Cat Telling Tales

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Esther rose, glaring at him. “I don’t appreciate that you demand I come in, and then dismiss me just as rudely. I don’t appreciate that you order me to submit to fingerprinting, like some common criminal.”

  Juana Davis put a hand on Esther’s elbow, guiding her to the door. “Mrs. Fowler, this is standard procedure, we need the prints of all family members, to eliminate them from other prints we might lift at the scene.”

  Esther said, “If the house burned to the ground, how could you find any fingerprints at all?”

  Max waited until Davis had removed the woman and had pulled the door closed behind them. Leaning back in his swivel chair, he flipped on the speaker—testimony, Joe thought, to the comfortable way the chief now related to these anonymous calls. Years ago, when Joe and Dulcie first began using the phone to pass on information, every call from the unnamed snitch had made the chief edgy, as nervous, himself, as his four-legged informants. But now a rapport had developed, a trust and ease as if between old friends that made the tomcat smile.

  “Sorry,” Max said into the phone, “someone was in my office.”

  Now, with the speaker on, Joe smiled at his tabby lady’s voice, innocent but businesslike, a savvy young female quite in charge of the situation: “You wanted to talk with Emmylou Warren?” And now, with Esther Fowler gone and the door shut, Joe strolled out from beneath the credenza, yawned and stretched, looked idly at the desk, leaped, and curled up in Max’s overflowing in-box, yawning in the chief’s face.

  “Yes, we’d like to talk with her,” Max was saying. Joe closed his eyes and tucked his nose under as if concerned only with a soothing nap.

  “She’s up near where you raided that meth house,” Dulcie said. “I’m watching her as we speak, she’s going from door to door, asking about some lost cat. I think she’s living in her car, an old green Chevy, full of blankets, household stuff, clothes. It’s parked at the corner above Clyde and Ryan’s place, she just . . . Gotta go!” she said with alarm. Joe could almost hear her hiss of fear. There was a click, and the phone went dead. Involuntarily, Joe’s claws raked into a Department of Justice report. What had happened? Had she been caught using someone’s phone? Had she slipped into someone’s house, near where Emmylou was working the neighborhood, and the householder caught her? But Ryan and Clyde were there, why hadn’t she used one of their phones? Or had she, and Debbie walked in on her? Or Vinnie? The very thought made him shiver. And, what was Emmylou doing, looking for a lost cat, when her own cats were safe with John Firetti?

  Beside him, Max sat frowning, looking irritated and impatient, then he buzzed the dispatcher and sent a patrol car to pick up Emmylou. He looked up when Davis returned, and he filled her in. Davis said, “What’s she doing in that neighborhood? Well, hell. Is that old woman part of the action up there?”

  “Could she be looking for a place to rent?” Max said. “Half those houses are empty, maybe she thinks she can find a cheap room.” Then, “Didn’t one of the Kraft Realtors live just above that neighborhood? Alain Bent? Three or four blocks above the meth house, that white brick with the big front patio? Wasn’t she Erik Kraft’s sales partner, until she moved away?”

  Davis nodded. “I understand she kept the house, waiting for the market to pick up.”

  Sprawled across the in-box, Joe lay trying to put it together. Alain Bent had lived just above the active foreclosure area, with its suspicious occupants and a busy meth operation. Alain’s partner was the husband of Debbie Kraft, Hesmerra’s middle daughter; the wives of both Kraft partners were her daughters. Hesmerra held cleaning jobs that gave her access to Alain Bent’s house and to the Kraft offices. What the hell did all this add up to? No good telling himself this was a matter of coincidence; it wasn’t. It was simply a tangle of knots neither he nor the department had yet sorted out. He was burning to race out and find Dulcie, find out what else she’d seen, make sure she was all right after that aborted phone call. But he didn’t want to miss anything. Max said, “Why exactly did Alain leave town? She had a successful following, I heard she did very well.”

