Cat Telling Tales

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  “Do you know where she went?”

  Billy shook his head. “I guess she’d have to live in her car, an old green Chevy, a four-door.”

  “Did Gran keep money in the house?”

  He looked down at his worn boots. “Under her bed, under the floor. At least some of it was there. She thought I didn’t know. She’d cash her paycheck, give me some for food, keep the rest for whiskey. Mr. Kraft always gave her money, a wad of money. Maybe she kept that somewhere else.”

  “She didn’t put it in the bank?”

  “No. In a little tin box under the floor. She thought the box was fireproof. That’s all I know of. Maybe it all burned up.”

  “You think Emmylou knew where the money was hidden?”

  “I don’t know. I knew, so I guess she could have.”

  They were quiet, Billy scraping his boots on the fence rail to dislodge the dried mud from his heels. When Max asked who he should notify about Gran’s death, besides Erik Kraft and Billy’s two aunts, Billy said, “There’s no one else. And my aunts . . . Gran hasn’t seen Debbie in years, she lives up in Oregon. Aunt Esther lives in the village, but she hardly ever came to see Gran. Except at Christmas. She’d bring a basket of food like we were some kind of charity case. She hated that we lived there, she was always so snooty. She hated that Gran drank, she always acted mad at Gran. She didn’t like me much, either. I don’t know why she came.”

  “Did your gran ever get any letters, did your aunt Debbie write to her?”

  “I never saw any letters. Usually Emmylou brought the mail in from the highway before I got home. I guess Debbie could have written, but Gran never said. Why wouldn’t Gran say, why would she keep that secret? I saw Debbie’s phone number in Gran’s little address book, but Gran never said she talked to her. I guess the book got burned, too.” The boy’s voice was flat, shut down. These two aunts had never been his family, had never tried to be. The two people he cared about had both been taken from him, his mother when he was eight, and now his gran. Now he had no one. A lone child, trying hard to become a man.

  Max said, “You don’t know who your father is.”

  Billy shook his head. “Before Mama died, she said it didn’t matter, that I only needed her. But then she died.”

  Max shifted his position on the fence.

  Billy said, “Gran would never talk about it, she said Greta wouldn’t tell her which boy she’d been with, she said the high school was way too lenient, letting the kids do anything. Then she’d start drinking more, and didn’t want to talk to me about it—like it was my fault I had no father. I didn’t understand all of it, then. I was only eight.

  “Well,” Billy said, “no one came looking for me. No one ever came there saying he was my father.” He turned to scratch the ears of the bay pony, hiding his face from Max. “After the accident, after Mama’s car went off the bridge, Gran said it was her fault, it was her fault Mama died.”

  “Why would it be her fault?”

  “Because they fought, because Mama got so mad she ran out in the storm, took off in the car, got in a wreck and died.”

  The boy’s words startled Joe. Brought his nightmare reeling back again: the stormy night, the two women yelling at each other, the child huddled on the cot. Shivering, he pushed the memory aside. He didn’t want to think about it, the unbidden nightmare sickened and scared him.

  Billy said, “Gran would never tell me what they fought about that night. If I bugged her, she’d just drink more. Before Mama died, she didn’t drink so often. That night, the night Mama died, they were yelling and screaming, and when I tried to make them stop, they yelled at me, told me to go to bed and shut up. It was raining hard. Mama screamed at Gran that she didn’t understand anything and started to cry and slammed out, I heard her take off fast up the road, for the highway.”

  Ducking his head, he straightened the pony’s mane. “That was the last I ever saw her. Except for her funeral. That night after the cops came to tell us Mama was dead, Gran said she should have stopped her, should have grabbed her keys, made her stay in the house. But she couldn’t have,” he said angrily. “You couldn’t stop Mama, she’d never listen. You couldn’t make her listen.”

  Joe sat shivering, stricken, seeing the scene Billy had painted, reliving his nightmare, every word and every move, the feel of the rain, of his soaking fur. Savagely he licked at a front paw, wished he could lick away the dream as easily as dislodging a blade of grass—wished he could lick away the cruelty of the world, all the ugliness of humankind.

