Cat Telling Tales

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Joe looked at them with pity but turned resolutely away. There was nothing he could do, just now, to ease their misery. Dropping to the floor, he padded down the stairs, his nose twitching with annoyance at the smell of strangers that rose up the steps. Below, he descended into a chaos of abandoned sweaters, grubby dolls, children’s dirty tennis shoes dropped at random down the hall. In the kitchen, a blue plastic cooler stood on the floor dripping water across the tile. The table was strewn with food-crusted paper plates, a package of cupcakes with one bite out of each. Two thermos bottles stood open, smelling of souring milk. He had to guess that Ryan and Clyde, losing patience, had left it all for Debbie to clean up—if she was so inclined.

  The guest room door stood open. Despite the fusty smell of sleep, he slipped inside, skirting the two duffel bags, the clothes draped over the rattan and cane chairs and the desk, and the rattan game table. On the handmade Konya rug, an open suitcase lay, revealing a tangle of sweatshirts, big and little, a woman’s lace panties, a makeup case, a grubby white brassiere. The room smelled of the same perfume, of unwashed hair and dirty socks. In the queen-sized bed, Debbie and the two children slept tangled together, the girls snuggled up to their mother, their long pale hair strewn into her dark hair, their arms around her as if, at least in sleep, the little family found solace in one another. Looking at the sheer volume of their belongings, he imagined them camping in his home until Christmas, and he backed out again feeling depressed. The only upside to this woman’s arrival would be whatever he could learn about her dead mother, about Debbie’s relationship with her, and maybe about Hesmerra’s interest in the affairs of Kraft Realty. Hurrying back up to his tower in the black predawn, he burrowed deep beneath the cushions, shut his eyes, and listened to the rising wind, its wail as miserable as he felt.

  Joe woke at first light; as he rose up out of the pillows, the sharp sea wind harried and chilled him, blowing in through his open windows. The temperature had dropped. The treetops loomed in dark islands, and in the east above the black hills one finger of light streaked across below the clouds, blushing pink from the hidden sun. He could smell coffee, pancakes, bacon, but this happy greeting was broken harshly by Vinnie’s shout, “I won’t, I won’t! You can’t make me!” He heard no word from Tessa. Didn’t the smaller child ever talk?

  Slipping inside, onto his high rafter, he looked down at the empty king-sized bed, the covers tossed back in a tangle. On the leather love seat in the study, Snowball slept curled against Rock, the two animals staying sensibly clear of their houseguests. He froze as childish footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  Twelve-year-old Vinnie raced to the top, her curly blond hair rumpled from sleep, her eyes as dark as Hershey bars. Dog and cat watched her warily. Ignoring them, Vinnie looked around the study with a keen and destructive eye.

  Stepping to the desk, she picked up a ruler and, turning to the love seat, she began to poke at Rock. The big silver dog looked at her, shocked, and hunched away. When she poked harder, he stood up on the couch facing her, glancing around for a way of escape but unwilling to abandon Snowball. But when Vinnie turned her attention to the little white cat, Rock snarled at her and in the same instant Joe dropped from the rafter to the desk and made a flying leap to the kid’s head, his claws out. Snowball exploded over the back of the love seat and beneath it, and Rock gave Joe a grateful look and raced away down the stairs. Joe was still clinging. Vinnie snatched at him and then hit him. He scratched her hand and leaped clear, and she ran screaming down the steps behind the escaping dog, hit the kitchen bellowing that the cat had attacked her. No wonder that red tom had fled the Kraft household. He heard the dog door flap as Rock bolted for the backyard. Smiling, he sauntered down the steps and into the kitchen. When Vinnie saw him she screamed and tried to twist out of her mother’s hands. “It jumped right on me! Get it away, it tried to kill me!”

  Debbie was busy dabbing at Vinnie’s head with a wet paper towel. Turning, she fixed her gaze on Joe, her dark brown eyes blazing, her brown hair tangled across the shoulders of her skintight black T-shirt. Vinnie, cradling her bleeding hand, backed away from Joe. At the table, Ryan and Clyde watched the scene tense and ready to move—Joe had no doubt to protect him if the need occurred.

