Cat Telling Tales

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

He came down the steps, put his arm around her. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Just—maybe the smell gets to me. Two graves, the earth packed down with the back of the shovel, shovel marks where the footprints were smoothed away.”

  Joe hoped Dulcie’s prints were all smoothed away.

  “They are,” Dulcie whispered, cutting him a look. “I brushed them away, I hope I got them all.”

  26

  Warmed from his breakfast of pancakes and bacon, Billy was coasting his bike down the steep two-lane, down the hill from the Harpers’, headed over to the Harmann ranch to feed their horses when, passing the narrow lane to his burned house, he saw Gran’s landlord standing at the edge of the burn, his silver-colored pickup nosed nearly out of sight against the hill. Billy stopped, softly dragging his foot, silently braking his bike. The stink of burned wood still hung in the air, souring the clean cold smell of the snow. The old man stood just at the edge of the fire-chewed timbers, his back to him, and as Billy watched, he stepped in over the crime-scene tape, carrying a sharp-nosed shovel.

  He stood a moment, looking, then began to poke the shovel in among the wet, burned walls and debris; the shovel made an ugly, grating sound as it sliced through ashes and charcoal. The crusty old man had every right to be on his own property, but the burn was still off limits, Max Harper had told Billy that. Maybe not even Zandler should be disturbing the scene until the cops released it. Zandler always looked like an ancient crow in his dusty black suit with its old-fashioned vest. Stained white shirt open at the collar, grizzled gray hair combed sideways over his balding head, hanging down around his collar. Short gray beard as stiff as a scrub brush. He was a tall old man, long angled face under the bristle, and small angry eyes that could fix on you like the eyes of a mean-spirited old crow wanting to peck and strike. Didn’t he know he shouldn’t be in there? But there was no cop around, so what did he care?

  Zandler’s footprints led from his truck across the snowy yard to Emmylou’s shack and then to the collapsed one. Had he gone to see if Emmylou had moved back in, on the sly? Or if Billy himself meant to stay on there hoping he wouldn’t be caught? The old man was always sure someone was taking advantage of him. He was nosy, too, asking Gran, when he came to get the rent, if she had enough money set aside for the next month’s payment, saying he hoped she had it in a safe place. Gran always said the same, What I have is none of your damn business. If I can’t pay you, we’ll get out. But she always had the money, and Zandler always remarked slyly on her frugal ways. Every time, the minute he’d gone, Gran would say, Nosy old goat.

  The burn was still warm enough so no snow clung to the black rubble, and Zandler was just poking and prodding with his shovel, bending down to look sometimes, or to pick something up. What was he looking for? And why was his pickup parked right beside the old lumber and doors that hid Gran’s cave?

  He had to know about the cave, but Billy didn’t think he’d ever shown any interest or snooped around there. The land and buildings belonged to Zandler, but Billy wasn’t sure the cave did. It might even be on the Harper property, cut back into the hill the way it was, only a few feet from their pasture fence. Gran had always been secretive about it, didn’t want anyone snooping in there, sure not Zandler. She might have been drunk a lot of the time, but she knew if even one board in that pile had been moved. If Billy went out there to count the bottles, to see how much she was drinking, he’d better be sure she was asleep, and be sure to replace the boards exactly right. Now, easing his bike down into the gulley that ran alongside, he laid it down in the weeds that grew at the bottom. Climbing back up the bank, he stayed close to the hill where Zandler might not notice him, walked silently and tried to melt into the hill.

  The old man still hadn’t seen him. He was scraping around the remains of their burned table, and then scraping at Gran’s burned bed, pushing aside what was left of it. Billy thought to try to stop him, but common sense held him still. Zandler might be old but he was strong and he had a mean temper, he handled the big shovel as if it weighed nothing, shoving aside melted pots and pans, melted dishes and burned rags, then gouging at the floor beneath Gran’s bed, squinting and poking at whatever might lie beneath. If someone had started the fire on purpose, Zandler’s rummaging could destroy important evidence, and . . .

  Was that what the old man had in mind?

