Cat Under Fire

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  The night before Janet was killed, she had driven home alone from a long weekend in San Francisco, from the opening of the de Young Museum Annual, where she had accepted first prize for oils and second prize for sculpture. That was a heady night for any artist, to receive two top awards in one major show. That was Sunday night. She had left the reception around ten, driving south along the coast, the only direct route, arriving home near midnight. She had pulled the van into her hillside garage-studio, and in a few minutes, a neighbor said, her lights came on in her downstairs apartment. Half an hour later the lights went out, as if she had gone to bed.

  She rose early Monday morning as was her habit- she was up by five. A neighbor leaving for his job on the Baytowne wharves saw her lights. She must have dressed, gone directly upstairs, and made coffee in the studio as she usually did. The newspaper said she was under a tight schedule, finishing up the last small touches on a metal sculpture commission to be delivered that week. The county fire investigators weren't sure whether, when she turned on her oxygen gauge, the tank exploded, or whether fire broke out first and caused the tank's explosion. She was hit in the head by flying metal.

  The Molena Point police found a liberal smearing of oil on Janet's oxygen gauge and in the lines. Oil which, when the tank was turned on, could have caused the explosion. But that wasn't what killed her.

  Traces of aspirin were found in her blood, and Janet was deathly allergic to the medication; even a small dose would have dangerously slowed her breathing. The police had found traces of aspirin in the metal of the melted coffeemaker. The combination of aspirin and smoke inhalation had been sufficient to end Janet's life. And perhaps the explosion of her van had prevented her dazed escape.

  Normally she did not weld with her van inside the studio complex, but she only had to do a little touch-up to the sculpture. When flames reached the van's gas tank the resulting explosion turned the fire into an inferno that leveled her studio and swept on across the hills. Fanned by the early-morning wind, it burned a wide swath of the residential hills, igniting a half-mile corridor of trees and houses to the south, but leaving Janet's apartment below the studio's concrete slab nearly untouched. The evidence soon pointed to Rob Lake. His old Chevy Suburban was seen in the drive just before the fire and his prints were recovered from the scene. Dulcie watched him now as he paced the cell, returning to her, reaching up again, then moving away. He could not be still.

  Janet had broken up with Rob nearly a year before she died. They were not on good terms. They had parted when Lake began a professional relationship with Janet's ex-husband.

  Onetime art critic Kendrick Mahl, now a gallery owner, had made a big name of Lake, though Lake's work wasn't much. Village gossip had it that Mahl took Lake into his stable to spite Janet. And who could blame Lake for jumping at the chance? Mahl was a big name in California art circles.

  Mahl promoted one-man shows for Lake, pressed for articles in art publications, ran full-page, full-color ads in those same journals. Until the murder, Lake had been well on his way to becoming a big name. Now, except for the attention of sensation seekers, Lake's career was on hold. Rob Lake's world had shrunk overnight to the size of his jail cell.

  Lake didn't have a solid alibi for the night Janet died. There was no witness to his movements once he left San Francisco. After the reception at the de Young, he had parried with friends. He returned home to Molena Point about 4 A.M. and went to bed. Two witnesses testified that he left San Francisco shortly after two in the morning. Lake had had keys to Janet's studio from the days when they were dating, as well as keys to her four-year-old Chevy van. He testified that for sentimental reasons he hadn't returned them, that he kept them in his dresser drawer.

  But Janet's agent, Sicily Aronson, also had a set of keys, to both the studio and the van. And so had Kendrick Mahl at one time. Mahl, in court testimony, said he'd given them back and that he hadn't made copies.

  Rob stroked Dulcie through the wire. "You know, cat, I never had pets. I always laughed at people with pets. I thought it was stupid, dogs fawning and whining, that having an animal was just a big bother.

  "I figured cats were totally aloof, that cats just used a person. But you're not like that."

  He looked at her intently. "I give you nothing, I can't even pet you properly, and still you come to see me. Why?"

  Dulcie purred.

  "Sometimes, cat, I don't think even my attorney gives a damn. I wish… But what the hell. Maybe all attorneys are like that." He was silent for a few moments, his gaze boyish and innocent. "Maybe if I could paint in here, if they'd let me have paints and some canvas, maybe I could relax." He pressed both hands against the mesh, his palms flat.