  He was glad he’d been there when Vinnie grabbed that ruler; he had no idea how much torment it would take for gentle Rock to turn on her—no idea how badly the kid might have hurt the innocent animals. Ryan rose at last to rummage in a drawer for salve and Band-Aids. All the while, little Tessa looked on from her own chair at the table beside Clyde. Her brown eyes were huge, filled with a different emotion than Vinnie and their mother, and when she looked at Joe her eyes shone with a shy wonder. Tessa liked it fine, that he had nailed her sister, maybe she even envied him, that he had the nerve to do that.

  The child was seated on two phone books tied to the seat of her chair, with a pillow over them. Beside her, Clyde grinned at Joe conspiratorially as Debbie doctored Vinnie’s wounds, and Vinnie yelled louder. “Hold still,” Debbie snapped, staring at Joe with an expression that made him want to ease away.

  Ryan said, “Whatever Joe did, he had good reason. Look at me, Debbie.” Debbie looked up, scowling at her. “You are to leave our animals alone, do you understand? You, and Vinnie both. If you so much as touch one of our animals or torment them in any way, you’re out on the street pronto.” She stared at Debbie until Debbie turned away. At the table, both Clyde and Tessa hid a smile, and Tessa reached up and took his hand.

  Joe, feeling righteous and smug, leaped onto the table beside them. Ryan took her seat again, returning to her pancakes and bacon. Debbie sat down at her half-finished plate, glaring at them all as Ryan took up the conversation where they had apparently left it. “As to the battered women’s shelter, Debbie, you need to contact them this morning, see if they have room.”

  “How could I get in?” Debbie said, scowling. “You need a judge or a cop to get you in one of those places.”

  Joe wasn’t sure that was true, but it sounded good. Ryan said, “There’s one other option. We have an empty cottage that just closed escrow.” Was she out of her mind? “It needs a good cleaning, inside and out, and the yard needs weeding and trimming. If you want to work for your rent, you can stay there—for a limited time,” she added. Ryan would do almost anything if she thought a person or animal was in need, but she wasn’t knuckling under to Debbie Kraft’s demands. “The cottage is old and small and neglected. There’s no furniture, but the water and electricity are on. If—”

  “We don’t have any furniture,” Debbie said. “You can see we have just what’s in the car. All our furniture belonged to that landlord. Erik has expensive furniture in the condo, here in the village, but we didn’t see much of it. Expensive clothes and car, too, but nothing like that for his family—he says he has to look well, for business.”

  Clyde said, “There are a number of resale stores, sometimes with good furniture. Salvation Army, Goodwill.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t buy anything used.”

  “And why is that?” he asked.

  Ryan said, “You can pick up what you need at a bargain, the better charity shops have some really nice things. Or, you could check out the furniture-rental places.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t—”

  “The place is empty,” Ryan said. “If you want to work for your rent.”

  “You don’t understand. I wouldn’t have time to—”

  “We can go up as soon as you finish your breakfast,” Ryan said, “and you can take a look at it. Bring your suitcases and things, and we’ll take some cleaning supplies.” She gave Debbie a big smile. “You’ll be all set.”

  “But I can’t take the children into some filthy shack. Who knows what kind of germs they’d pick up. You’ll have to get someone else to do your cleaning.”

  Ryan rose, fetched a couple of buckets from the laundry room, and began filling them with supplies: Clorox, disinfectants, rags, brushes. She set a broom and mop besi
de them, looking evenly at Debbie. “Use these. The children will be fine. It’s that, or the shelter.”

  “You’re saying I can’t stay here? Why not? You have plenty of room. I could never go into a shelter, it’s too degrading. And that’s the first place Erik would look. I’ve always known that. Whenever I wanted to leave him, I knew I couldn’t go to a shelter—and then he left me, stranded.” She looked intently at Ryan. “I don’t think you understand how cruel he is. There’s no telling what he’d do if he found me in one of those places. He wouldn’t allow it, that would make him look bad, if anyone found out. And of course I don’t have any money to rent a place, Erik took everything. He stripped the checking account that I used for groceries, and that was all I had.”