  But why would Zandler hurt Gran and burn his own house? Surely not just for her whiskey money. Billy watched him scrape aside the remains of their cupboard and the two chairs with their legs burned off. He wished Max Harper was there to see what he was doing and to stop him. He watched Zandler kneel, examine the burned wooden floor under where the cupboard had stood, and then begin to dig. When the old man rose, Billy melted into the hill among the grayed lumber and bushes.

  But the old man found nothing, his hands were empty except for the shovel. Idly swinging it, he headed for his truck, started it, and spun a turn kicking up snow and gravel, sped up the lane, and a right turn onto the highway heading for the village. When he’d gone Billy hauled his bike out of the ditch and took off fast for work, thinking he’d call Captain Harper from the Harmann place, tell him Zandler sure was looking for something.

  Misto was lame with the cold, but despite his paining shoulder, father and son raced across the snowy rooftops wild and laughing, amused by this sudden surprising touch of displaced Oregon winter. Eugene hadn’t had snow every year, but when it did they’d found it highly entertaining, the whole family, even when the kittens were small, plunging through the drifts like demented hound dogs. There was never much snow on the valley floor, in the business section of Eugene. But up in the residential hills snow formed drifts high enough to bring cars to a halt, people clueless how to drive in it, cars skidding, drivers honking or stalling or both—while Pan and his sisters, watching from the snowy rooftops, could barely contain their laughter.

  Now, below the two cats, the same drama was at work, cars sliding sideways, drivers going super slowly hanging their heads out of ice-blind windows; and Misto and Pan, as they headed for Kit’s house, delighted by this familiar circus of winter confusion.

  The morning was so cold that twice, when a car pulled to the curb to park, they waited for the occupants to hurry away then bellied down a tree, leaped to the car’s hood, and sat warming their paws and backsides before they raced on again. When they reached Kit’s house, the smell of waffles and syrup drew them like bees to honey, despite their own ample breakfast. Licking his whiskers in anticipation, Misto led Pan up the fat trunk of Kit’s oak tree and into her tree house—where Pan halted, staring around with amazement.

  “This is Kit’s? All hers?” He looked up at the timbered roof and out at the surround of twisted oak branches that formed an extended bower. “All hers?” he repeated.

  “All of it,” said Misto, laughing, “the fancy pillows, the velour lap robe, the works.” The cushions smelled deliciously of Kit, and there was a fine mat of her tortoiseshell fur embedded in the velvet and brocade. Drifts of snow had piled up outside one edge of the planked floor, but the tree house itself was fine and dry. Pan lingered, looking, followed Misto only reluctantly as he headed for the smell of breakfast, padding along a snow-covered branch to Kit’s cat door. The old cat pushed in under the plastic flap onto the windowsill, a leap to the dining table, and he paused, listening.

  The house was silent. The smell of breakfast was immediate and rich, but the table had already been cleared. Peering into the kitchen, they could see dirty plates hastily stacked, sticky with syrup, as if Lucinda and Pedric and maybe Kit, too, had gone off in a fine hurry.

  But at the far end of the table, two small saucers had been left on a single white place mat. Each plate presented a waffle, cut small and glistening with butter and syrup, and a slice of bacon broken into small bites. On the place mat itself shone one perfect, syrupy paw print carefully incised: a pretty invitation to breakfast, which they could hardly ignore. Pan said, “How did she know we’d come here?”<
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  Misto smiled. “How could she not? She knew I’d be showing you the village, and where else would we start?” He turned his attention to breakfast, handily licking up every bite of his own share, and the good food warmed them right down to their icy paws. When no one appeared, they circled through the empty house, then returned to the tree house. Backing to the ground, their claws deep in the rough bark, they circled the house on the outside, as well, and finding Lucinda’s and Pedric’s boot prints leading away, and Kit’s paw prints trotting along beside them, they followed.

  “They’re heading for the murder scene,” Misto said. The grave had not remained a secret for long, word never did in this small village; news traveled from friend to friend, neighbor to neighbor, and back again. The Firettis had heard it over breakfast from a busy-minded neighbor, and where else would Kit go?