  “Left about six months ago. The story I got, a client complained to the real estate board that she was trading down. I’m not sure this is illegal, but it’s right next door. She takes a buyer and seller into escrow, buyer deposits a check for the down payment, at the agreed price. Then, while the sellers are distracted packing up their moving boxes, she brings in a second appraiser, tells the sellers this is common practice. When the house is appraised for less, she tells them they’ll have to lower the price—and they’re already in escrow, or supposed to be.

  “The way I heard it, she pulled this on old people who might be a little confused, often naïve about real estate transactions, old couples anxious to sell out and get moved into assisted living quarters, people with no adult children to look out for their interests. An old couple, maybe one of them sick, both of them worn out sorting through their household goods and packing up. Sometimes it doesn’t take much to get them to agree to the lower price, anything to close the sale—and all the time, they’re supposed to be already in escrow.

  “Of course the loan officer’s in on the scam. If the sellers get edgy and make a fuss, loan officer claims the check for the down payment was never actually deposited into escrow, that it’s still waiting in the file for the final price resolution.” Davis smiled. “What happened this time, the sellers weren’t having any, they went to the real estate board.” Her square face, so often too solemn, lit with pleasure. “Everything hit the fan. Loan officer and mortgage officer were fired. Mortgage company made good to the seller. I’m guessing either Kraft Realty sent her packing, or she left before they could fire her.”

  The two officers were silent, their satisfied looks matching closely the tomcat’s own hidden smile as the three enjoyed a rare moment of justice.

  Max said, “Alain Bent and Erik Kraft were partners, they worked most of their sales together. Makes you wonder if he was in on the scam.”

  Davis nodded. “Apparently Fowler wants nothing more to do with Alain. Their latest ads, he’s removed her picture. As to Esther Fowler—what will happen to Billy? I’m sure he wouldn’t choose to live with her, even if she did want him.”

  Max shook his head. “For all intents and purposes, the kid’s an orphan. I don’t want to bring in Children’s Services. Right now, he’s staying up at our place. He has a permit to work part of the school day; I talked with the principal this morning, and that’s all in order. I didn’t say much, just that he was doing some work for me, didn’t mention where he’s living and, interestingly, he didn’t ask.”

  Joe hoped Max could keep it that way. Maybe, one way or another, Erik Kraft had used some pull to stifle questions about Billy. When Davis left, the tomcat slipped up the hall and out through the glass door, on the heels of an unhappy young woman who had just paid a stout traffic ticket. Scrambling up the oak tree, he headed fast for the hills and the neighborhood where Dulcie’s phone call had so abruptly ended. It was always touchy to break into a house and use a stranger’s phone and not be overheard, to get out again fast, before you were discovered.

  Even the matter of using their own phones, at home, was stressful. Clyde’s and Ryan’s, and Wilma’s phones all had caller ID blocking, but you never knew when it would fail. After the Damens’ phones had done that twice, Clyde did a daily check on the house phones, to be safe. Wilma had researched the possibility of falsifying their numbers, but such a call had to be made through a computer, and that was more than a cat in a hurry could deal with.

  No, there had to be a better way. He hadn’t really addressed the problem fully, but one idea had promise—he should have checked it out when he had the chance, before he woke to see flames licking at the sky, before all hell broke loose. Annoyed at himself for his procrastination, he headed fast up the hills. Leaping from oak limb to roof and across the chasms of narrow alleys, he could only pray his lady hadn’t, while making that call, stepped with all four paws into
a tangle of trouble.

  15

  The rough wood siding of Ryan and Clyde’s remodel badly needed paint, the roof looked frail even for a cat to walk on, the yard resembled an untended vacant lot given over to stray dogs. The neighborhood, even at midday, seemed dark, the clouds low, the giant cypress trees, originally planted far apart as spindly saplings, now spread their reaching arms over the frail cottages as if to bury them. The Damens had bought their gray board-and-batten shack just after Christmas but so far had done no work at all as Ryan finished up Hanni’s remodel, and a new house, pushing their own investment aside. The one-bedroom dwelling was as grim inside as out; Debbie Kraft would have to make do with a good cleaning, provided she was willing. Having pushed into their lives uninvited, demanding bed and board, how could she refuse to work for her shelter?