  “After Mama died, there was always a bottle. By the stove, by Gran’s bed, under the covers. She stank of whiskey, and it made her mean. I hate the smell. She didn’t want to eat, she’d come home from work with no groceries, nothing in the cupboard, maybe crackers. That’s when I started working at the Peterson ranch, cleaning stalls. They didn’t turn me away because I was so young, I’m good with animals, I did good work for them. I earned enough to buy beans and bread on the way home.”

  Joe looked up the lane as Clyde pulled in off the highway, the red king cab kicking up gravel and dust against the taller grass at the edge of the long dirt drive. He parked near the stable, got out and slid his old, folded camping cot out of the bed of the truck, along with some folded blankets and a striped mattress just about thick enough to make a small cat comfortable. Billy dropped down off the fence, took the load from him. Max said, “Get your cot set up, then I want to walk down the hill, have a look at Gran’s cave.”

  Billy nodded and disappeared into the stable, as Max fetched a heavy flashlight from the cab of his truck. Joe waited until the chief and Billy headed down across the north pasture, then he slipped into the rank grass outside the fence and followed, slinking along unseen, the tall blades tickling his ears.

  8

  Where the pasture fell away to the delta below, Joe crouched under the fence among the tall weeds, looking down on the burned shack. Detective Garza was moving slowly through, sorting among the debris, his jeans and blue sweatshirt smeared with ashes, the pockets of his dark windbreaker bulging with what were surely small items of possible evidence, each secured in a paper or plastic bag. Garza’s tan Blazer stood parked near Hesmerra’s rusty old Volvo with its thick coat of smoky ash. Directly below, Max and Billy were clearing the cave entrance, moving the rotting doors and cobwebby boards away from the opening.

  As Max ducked down into the cave, shining the electric torch across dry earth, Joe slipped down the cliff between the two cars and under them, where he could see into the cave. Inside, the light of Max’s torch swung slowly back and forth across the earthen ceiling and walls, across the heavy posts, the rough crossbeams and hard dirt floor. On an earthen shelf stood a cardboard carton with five screw-top whiskey bottles sticking up. Max pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and examined the circular strips of black plastic that sealed the lids, then picked up the carton and backed out. “Erik Kraft brought her whiskey, but he didn’t know about the cave?”

  “Not that I know of,” Billy said. “She’d put them in here after he left. I don’t know why all the secrecy, but Gran was like that.” Billy peered at the bottles. “Are you thinking he poisoned them? Why would he do that? He liked Gran, he was kind to her, he gave her money, brought pizza, things to eat. He bought medicine once, when she had the flu.” But then the boy went quiet, very still, as if perhaps letting his thoughts touch something new and unwelcome.

  Max studied his face then moved away, carrying the carton. As he set it down on the open tailgate of Dallas Garza’s Blazer, beyond him Emmylou Warren appeared, coming down the lane from the highway. Joe could see a glimpse of her car, of its back bumper and a patch of green sticking out past the bushes that grew along the edge of the two-lane. Max and Billy saw her at the same moment.

  Billy moved as if to go to her, but then seemed to change his mind, to think better of it, and turned his attention back to the whiskey, studying the seals more closely. “If none of those was poisoned, poison could sti
ll have been in the open one.”

  Max nodded, his attention on Emmylou. She had stopped beyond the cars, stood watching Dallas sifting through the rubble. When Dallas saw her he came to join them, looking back at Emmylou. “I sent her away once. When I got here she was parked right down at the yellow tape, sitting in her car, crying.” He looked down at Billy. “She was worried about you. I told her you’re all right.”

  “Go on,” Max said to Billy, “go talk to her.”