  The two tomcats galloped along in the wake of the Greenlaws’ footprints, amused when Kit’s paw prints vanished suddenly, to appear again after a block or so—little forays to the rooftops, or sometimes where Pedric had picked her up and carried her, most likely tucked inside his coat until her paws grew warm again. The two toms followed them up into the neighborhood of the Damens’ remodel and on up to where the yard and street were full of cop cars. Ryan Flannery’s red truck, too, and a white van marked with the seal of the state of California. There were cops everywhere, and over all came the sick smell of something dead for a very long time. Warily they scrambled up into the low, weeping branches of an acacia tree, crouched there behind its leafy curtain, looking out, their fur dusted with yellow pollen from the tree’s early blooms. The snow outside the tree was stained yellow, too, as was the bare ground within, sheltered by the tent of branches.

  Lucinda’s and Pedric’s footprints made patterns among the tangle of other prints as if they had stood talking with the officers, then their trail headed away again, while Kit’s prints vanished at the base of a pine tree. And there she was above them, on a neighbor’s roof, Kit and Joe and Dulcie, three dark small shapes silhouetted against the milky overcast, watching the action below. Pan and Misto didn’t race to join them, there were too many people to see them, too many cops. Enough to see three cats together there on the rooftop so intently watching. What would they make of five? Such a gathering would stir far too puzzled an interest.

  From among the drooping branches they could see directly into the big hole that was cut in the side of the small brown cottage, the raw earth within picked out with bright spotlights, blinding in their intensity. A slim, dark-haired woman in faded jeans stood looking in, her dark glasses shielding her from the searing light. “Detective Ray,” Misto said. A curtain of clear plastic had been hung over the opening, pulled to the side and tied back like a hastily devised shower curtain. They couldn’t see what was happening inside but could hear the soft brush of careful digging, as delicate as the brush of a cat’s paws.

  But then soon, another decaying smell reached them, a bit different from the cellar’s taint of death. Pan, following his twitching nose, looked down beneath the tree where the ground was bare of snow, where rotted leaves were matted between the tree’s exposed roots: smooth gray roots as thick as human arms, twisted together, and over the aroma of death from the cellar, and the honey scent of the acacia blooms, this other faint, metallic smell. Dropping down from the low branches, Pan sniffed at the roots and at the dark stains on their smooth gray surface, and curled his lip in a flehmen face. “Blood.” He looked intently up at Misto. “Human blood.”

  Misto jumped down and sniffed, too, flehming, trapping the smell on his tongue. “Old blood, not fresh,” he said. There was no scent of anyone having recently entered under the tree’s low branches, and he looked away to where the officers were at work. “How could they miss this? Stay here,” he said, and slipped out through the leafy curtain.

  Easing across the snowy yard among the white-crested bushes, he scrambled up through the dark pine that crowded the neighbors’ house, and across a swaying branch onto the neighbors’ roof to join the other three, and excitement filled the old cat.

  When first he’d arrived in the village just before Christmas, the three village cats had been nosing into another murder investigation; he’d fallen eagerly in with them, and found this work even more interesting than his many travels. Now, he whispered to Joe and led him down the pine and through the bushes into the leafy tent. Joe looked at the bloodstained roots and smelled them. He gave Misto a whiskery smile and a nod, then he melted away again, along the edge of the yard heading for Ryan, making straight for his housemate.

  Within minutes Joe and Ryan were in her truck, her cell phone lying on the seat where Joe could punch in 911. Before he made the call, Ryan got out again, left the far door cracked open, and stepped over to join Kathleen. Joe was crouched on the seat, his face close to the phone, when dispatcher Mabel Farthy picked up. Knowing his voice, she was quick to put the snitch through to Kathleen, Mabel never wasted time on useless questions.

  “Why did you wait until now?” Kathleen said. “When did you find this blood? No one’s been in the backyard, last night or this morning, there are guards all over. When did you—”

  Joe broke the connection, then peered carefully up over the edge of the window, watching Kathleen as she dropped the phone back in its holster.

  Slipping out of the truck, Joe was crouched in its shadow as Kathleen turned to Ryan. “The snitch,” she said. “What the hell is this? How does he do this? Couldn’t he give us a little more information? Why so damned secretive? What’s the point in calling, when he . . . ? Oh, to hell with it,” she said, looking away toward the acacia tree.

