francisco’s stealthy fog slip in beneath the Golden Gate Bridge like a pale dragon gliding between the delicate girders, or watch a foggy cu
rtain obscure the bridge’s graceful towers as delicately as a bridal veil. But best of all were their evenings before the fire, looking out at the lights of the city and listening to the stories of Kate’s amazing journey: tales that filled Kit’s dreams with a fierce longing for that land, which she would never dare approach. Kate’s adventure was a journey any speaking cat would long to share and yet one that made Kit’s paws sweat, made her want to back away, hissing.

  In her wild, kitten days, she would have followed Kate there, down into the caverns of the earth, and she would have ignored the dangers. But now, all grown up, she had learned to be wary, she no longer had the nerve to race down into that mysterious land, overwhelmed by wonder. Now only her human friend was brave enough to breach that mythical world with a curiosity at least as powerful as Kit’s own.

  It was just last June that Kate had phoned her Molena Point friends to say she had quit her job in Seattle and moved back to San Francisco. But then, after that one round of calls, no one heard from her again. Their messages had gone unanswered until two weeks ago when, in early September, she resurfaced and called them all, and this time her voice bubbled with excitement. She spoke of a strange journey but left the details unclear, she talked about a gift or legacy, a sudden fortune, but she left the particulars vague and enticing.

  Now, Kit, safe in the backseat as Pedric negotiated the big Lincoln down the narrow cliff road, idly watched the white froth of waves far below glowing in the gathering night. She sniffed the wind’s rich scent of kelp and dead sea creatures and she thought about the wealth that Kate had brought back, treasures Kate insisted Lucinda and Pedric share—as if gold and jewels were as common as kitty treats or a box of chocolate creams to pass around among her friends.

  Though Kate made sure the Greenlaws took some of that amazing fortune back with them to Molena Point, she had in fact already sold much of the jewelry, traveling from city to city—Seattle, Portland, Houston—taking care that she wasn’t followed, telling the dealers the most plausible of stories about her many European visits where, she said, she’d acquired the strange and exotic pieces. Though the gold coins she’d insisted on giving to the Greenlaws were common enough, she’d had them all melted down and recast into the tender of this world, they could be sold anywhere without question. “No one has followed me,” Kate said, “no one has a clue. If anyone did, don’t you think they’d have come after me by now? Someone would have broken into my apartment weeks ago, or intercepted me on my way to a bank or getting off a plane. And now,” she’d said with a little smile, “who would suspect a respectable couple like you of carrying a car full of jewels and Krugerrands?”

  Kate and Pedric together had removed the Lincoln’s door panels, using special tools, one that looked like a fat, ivory-colored tongue depressor, and a long metal gadget that might pass for a nail puller or a bottle opener. They had tucked twenty small boxes into the empty spaces, taping them securely in place so they wouldn’t rattle or become entangled in the wires and mechanisms that ran through the inner workings of the car. Pedric was as skilled in these matters as any drug smuggler, though his lawless days were long past. Kate said the coins were theirs to use any way they chose, and Lucinda suggested the village’s cat rescue project, which the cats’ human friends had organized early in the year to care for the many pets that had been abandoned during the economic downturn, cats and dogs left behind when their families moved out of foreclosed homes. There was enough wealth hidden in the car to build a spacious animal shelter and still leave a nice buffer for the Greenlaws, too, against possible hard times to come.

  “I’ve seen what can happen,” Kate said, her green eyes sad, “when a whole economy fails. That land, that was so rich and amazing . . . all the magic is gone, there’s nothing left but the ugliest side of their culture, all is fallen into chaos, the castles crumbled, the crops dead, the people starving. Everyone is drained of their will to live, not even the wealth I brought back was of use to them. What good is gold when there’s nothing to buy, no food, nothing to trade for? People wandering the villages scavenging for scraps of food, but with no desire to plant and grow new crops, no ambition to begin new herds or bring any kind of order to their ruined world. All their richly layered culture has collapsed, they are people without hope, without any life left in them. Without,” Kate said, “any sense of joy or of challenge. Only the dark has prevailed, and it feeds on their hopelessness.”