  How, indeed? Ryan thought as she pulled the king cab onto the cracked drive, waving Debbie in to park beside her. It was over an hour since they’d left home in their two-vehicle parade, she and Clyde trying not to lose their tempers as they detoured for Debbie to buy groceries, again when she insisted they swing by the school Vinnie would be attending, and the nearest day care for Tessa. “So I’ll know where these things are,” Debbie said. “Life will be hard enough if I have to get a job, with two children to take care of.” She didn’t ask if Ryan and Clyde had time for side trips, or if this particular day care was safe and caring; her concern was that it was convenient, as close as possible to the cottage. “If I have to go to work, I can’t be running all over dragging kids, I won’t have the time for that.” Even Rock looked disgusted, he’d had enough of Debbie’s brassy voice. Ryan had to grin when she thought what Joe would have said. She didn’t know where he’d gone, but he’d disappeared in a flash the minute they started loading the car.

  Now, the minute Debbie parked, Vinnie piled out, stood scowling at the frame shack, the front door peeling long strips of gray paint, the rusty window screens deeply dented, two of them torn, and a long crack across the corner of the front window.

  “I’m not staying here,” Vinnie said. Turning, she stared between the trees, up the hill to where the woods ended, where the houses were larger and well kept, the gardens trimmed and bright with sun, and her gaze fixed on the rambling white brick house with its deep front patio. “I want to stay up there, I want to go back there, that’s—”

  “Go unload the car,” Debbie snapped, grabbing her arm.

  “Why can’t we—”

  “Unload the car. Now.”

  Ryan and Clyde, glancing at each other, watched the two with interest. Why would the child fix on a strange house, what did she mean, “go back there”? What was that about?

  Earlier, stopping at the little village grocery, they had taken the two little girls into the king cab while Debbie went in to do her shopping. Watching the kids gave them an excuse not to accompany her, not to be present at the checkout to watch her fumble over her purse, making excuses that she was short of cash. In the pickup, Vinnie had sat in the front seat between them, sulking, while Tessa crawled into the backseat and snuggled up with Rock. It wasn’t long until Vinnie crawled in back, too, crowding her sister. Taking off her shoe, she began to poke it at Rock, jamming the toe into his silky hide so that Rock was forced to either snap at her or scramble away to the far corner. He scrambled, lunging away as Ryan reached over and snatched the shoe.

  “You do that again, Vinnie, you’ll get this shoe, hard, across your backside.”

  Vinnie had stared at her defiantly, while four-year-old Tessa moved closer to Rock, smoothing her hand gently down his sleek shoulder. The Weimaraner nosed at her with infinite patience, though her small hand must surely have tickled. As Tessa stroked his satiny warmth, a little smile bloomed on the child’s face. Only when Vinnie began talking about Hesmerra’s death did Tessa’s face crumple. “Our grandmother burned to death,” Vinnie said, standing up on the seat watching with satisfaction as Tessa’s tears welled up.

  “Your gran did not burn to death,” Ryan said. “Your grandmother was already in heaven when the fire started. The fire didn’t hurt her at all.”

  “There’s no such thing as heaven. How do you know she was dead?”

  “I read the coroner’s report. The doctor who did the death investigation.”

  Vinnie smiled wickedly. “That’s where they cut your body open, take out all your insides, and cut them up in little pieces.”

  Tessa went white. Clyde looked like he could happily take the coroner’s knife to Vinnie. What can you expect? Ryan thought. Look how Debbie was about Hesmerra’s death, hard as nails. Her own mother. She reached back and took Tessa’s hand. “Your grandmother is in heaven. When she died, she left her body behind. She flew right out of that body, she doesn’t need it anymore, she’s an angel now, and she can fly free.” This might be unorthodox, might seem trite to an adult, but it was what four-year-old Tessa needed to hear—and it was infinitely effective. Tessa clutched Ryan’s hand, looking up at her, her brown eyes trusting, wanting very much to believe her.

  “Do you know how a caterpillar makes its little nest?” Ryan said.