  Billy ran. When Emmylou saw him she let out a whoop and ran, too, flinging her arms around him and nearly toppling them both. Joe was crouched beneath Hesmerra’s car, not six feet from them. Emmylou’s sun-browned face was as wrinkled as crushed leather, her jeans worn and soft, her colorless T-shirt thin, with two holes in one sleeve. “You’re all right!” She held Billy away, looking deeply at him. “I was in the market when I heard about the fire, about your gran. No one knew where you were, what happened to you. Where are your cats, are they all right? Where will you go, do you have—”

  Billy nodded up toward the Harpers’ place. “They’re in Captain Harper’s barn. I’ll be staying there, too, for now. Did you find a place to live?”

  Emmylou gestured toward her car. “That’s my home, for now,” she said, grinning. Behind them, Max watched Emmylou, his expression thoughtful. Was he, like Joe himself, curious about why she’d come up there? Wondering if she’d only been worried about Billy, or if she’d had some other reason?

  As broke as she was, would she come nosing around looking for Hesmerra’s hidden money, however little it might be? Had she meant to make off with it before the fire inspectors and detectives appeared on the scene? She had arrived before Garza. Had she already rooted through the burn and, knowing where Hesmerra hid the tin box, already stolen the money that was rightfully Billy’s?

  Max stepped over to join them. “We’ll want you to come down to the station, Emmylou. For routine fingerprinting.”

  Emmylou just looked at him, the expression in her faded brown eyes wary.

  “A matter of elimination,” Max said. “If you were in the house, your prints could come up on broken dishes, glasses. With a set on file, we can eliminate you as someone who shouldn’t have been there. I’d like you to come in today, if you could,” he said gently, “so we can move on with the investigation. Any of the officers can take your prints.”

  Emmylou frowned. “You’re saying someone started the fire? On purpose?”

  “It’s possible,” Max said. “Both the fire and Hesmerra’s death are under investigation.”

  She was quiet, studying his closed face. “I’ll come,” she said, subdued. As she put her arm around Billy, Max turned away, stepping over to the burn to talk with Dallas. Billy said, “You can’t live in your car for long, the street patrol will arrest you, or the sheriff will.”

  “Remember my friend, Sammie Miller? She worked with Hesmerra for a while, cleaning? She came here a couple of times?”

  Billy nodded. “You feed her cats when she’s gone. Can’t you stay with her?”

  “She’s away now, but this time she didn’t leave her key. When she gets back, maybe I can stay there.” She smiled down at Billy. “I’ll be fine, I’ll come to see you. Maybe pick you up at school, give you a ride home. We can tie your bike on the back.” Before she turned away, to head for her old Chevy, Joe shot through the grass along the top of the cliff and dropped down to the car, where the driver’s window was open; he shot through and into the backseat before she was halfway up the lane.

  Pawing through the rubble, he scented among the clothes and blankets for the faintest smell of ashes, looking for Hesmerra’s lost money, burrowing among cartons of canned goods and paperback books. How did she sleep in here? Actually, though, the plan was pretty neat: everything tucked on the floor up to the level of the backseat. A thin foam pad was folded up against the door; he imagined her laying it across the seat and her stacked belongings, to make a wide bed. She’d have to pull her knees up, though, as tall as she was. He was peering between the pad and the door when he heard her outside brushing off her jeans. As he turned, his hind paw slipped, sliding against cold metal—and he smelled burned wood and wet ashes.

  Digging aside the blankets and some newspapers, he uncovered a tin box, tall and narrow, made to hold office files. His exploring paw came away liberally dusted with dirt and ashes. He froze when she passed the window. But she went on to the back of the car, and he heard the trunk pop open.

  The latch of the box was of a kind hard for a cat to snap open, one of those affairs where a lever is pulled down, securing a metal bar into a hook. He fought it, shifting position until he had his claws under it, took a deep breath, pulled with all his might, praying he wouldn’t tear his claws right out of their sockets.

  Snap, the latch popped open with a scrape so loud she heard it, the trunk slammed and there she was at the side window. Quickly flipping the box open, he got one glimpse of the contents: not money, but letters and business papers. He clawed through sheets of figures. The name on the letterheads was Kraft Realty.

  Behind him, the door jerked open. He spun around staring up at Emmylou with all the forlorn fear he could muster; choking out a shaky “Meow,” he backed away.