  "But what good would it be to paint? Truth is, I'm not sure if I want to go on painting when I-if I get out of here."

  She gave him a surprised look, then quickly she nibbled at her paw.

  He studied her, frowning. "I'm not like Janet; I'm not a passionate painter like Janet was." He grinned at the word. "But it's true. Janet painted because she had to, she was driven to paint. But me-I never had that kind of passion.

  "And ever since she died, cat, I really don't give a damn."

  He leaned his forehead against the concrete. "I envied her talent, cat. But you know I couldn't have killed her." He looked up at her searchingly. "I hope you know it. I guess you're the only one who does know it." He looked sheepish suddenly, then he laughed.

  "I've really lost it, telling my troubles to a cat. But, I don't know…" He frowned, shook his head. "I feel like you really do care. Like you know I didn't kill her."

  She purred louder, wishing she could speak to him, could comfort him.

  That would really tear it-send Joe into complete orbit.

  "Even when Mahl took me into his gallery, cat, when he made me a part of that exclusive stable, I knew I wasn't in the same league as Janet.

  "Right from the start, I knew that Mahl did it to hurt her. I was ashamed of that," he said softly. "But not ashamed enough to stop him. I let him do it, and I didn't complain, I didn't have the guts. All I wanted was to be famous."

  Lake turned away again to pace the cell, then whirled to Dulcie so suddenly she started and nearly fell off the narrow ledge.

  "I wasn't ashamed enough to stop," he shouted. "Not ashamed enough to turn away from one big ego trip."

  She stared at him until he calmed down. This guy could, without too much effort, become a real basket case.

  "If I hadn't let Mahl build me into a big name, hadn't let him use me to hurt her, maybe she'd still be alive. Maybe we would never have broken up, maybe we'd still be together." He sat down on the rumpled bunk, looked up at Dulcie.

  "Maybe we would have been together that night, and I might have prevented what happened." He stared up at her bleakly. "I didn't kill her, cat. But maybe it's my fault she died."

  Dulcie was stricken with pity for him, but she was irritated, too. Right from the start he had stirred every ounce of her sympathy, yet his total lack of hope enraged her. He seemed to have given up already. Sometimes he was so negative she wondered why she bothered.

  Maybe she was suffering from misguided mothering instincts, but one thing she knew for sure-Lake was innocent. He was in there because of Marritt's sloppy investigation. Captain Harper wouldn't keep Marritt on the force for a minute if the mayor and city council hadn't threatened Harper's own job. She thought Harper was biding his time, waiting for a good way to dump Marritt, one the city couldn't argue with.

  And as for the prosecuting attorney, what could you say? The county attorney wanted a conviction.

  But it was her dreams that had really convinced her of Rob's innocence. Three times she had dreamed of Janet's white cat, and he was trying to tell her something, show her something important.

  Before the fire she and Joe had occasionally seen the white cat as they hunted the hills, and had glimpsed him leaping out through Janet's studio window, which the artist had kept open for him. They di
dn't see him often, and Dulcie thought he must have spent a lot of time in the house, sleeping. He was not a young cat.

  After the fire, crews of villagers and SPCA volunteers had searched the hills for all the missing animals. They had found most of the dogs and cats, but they had found no trace of Janet's cat. Joe said he probably died in the fire; but no remains were found. It was a terrible thing to die in a fire; Dulcie was sickened to imagine such a death.

  It was a week after the fire when she began to dream of the white cat. He was a longhaired torn, very elegant, with deep blue eyes. Her dreams were so clear that she could see the rabies tag fixed to his blue collar, and the small brass plate with Janet's name. In each dream he wanted her to follow him, he would turn looking back at her, giving a switch of his tail and a flick of his ears. But each time, when she tried to follow, she woke.

  Rob stood looking out into the hall through his barred door, then returned to the window. "The police are going up to Janet's this morning; they're going to look for her diary. God knows what's in it, cat. God knows what she said about me."

  She stared at him, puzzled, galvanized with interest. She'd heard nothing about a diary.