  The child nodded. “A cocoon. They showed us in Sunshine School.”

  “That’s right, it wraps itself all in silk and goes to sleep. And do you know what happens when it wakes up?”

  Tessa wiped at her tears.

  “When it crawls out of its silk nest, it’s no longer a caterpillar. It has turned into a beautiful butterfly, as beautiful as a princess. It spreads its wings and flies away on the soft wind.” Ryan stroked Tessa’s hair. “For a person to be dead is just the same. When your gran died, she slept for a little while all warm and safe just like the butterfly. She woke up in a most beautiful place, and she had turned into a lovely young woman, even more beautiful than when she was young, in this world.” Ryan didn’t dare look at Clyde; she could feel him raise an eyebrow. She only knew that she believed what she said, she believed something like that happened—and that right now, Tessa needed to believe it, she needed not to dwell on her sister’s ugly interpretation.

  “Mama doesn’t want a funeral,” Vinnie told them. “She said—”

  “That’s enough, Vinnie.”

  “If there’s a funeral she has to see Aunt Esther. Mama says no one can choose what kind of sister or relatives they get.”

  Ryan sighed. “I’m sure that’s true. If Tessa could choose her sister, she’d surely choose a kinder and more caring child than you.”

  Vinnie glared, and turned away scowling, fiddling with the button on her sweater. She looked up again only when Debbie passed by the pickup wheeling a grocery cart full of bulging paper bags, heading for her car. Clyde put his hand on the door meaning to get out and help her, but Ryan stopped him with a scowl. She didn’t enjoy being cruel, but if you gave Debbie an inch, she was all over you. They watched her cram the bags into her car, into the spaces the children had left when they changed cars. The meal choices Ryan could see sticking up looked to be all boxes of crackers, cookies, and quick-fix meals full of unpronounceable chemicals. No sign of fresh fruits or vegetables, the items that would ordinarily be on top. When the car was loaded, Ryan headed for the day-care center where Debbie meant to park Tessa while Vinnie was in school. Their two vehicles paused before the one-story redwood complex only long enough for Debbie to take a look, then they led her on up the hill eight blocks to the rambling elementary with its dark-shingled roofs. Location, close proximity to where she’d be living, was apparently far more important to Debbie than the safety and quality of either establishment. Ryan had pointed out where the school bus stopped, and then headed on up to the cottage.

  Two centuries earlier, this hill had been open grazing land, part of the vast open ranges inhabited by longhorn cattle, and by deer, cougar, and grizzly bear. When civilization overtook the wild, when the land was broken up and cross-fenced into smaller ranches, and then later into farms, this hill had become pasture for dairy cows. In the nineteen thirties, several
small adjoining hillside farms were bought up by a retired civil engineer who thought to construct a community of vacation cottages and rent them out. He built the little houses solidly enough, but without any discernible imagination. As he grew older he had sold off many of the cottages as second homes or income rentals. Some of the buyers added porches, second-floor bedrooms, walled patios. In subsequent years the houses were turned over again and again as the market inflated. Everyone made a profit as real estate prices soared. Then suddenly, under changed federal laws, mortgages were easier to obtain: One hardly needed a down payment or any collateral at all. A buying frenzy began among families with little or no savings. Soon the new owners were maxing out their credit cards on new cars, a motorcycle, an RV or fast boat, trusting the government to bail them out when they let their mortgage payments slide. There was always tomorrow, they and the government were in this together, Uncle Sam would help them out. Thus was the beginning of the financial landslide, repeated a million times over combined with more complicated economic manipulations, at government level, until the bottom fell out, the stock market dropped, businesses began to close, folks lost their investments and lost their jobs.

  When the default on home loans mounted, homes were repossessed and the occupants left the area. Folks who had kept cash and real assets at hand began to buy up abandoned, repossessed homes. Ryan and Clyde bought three cottages with cash from the sales of the antique cars Clyde had so lovingly restored. They meant to improve their purchases, wait for the market to pick up again, make a good profit, and leave something nice in the place of neglected and empty dwellings.