  Kathleen was the newest detective on the force, she was still tempted to cross-examine the unknown informant. Not that it ever did her any good. She stood frowning, then headed for her car, pulled out her evidence bag from the trunk, hung two cameras around her neck, and headed for the acacia. As she approached its drooping branches, she didn’t see a pair of shadows slip out from the other side and vanish among the neighbors’ yards. When Kathleen knelt down to peer under, the space was empty.

  Before crawling in for a closer look, she circled the tree and poked her camera in through the leaves, taking shots of the trunk, the roots, the faintly disturbed mat of dry leaves. When at last she entered, looking unconvinced she’d find anything of value, Misto and Pan were on the roof with Dulcie and Kit, only Joe was absent.

  From their high vantage, they couldn’t see in under the falling branches, the tree was like a little tent; but they could see Kathleen’s shadow, kneeling as if she was shooting close-ups of the dark stains on the pale roots.

  The detective took her time beneath the tree, lifting blood samples and then digging carefully through the leaves looking for any smallest item of evidence, a human hair, a torn fingernail, a shell casing. She was thus occupied when Kit caught a glimpse of something shiny, just by Kathleen’s left boot—a leaf had been turned over as she shifted position, and something bright shone out. They all saw it, they all stifled a mew, and Kit drew back her paw where she’d reached as if to alert Kathleen.

  But the next instant something, some unknown sense, made Kathleen turn and look, too.

  Carefully she lifted the leaves away.

  A cell phone lay buried among the mat of leaves, its bright surface plastered with damp acacia leaves. Carefully Kathleen photographed it in the position she’d found it and then, with her gloved hand, she slipped an evidence bag over it, and dropped it in her pocket. Whatever was there, phone numbers, notes, or perhaps photographs, she would examine back at the department, once she’d finished working the scene. The cats looked at each other, and grinned, and they felt high on the discovery. What would she find? Had the killer dropped it? Or had one of the victims buried it there, unseen, hoping to pass on what evidence?

  Or had the phone nothing at all to do with the killer, maybe had lain there long before the victims died? The detective continued to search among the moldering leaves, an
d then she rose to examine the tree itself. She started when her exploring fingers found a tiny dimple within the damaged bark.

  Photographing this, and then exploring it with a small dental tool, carefully she bent away a small sliver of bark, to reveal a spent shell.

  She cut out a piece of the tree itself, leaving the slug embedded, and carefully she bagged it. She had the bullet. It would be too much coincidence to think this slug hadn’t killed one of the victims—though stranger anomalies had happened. The cats were considering this when two of the CSIs came out of the cellar, and fetched a stretcher from their van and a body bag; as the four watched from the roof, Joe Grey slipped out across the yard and quickly up to the roof to join them, pushing beneath the shadowed branches.

  The CSI team, having photographed the first body and its surround, had covered the victim’s hands for more careful examination at the lab, then had spent several hours lifting trace evidence. Now they wanted Dallas and Kathleen in the cellar before they eased the corpse into the body bag, wanted to see if either of them knew the woman. With the bloating and discoloration that takes place even in a week or two, a victim is not always easy to identify. The cats watched the two detectives slip in through the hole in the wall.

  The detectives were in there for some time; when they came out again, the expressions on their faces told the cats clearly that they didn’t recognize the victim. Now, in the cellar, the team would be bagging the body. Below the cats, Dallas was on the phone to Mabel Farthy. “I want a BOL on Emmylou Warren, you have the description. We need her to look at a body. If she’s picked up within the hour, let me know, before the CSI unit takes off.”

  Otherwise, Joe thought, they’d have to haul Emmylou up to San Jose, to the crime lab, to ID the body. If that was Sammie Miller buried under her own house. As reclusive as Sammie seemed to be, and with most of her neighbors moved away, Emmylou might be the only one who did know her—besides the killer, and Sammie’s vanished brother. As Dallas ended the call, the five cats slipped away, disappearing like ghosts among the snowy rooftops.