  "Late yesterday a witness testified about the diary. That skinny old lady who said she saw my Suburban at Janet's the morning she was killed. She testified again, told the court that Janet had a diary."

  The witness was Elisa Trest. Dulcie had thought Elisa wasn't going on the stand until this morning. If she'd known that, she would have stayed later yesterday afternoon.

  "That Trest woman used to clean for Janet. I remember her up there poking around. Dried-up, nosy old biddy. She couldn't have seen my car. Why would she lie about it? She's saying Janet kept her diary on the shelf in the bedroom, but I never saw it. If there was a diary, I bet the old woman read every word, the way her face turned pink."

  He sighed. "After we broke up, and I went with Mahl, I can imagine what Janet must have written about me. Well, it's out of my hands. But if the cops find it, that could mean another delay. Sometimes I think the delays are worse than a conviction; it's the delays that drain you, drag you down.

  "But what do you care?" he said crossly. "What would a dumb cat care?"

  Dulcie blinked.

  He was like this sometimes, sweet and needing one minute, and angry the next. Well, the young man hurt; and he was afraid. And she was the only one available to yell at. She narrowed her eyes, thinking about the diary, wondering if such evidence would help Rob or would strengthen the case against him. Wondering, if Detective Marritt found the journal, what he would do. And if Deonne Baron got hold of the diary, if she thought it would win the case, she was the kind of woman who would spread Janet's personal life all over the papers. Ms. Baron didn't care about Rob, Dulcie was convinced of that, but she was boldly aggressive about winning.

  Dulcie lashed her tail, dunking. She wanted to see Janet's journal; she wanted a look at it before the police found it.

  She turned, looking down into the police parking area. The officers' private cars were damp with overnight dew, the windshields fogged over. The shift hadn't changed. It wasn't yet eight o'clock, when the day watch came on, when Marritt would arrive at work and maybe head right up to Janet's to look for the diary.

  She gave Rob a long look and left him, leaping across the three-story drop into the oak tree, scattering pigeons. Clinging to the branches, digging her claws deep into the rough bark, she backed down and took off, running.

  3

  A slash of morning sun careened across the kitchen table, warming Joe's fur where he lay sprawled on the morning paper. Below him Barney, the golden, and Rube, the Lab, fussed and paced waiting for their breakfasts. The cats had settled down, hunched, hungry, pretending patience. He glanced across through the wide window above the kitchen sink. A hummingbird flitted at the glass, then was gone. The neighborhood rooftops gleamed with slanting light as the sun lifted above the hills and far mountains. When he heard Clyde coming down the hall he stretched out more fully across the sports page, though he had already pretty much trashed it with his muddy feet, leaving long, satisfying streaks of soil and wet grass that obliterated portions of the text.

  Clyde pushed open the kitchen door, carrying his empty coffee mug and a clean white lab coat. The dogs leaped at him, whining, and the three cats wound around his ankles, preening and purring. He dropped the lab coat over the back of a chair and knelt, hugging and baby talking the fawning beasts as if he hadn't seen them in months. Dressed in faded jeans and a red polo shirt, he was well scrubbed, freshly shaven, his cheeks still faintly damp. His black hair, handsomely blow-dried, would within an hour be wild as a squirrel's first try at nest building. Rising from his kneeling position, he straightened the pristine lab coat until it hung without a wrinkle. The starched white coat was a gross affectation-it would look fine on a doctor. Clyde had taken to wearing these garments only recently: Clyde Damen, Physician of Foreign Engines, resident M.D. to Molena Point's ailing Rolls Royces and Mercedeses. He even had the damned coats commercially laundered and starched.

  Clyde acknowledged Joe with a soft shove to the shoulder and stood studying Joe's sprawled form draped across the sports page. "You have mud on your paws. Can't you wash before you come in the house? And why the hell do you always have to lie on the sports page? What's wrong with the editorials? You've left half the yard on it."

  "Why should I lie on the editorials? You don't read the editorials. Your life would be incredibly dull without my little homey touches."

