Cat Telling Tales

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  27

  Before Billy fed the Harmanns’ horses, he had called MPPD from their stable. By the time he’d pumped his bike back up the hill to the burn, Detective Garza was there, his tan Blazer parked in the yard, and old man Zandler was long gone. Garza wore jeans and a faded down jacket, his dark Latino eyes smiling when he looked at Billy. Billy had done some thinking since he called the station, and he was debating just how much he should keep to himself. If Gran did have money hidden in the cave—and what else could have made her so protective?—what would the cops do with it? Would it belong to Debbie and Esther? They were her daughters, but he was only the grandson. That money would be all he had to take care of himself, except for what he could earn, and at twelve, that still wasn’t much. He hadn’t helped take care of Gran all these years without learning the value of money, seeing how much she spent on whiskey that could have bought something to eat besides beans and potatoes and cheap sausage, could have bought new tires for his bike, might have paid rent on a house where the wind didn’t blow through the walls. If he told the law about the money, would he have to give it to his aunts? He hoped Zandler hadn’t found it, but maybe not, the boards and old doors didn’t look disturbed. Detective Garza was photographing the burned house all over again, where Zandler had dug into the rubble. When he finished taking pictures, he began to dig around in the rubble, himself, photographing wherever he could see that Zandler had disturbed anything. “You got moved in okay,” Garza said, talking as he worked. “You and the cats?”

  “Yes,” Billy said, “just fine.”

  “You have any idea what Zandler was looking for? He wouldn’t have been looking for the cause of the fire, he knows it was a grease fire.” Max Harper had told Billy that, that it looked like Gran had started making her breakfast, put potatoes on to fry and then went back to bed, forgetting the burner was on. She’d done that more than once, their skillet was blackened and crusty where she’d burned it. That was mostly at supper, though. She’d put something on to cook, then forget it, but Billy had been there to smother the flame before it got going.

  That morning, he wasn’t there.

  Garza poked around for a while longer, then rose, looking across at Billy. “The week or two before the fire, was Zandler up here?”

  Billy shook his head. “I doubt it, Gran didn’t say anything, and it wasn’t rent time. That’s the only time he ever came. Maybe he came up to be sure Emmylou was gone, though, after he evicted her, make sure she hadn’t come back.”

  “Hesmerra was working regularly?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Did she have a bank account?”

  “She didn’t like banks, she kept the money somewhere around the place. She never even told me, she’d never get into her stash when I was home. She said once, if I knew where her money was, I’d take it so she couldn’t buy what she wanted. She meant, so she couldn’t buy whiskey.”

  Billy knew what the next question would be: Could the money be in the cave? He was surprised when Dallas didn’t ask it. The detective said, “We’ll compare these shots with the photographs we have, maybe they’ll show us if he took anything.”

  Billy waited until Garza left, made sure he’d turned onto the highway, then he pulled some boards away from the cave’s entrance, and moved the old door just enough to slip inside, into the smell of sour earth and rotting timbers. Maybe the money was here, maybe she’d saved back more than he’d thought, between what she’d earned and what Mr. Kraft gave her.

  He never knew how much Kraft gave her, Gran was so closemouthed, he only knew that that money made him feel strange, he never understood why Kraft gave her money. Kraft said it was because Debbie, Gran’s own daughter, wouldn’t help her out, he said it was Debbie’s duty to help her mother and if she wouldn’t, he would. To Billy, that didn’t make sense; his other aunt didn’t help Gran, or hardly speak to her. The idea of family helping each other wasn’t something he was used to.

  If Gran’s money was in the cave, he wanted it before someone else got it. He might be only twelve, but he knew that money laid by meant freedom. You could eat, you didn’t have to work all the time, you could keep your bike running so you could get around. Gran had hidden her whiskey here, so why not the money?

  Or, he wondered, had there been more to hide than money?

  He’d wondered sometimes when Gran’s car pulled in at midnight but she was so long coming in the house, wondered what she was doing. Sometimes he’d rise and look out to see a faint light shining out between the old door and the boards. He thought she’d gone to get a bottle, thought she’d forgotten there was a nearly full bottle under her bed. But maybe she was hiding something else there.

  In the cave, he found the flashlight she’d kept by her whiskey case, and flicked it on, shining the beam along the rough dirt walls. Besides the sour smell of damp earth, the cave stank of mice or rats, and of rotted potatoes from a bag Gran had stored months before. Even the smallest rotted potato smelled like something dead. Billy explored the earthen floor where the whiskey case had stood, which Detective Garza had taken away, then he pushed on back into the darkness.