  Oh, right, the tomcat thought. And why, if she’d ever wanted to leave Erik, or suspected he might leave her, why didn’t she set something aside? This woman is all about grabbing everything she can, to provide for her own comfort. There’s not a chance in hell she’s broke.

  Dropping down from the table and leaving the kitchen, he wondered if Ryan had told Debbie about her mother’s death. Of course she must have, but Debbie sure wasn’t grieving. He couldn’t see that she’d been crying, and so far he hadn’t heard her mention Hesmerra. Nor did the death of her mother seem to have affected her appetite, he thought, as she greedily shoveled in pancakes. Heading for the guest room, he felt Vinnie watching him. Expecting her to follow, he lay down in the hallway beyond the kitchen door. He heard her sliding out of her chair, and Clyde said, “You follow that cat, Vinnie, I’ll take a belt to your backside.”

  No one spoke. The silence was profound. When Vinnie didn’t appear, Joe fled for the guest room. Slipping in between the open suitcases spread across the floor, he saw Debbie’s purse lying on the seat of the little chair that was pulled up to the desk. In a flash he was up there, pawing open the bag and nosing out her billfold.

  He made quick work of clawing through the money compartment. Twenty bucks? Come on, she wasn’t that broke. He could feel a little change in the side pocket, but that was all. Three credit cards, and those could already be maxed out. Dropping the billfold delicately back into the bag, he concentrated on the zippered side pockets.

  Nothing but women’s stuff, lipstick, emery boards, Band-Aids, old bills and receipts. Abandoning the purse, he dropped to the floor, and considered the open suitcases.

  The children’s clothes and Debbie’s were all mixed together, most of them none too clean. Carefully pushing each item aside, he searched between them, and looked in the side pockets among panty hose, a dingy bra, children’s tattered little T-shirts and panties. In Debbie’s makeup case he rummaged among bottles and tubes, wary of meeting a stray safety razor or a pair of sharp scissors, and getting unpleasant smells on his paws. Nothing, no hidden cash, not even loose change.

  He went through the second suitcase and into the side pockets, he was losing hope when his reaching paw stroked a thick packet of folded paper with the greasy texture of paper money, and secured with a rubber band. Listening for any movement from the hall, hearing only Vinnie’s shrill voice from the kitchen, he pawed out the bundle.

  It smelled of uncountable human hands, the oily scent of well-circulated greenbacks. Rifling through with a finesse more suited to Dulcie, he counted fifties and hundreds to a total of two thousand dollars. Well. That should pay rent on a simple room and groceries until she got a job. If, in fact, a job was in Debbie’s plans.

  Straightening the stack, he put the money back in the side pocket, fought the zipper closed, and sauntered out of the room. Heading for the kitchen, he stopped still, hearing Tessa’s voice for the first time. She was crying. “I did, too,” she sobbed. “I dreamed about Pan and in my dream he talked to me.”

  Vinnie laughed rudely.

  “Don’t make up impossible stories,” Debbie said. “That’s the same as lying.”

  “I didn’t make it up, I dreamed it.”

  As Joe padded into the kitchen, Debbie was saying, “That’s the cat we had, I think it was in the picture I sent. It was only a stray, but the kids made such a fuss to let it stay that I gave in. Tessa decided its name was Pan, she said it told her its name,” Debbie said sarcastically.

  Joe thought about the many times Misto had talked about his son, Pan. How many cats were named Pan?

  “I did dream it!” Tessa said boldly, and Joe watched with interest the way she’d suddenly come alive. “He told me in my sleep, his name is Pan.” She looked hard at her mother. “After that, when I called him Pan, he always came to me.” Tears were rolling down her cheeks, tears of anger at her mother, tears of grieving for her friend who’d vanished, an innocent friend her mother hadn’t ever bothered to look for.

  Ryan said, “How long did you have the cat?”

  “I guess a year or so,” Debbie said. “It showed up at suppertime wet from the rain, slipped in when I heard a noise and opened the door. Got muddy water all over the carpet. I tried to push it out, I didn’t want to pick it up and get scratched,” she said, glancing meaningfully down at Joe. “Tessa pitched a fit until I fed it, it was easier to give in than listen to her bawl. Next morning she started calling it Pan,” Debbie said, amused.