  She laughed and reached to pet him. “You poor thing. What are you doing in here? You’re not one of Billy’s cats. Where did you come from?”

  Joe looked at her helplessly. He was crouched to bolt past her when Max Harper appeared behind her, looking in.

  “What the hell? Get out of there, Joe. What are you doing in there?” With no ceremony he reached in, lifted Joe gently by the back of his neck and one hand under his belly, and deposited him outside on the ground. “Why the hell are you so nosy?” he said with a dry little grin. “Get your tail up to the ranch, Clyde will be looking for you!”

  Joe vanished. Scorched up the cliff into the tall grass, pretending to race away. Max Harper seldom touched him, and never unkindly, only sometimes to scratch his ears if Joe was lounging on his desk. Below him, Max and Emmylou stood talking, Harper making clear to her again that she was expected to come in and be fingerprinted, Emmylou still looking reluctant. As her car headed away up the narrow, rutted road, and Harper and Billy started back to the cave, Joe hightailed it for the ranch, his thoughts on the metal box and the documents it contained. Some were emblazoned with the letterhead of Kraft Realty, but there were half a dozen other real estate firms, as well, names that meant nothing to Joe. All the letters and documents he could see, in that quick glimpse, presented neatly typed accountings of funds ranging up into the high seven digits—ten million, twelve million. A financial smorgasbord that Joe found singularly interesting, considering that, from the burned smell, and the ashes and dirt coating the container, the collection had come from the burned house, had perhaps been buried in the earth, beneath the floor. Many of the dates were recent. Where had Hesmerra gotten these and why? Why would Erik Kraft give his business papers to Hesmerra Young?

  Could she somehow have stolen them? But why? What good would his legal papers do her? If Kraft was her friend, why would she steal from him at all? Even if he was only a convenient source of whiskey and cash, why would she jeopardize that? Or had the old woman, when she died, been quietly pursuing some other agenda involving Erik Kraft, driven by some motive of her own?

  9

  Debbie Kraft arrived two days after the fire; she showed up just after midnight at the Damens’ front door repeatedly ringing the bell, dragging Ryan and Clyde from sleep, sending the big Weimaraner into a fit of barking, ripping Joe Grey straight out of deep and pleasant dreams. Grumbling, he slipped out from his cushions, left his tower, and padded across the roof to the edge to look over.

  They were crowded on the little porch around the front door, a young woman, two kids, three threadbare suitcases, a pile of ragtag carryalls and cloth bags with the contents oozing over the tops. The skinny woman, clutching her arms around herself against the night’s chill, was dressed in
black tights, a puffy black jacket, high-heeled black boots. The two little girls clung to her, the little one silent and still, the older kid whining and pulling on her. Above them at Ryan’s studio window, Ryan appeared like a ghost in her white gauzy robe, looking down just as Joe was looking at the little group, at the dusty brown station wagon parked in the drive behind the king cab, the back so full of jumbled belongings the windows might as well have been boarded over.

  The porch light went on. The front door opened. Clyde stood there bare-chested, in his sweatpants. Debbie’s voice was shrill and animated, a gushing greeting from a woman Clyde had never met and, from the look on his face, didn’t want to meet. There was a short exchange, then Debbie and the two girls swarmed in around him, dragging what baggage they could carry. Clyde, turning away resigned, left the door open so Debbie could haul in the rest.

  Joe watched for only a minute, torn between the fear he’d miss something, and his sure knowledge that the rest of the night would be chaos, the woman’s high, emotion-driven voice reaching up even into his tower. He wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. If he had any sense he’d get the hell out of there. Whatever drama the night might hold, as the Damens got Debbie settled, he’d hear about in the morning.

  He went. Heading across the rooftops toward the center of the village, beneath the bright full moon, he leaped over rivers of moonlight and over shadows as black as hell itself. If Dulcie was prowling the library, exploring among the books, maybe she’d give him a little sympathy for this midnight eviction that was, after all, the next thing to a full-blown home invasion.