  Now, as night drew down, fog began to gather out over the sea, fingering in toward the cliff as if soon it would swallow the road, too. As they rounded the next curve, Kit could see, far below, the lights of a few cars winding on down the mountain—but when she looked back, headlights were coming toward them fast, truck lights higher and wider than any car, racing down the narrow road. Then a second set of lights flashed past that heavy vehicle, growing huge in their rearview mirror, then the big truck gained on the pickup again, accelerating at downhill speed, the two vehicles moving too fast, coming right at them, their lights blazing in through the back window, blinding her. The truck swerved into the oncoming lane, passing the pickup, its lights illuminating the rocky cliff—then everything happened at once. The truck and pickup both tried to crowd past them in the left-hand lane, forcing them too near the edge. The truck skidded and swung around, forcing the pickup against the cliff, their lights careening up the jagged stone. At the same instant the cliff seemed to explode. Pedric fought the wheel as an avalanche of dirt surged down at them. Kit didn’t understand what was happening. Behind them great rocks came leaping down onto the truck and a skyful of flying stones skidded across their windshield. She thought the whole mountain was coming down, boulders bouncing off the pickup, too, and on down toward the sea. Pedric crashed through somehow, leaving the two vehicles behind them. The stones thundering against metal nearly deafened her, a roar that she knew was the last sound she’d ever hear in this life.

  And then all was still; only the sound of the last pebbles falling, bouncing across their windshield and across their dented hood.

  2

  VICTOR AMSON’S OLD gray pickup raced too fast down the steep two-lane, its bare tires squealing around the curves, its headlights glancing off the stony cliff, following the taillights of a big produce truck, drawing close on its tail. The truck driver swerved onto a turnout at the sheer edge of the drop, impatient for him to go on past. As Vic swung into the oncoming lane, he could see the round-faced driver giving him the finger. Prickly bastard. Moving on around him, Vic smiled, grateful that nothing was coming up the hill; though the narrow, winding road didn’t bother him. Beside him, his passenger was hunched way over to the center, his eyes squeezed shut with fear. Didn’t take much to scare Birely.

  Once Vic was free of the truck he sailed right on down the mountain, driving one-handed, his tall, wiry frame jammed in behind the wheel, his lined face catching light from the dash in a cobweb of wrinkles, a thin face, narrow nose, his pale brown eyes too close together. Worn jeans and ragged windbreaker, rough, callused hands. Long brown hair streaked with gray, hanging down, caught on the back of the seat, loosely tied with a leather band. He drove scowling, thinking about those three cops in their patrol cars watching him when he came out of that fence’s place.

  The damn fuzz might not have been on his case at all but they sure as hell made him cranky, their marked units parked there in front of the Laundromat that the fence used as a front. That had made Birely fidget, too. Birely’d wanted to ditch the truck to get the cops off their trail, steal another car on some backstreet and then hit the freeway, he said they both should have had haircuts, that shaggy hair always set a cop off. Suspicious bastards, he said, and he was right about that.

  Having passed the truck, Vic was coming down on a big sedan, shiny black in the wash of his headlights, maybe a small limo, its red taillights winking on and off as it negotiated the winding road, its headlights sweeping along the ragged cliff. When his lights hit it right, he could s
ee a lone couple in the front seat, and what looked like a small dog perched up in the back. On past it, farther down the steep grade, occasional taillights winked, gearing down the steep curves, maybe trucks hauling their loads to one of the small coastal towns that stood like warts down there along the marshy shore. The truck behind gained on him again. Birely went rigid as a fencepost, glancing back, trying not to look down over the steep drop, his faded brown eyes turned away, his bony hands nervously clutching at his worn-out leather jacket that he’d probably picked up at some rescue mission. They had, until they hit the mountain road, been passing the bottle of Old Crow back and forth, but now, when Vic offered the bottle, Birely shook his head, glancing sideways toward the hundred-foot drop and scooting over even tighter against the middle console, his fists tight whenever their old tires let out a squeal. Made Vic wonder why the hell he’d linked up with Birely again after all these years, the guy was a total wuss, always had been. Scared of his own shadow, clumsy, always out of sync with what was going on around him, a real screwup.

  Years back, when they were younger and ran together some, any time Vic had something profitable going, Birely managed to screw it up. Every damn time. Make a mess of it, blow the plan, and they’d end up with nothing for their trouble but maybe a night or two in the slammer.

  He’d finally dumped Birely, didn’t see him for years. Until three months ago, he’d run into him again. That was just after he’d confiscated this current pickup truck from a ranch yard north of Salinas, slapped on different license plates courtesy of a roadside junkyard, bolted on an old rusted camper shell he found dumped back in the woods. As he headed over to the coast, it had started to rain when he ran into Birely outside a 7-Eleven when he stopped for beer. Birely sat huddled on a bench out in front, under the roof that sheltered the gas pumps, sat eating one of them dried-up package sandwiches, and you’d think they were long-lost brothers, the way Birely went on. Bastard was broke, and happy as hell to see him.