  “What happened to it?” Ryan said. “You said something in your letter, but—”

  Debbie shrugged. “It left again, that’s what cats do.”

  Clyde said, “Did you look for it?”

  Debbie laughed. “How can you look for a cat? There one day, gone the next. Tessa bawled and bawled.” She looked at the little girl with disgust.

  “You didn’t think it might have been hurt?” Ryan asked, trying to control her temper.

  “With two kids to take care of? When did I have time to look for some stray cat?”

  Tessa had stopped crying, retreating into her silence but staring angrily at her mother, her face red and splotched, the tears still running down. This little kid, Joe thought, is going to be trouble when she gets older—trouble for Debbie but, most of all, trouble for herself, so hurt and miserable and unloved.

  And, he thought, how does she know Pan’s true name?

  The nursing home in Eugene hadn’t known, they had called him Buddy. In the dead of night, did Pan tell Tessa his name? Was that young cat foolish enough to talk to the child as she slept? Had he crept into the little girl’s bed late at night, whispered to her over and over, The kitty’s name is Pan, your kitty is called Pan, and when she woke up she thought she’d dreamed that whispered message?

  Joe was turning this over in his mind with a strange little shiver when there was a knock on the front door and Max Harper’s voice came through the intercom. “Anyone home? Any breakfast left?” The chief seldom stopped by early in the day, his sudden unannounced visit startled Joe. Clyde glanced at Debbie and rose to let him in.

  Had Ryan or Clyde called Max to tell him Hesmerra’s daughter was there, one of the two sisters Max needed to notify of the old woman’s death? Or had a patrol unit spotted Debbie’s station wagon parked in the drive, called it in because of the Be On the Lookout that was out on it? A BOL not only because of the need to notify Debbie, but because of the manner in which Hesmerra died, because of a possible murder, because Debbie Kraft might have information useful to the department.

  Max came on back to the kitchen, shook hands with Debbie, sat down at the crowded table, and accepted a cup of coffee. At the far end of the kitchen, Joe stretched out in the flowered easy chair where he could watch Max and Debbie without calling attention to himself. Debbie didn’t seem comfortable in the presence of the law, and that was interesting. But then, some people just naturally became defiant and angry at what they considered the intrusion of uniformed authority. Debbie was, under Max’s scrutiny, as silent and withdrawn as her smaller child.

  11

  When John Firetti left the veterinary clinic at midmorning, crossing the garden to his own small cottage to retrieve some paperwork, he stepped through the doorway into the empty house
and paused. He listened, puzzled, to the faint echo of voices coming from his study.

  Mary’s car was gone; he knew she’d left early to work with the cat rescue group setting up another shelter. No one else lived with them, and this wasn’t cleaning day, the housekeeper’s car wasn’t in the drive. He could hear nothing that sounded like burglars, no stealthy sliding of drawers or wrenching open of locks, just soft voices, one of them female, and John smiled. Was Misto entertaining guests? Pausing beside the fireplace, he listened.

  Sunlight shone in through the big living room windows onto the two flowered couches and glinted across the coffee table that was littered with flyers and veterinary magazines and decorated with paw prints etched into a faint coat of dust. Beyond the fireplace, through the door to his study, he could see the pale, cool light of his computer screen. Silently he approached, looking in.

  Three furry backs were silhouetted against the screen’s glow. Three pairs of upright ears, one pair orange, one pair tortoiseshell, and Dulcie’s dark tabby ears. Three tails hanging over, swishing in unison like metronomes for an unheard symphony. The attention of all three cats was fixed on the picture of a red tabby tomcat. But as John approached, they started, looked around at him like children caught at a forbidden prank—and Misto’s yellow eyes reflected such a strange mix of excitement and pain that John leaned down for a better look.

  The cat on the screen was younger than Misto, but with a broad head and with Misto’s same long, bony face. The same wide-set ears, the same wide, curving stripes, but in shades of rusty red. The swirl mark on his left shoulder was startlingly like Misto’s own. Sitting down in the desk chair, John peered around the cats to read the accompanying article.