  "My breakfast table would be cleaner, too." Clyde gave him a long look and set about opening cans of dog food and cat food and boxes of kibble. He filled five separate bowls, setting them down on the linoleum far enough apart to maintain a semblance of peace among the three cats and two dogs, to avoid unnecessary snapping. As the beasts ate, he propped open the door to the backyard so they could have a run when they were finished. He filled his coffee cup, pulled a box of cereal from the cupboard, dumped some into a bowl, and poured on milk Every morning, watching him do this, Joe wondered what would happen if he absently dumped in dog kibble. But hey, add a little sugar, who would know? Clyde set the bowl on the table. "What do you want to eat?"

  "Thanks, I've had breakfast."

  "I can imagine. Blood and intestines." He sucked at his coffee, reaching for the front page. " 'Baron's call for delay denied.' Damned lawyers would string it out forever." He looked up at Joe. "I suppose Dulcie's down there again this morning. Tell me why she's so determined. Where did she get this fixation that Lake's innocent?"

  Joe sighed and rolled over, then sat up irritably, biting at a flea. "It's her dreams," he said uneasily. "Those dreams about Janet's white cat. I told you, she's convinced the cat is still alive, that he's trying to tell her something." He licked a whisker. "I wish those searchers had found the cat either dead or alive, then maybe she wouldn't be dreaming about him."

  "The white cat's dead. He's dead or he'd have gone home-what's left of home. The neighbors would have seen him."

  Joe preferred to think the cat was alive, that Dulcie was at least dreaming of a live cat and not a ghost.

  The white cat's picture had been in the papers, as reporters dredged up every detail of Janet's life. If anyone in Molena Point had seen him, they would have taken him in, or notified the animal shelter, or called the Gazette.

  "I find it interesting." Joe said, "that Janet's sister Beverly didn't make a fuss about the cat, that she didn't go out herself to look for him."

  "The cat's dead," Clyde repeated.

  "Maybe," Joe said uncomfortably.

  "Dulcie's lost her head over this. Look at the evidence. Lake's Suburban was seen that morning in Janet's driveway-who could mistake that old heap. And after Janet and Lake broke up, Lake was so vindictive that Janet refused to talk to him. Don't you think that made him mad? These days, people kill for less."

  Joe snorted. "If you murdered every woman you broke up with, Molena Point would be half-empty." He
licked mud off his leg. "Anyway, the car is circumstantial. The witness only said it looked like Lake's Suburban-there are plenty of those old Chevys around. It was still dark, how much could she see?"

  Clyde spooned more sugar onto his cereal. "Anyway the grand jury had to think there was sufficient evidence to indict Lake. They don't take a man to trial for nothing."

  Joe shrugged. "Grand jury thinks he could be guilty. Dulcie swears he's not. What am I supposed to say to her? She won't listen."

  "Just because she's gotten friendly with Lake, hanging out in his cell-just because Lake is a cat lover…"

  "She doesn't go into the jail. She watches from his window," he said, hissing. He might be critical of Dulcie, but when Clyde started trashing her he got angry. "She doesn't think he's a cat lover; she just thinks he's innocent. And it's not only from listening to Lake," he said defensively. "It's from other stuff she's heard."

  "Like what?"

  Joe shrugged. "Like there might be another witness, who hasn't come forward."

  "Who said?"

  "Talk around the village."

  "Well of course that's reliable. Village gossip is always…"

  "Maybe it's not gossip. Maybe there's something to it. You can pick up a lot of information hanging around the restaurants and shops."

  Clyde stopped eating. "What, exactly, do you mean by hanging around? Is that like the morning I caught you two cadging scraps under the table at Mollie's?" He fixed Joe with a hard look. "Have you two been in the shops again? Sneaking around into the restaurants? Don't you know there's a health law?"

  "Dulcie and I are healthy. We won't catch anything."

  Clyde sighed. "You two are lucky you live in Molena Point. Anywhere else, the shopkeepers would call the pound."

  "Give it a rest. I've heard it a million times. 'Molena Point residents are good to you, you ought to return their thoughtfulness, try to act decent, remember your manners. Molena Point is cat heaven. You two don't know how lucky you are.' You tell me that every time I complain about any little thing. 'You live anywhere else, Joe, you wouldn't have half the freedom or half the perks.'"