  The dirt between the supporting timbers was packed hard, the dirt walls and ceiling seemed as solid as concrete behind the grid of rough planks. He hadn’t been back in here for a long time. After his mother died, he’d spent weeks in here alone, way at the back, hoping Gran wouldn’t come in and try to cheer him up, which only made him cry. Moving slowly toward the back, he looked along the walls and above him where beams held the earth up, shining the light into earthen crevices behind the timbers.

  At the very back there was rubble, loose rocks, three old empty baskets made of half-rotted wooden slats. He searched among these and searched overhead. He was halfway back to the opening when he heard a sound outside, the scrunching of a foot on the rough ground. He switched off the flashlight, stood quiet and still.

  The opening darkened as a figure knelt, looking in. “Billy?”

  He breathed again, switched on the flashlight. Heard a horse snort, then one of the dogs pushed in past Charlie, nearly knocking him over. “I’m here,” he said, “I’ll be right out.” He was trying to settle the dog, who was rearing up as tall as Billy, licking his face. He was trying to wrestle him away, the flashlight still in his hand when its beam shone low against a four-by-four support.

  Where the floor met the rough earthen wall, light reflected off a sliver of something white, shining white.

  It was only a speck, which he’d missed from the other side of the rough timber. Kneeling, he dug the earth away, and pulled it free.

  It was a plastic sandwich bag stretched thick over a packet of folded white paper. He could see a stamp, could see awkward hand printing, clumsier than his own handwriting that Gran had been stubborn about teaching him: Debbie’s printing. Pushing the dog away more forcefully, he shoved the packet deep in his jeans pocket, hiding it from Charlie. He felt his face heat. He didn’t know why he did that; and he moved on out to join her.

  “You okay?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Dallas stopped by, when he left here. I’d just saddled Redwing, I said I’d ride down this way.” Her green eyes searched his. “That Mr. Zandler was here earlier? I don’t like him much.”

  Again Billy nodded. “I won’t tangle with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Charlie grinned, and glanced at her watch. “I thought I’d take a little ride and then, if you want to, we could go shopping.” He thought she meant he could help her carry groceries. “Clothes for Gran’s funeral,” she said. “Maybe chinos and a new polo shirt?”

  Billy looked down at his worn jeans with the frayed bottoms, at his run-over boots. He didn’t want her to buy him things, he had his own wages, but he didn’t want to spend them on clothes.

  She said, “We could go to J.C. Penney’s.”

  Well, he guessed he could do that.

  “It isn’t a gift,” she said, “you’ll earn it back soon enough, t
aking care of our spoiled animals.”

  He hadn’t thought of working for clothes. Well, that was all right, he did want to look nice for Gran. He watched her ride away easing the mare into a canter, the two dogs racing ahead. When she’d gone, he opened the plastic bag, took out the letters.

  He read them twice, but didn’t understand much. He didn’t want to think about what the earliest ones might mean, the ones dated twelve years ago just after he was born. The surprise was that Debbie had written to Gran at all, when Gran always complained she never heard from her. Why would Gran lie about that? There were twelve letters, the envelopes roughly printed. In the two bulkier envelopes, the letters had been torn into tiny pieces, wadded up, stuffed back inside, and the flap loosely stuck closed again. Besides these, the letter with the earliest postmark was only a few lines:

  “No, I don’t want to come there. How can you even ask that. Why would I want to see her and why would I want anything to do with that child? I certainly don’t want to see you again, after you let this happen, what you did was way worse than simple lying. Well, you’ve always lied to us. I thought, in my stupidity, that it was only about your drinking, not about something like this.”

  Then came the two torn-up letters, the envelopes postmarked just a few months later. Then nothing for eight years. The next letter was very short.

  “How do you know that’s what happened? Go to the cops, if that’s what you think, he deserves whatever he gets. But remember, I won’t help you. And you don’t have an ounce of proof. You go to the cops, they’ll just laugh. As to the other, I’ll have to think about that.”

  Whatever this was about, Debbie was sure vague. Was she afraid someone else would read it? What was this about, what was she afraid of?

  There was another long space, nearly two years. The letters after that were different and there were more of them, as if she and Gran had talked on the phone maybe, and maybe made up a little. There was no phone in the cabin, but maybe Gran had called her from work. Now, it seemed like they were into something secret, something they didn’t want to write much about. In one, Debbie said, “I have nine sets of papers,” and she had enclosed a list of names and dates, with one single address at the end. That street was up near the Damens’ and Hanni Coon’s remodels. In the next letter she asked, “Did you copy the statements? Call me on my cell but do it soon, it might not be working after next week, not sure I can pay the bill.” Later there was mention of some kind of contracts, and terms Billy didn’t understand. Further on, she complained about a woman. “I hope she double-crosses him, that’s what he deserves.”

  The last letter was dated a month ago: “Copy all the discs you can find. Just follow the instructions I gave you. Don’t be afraid of the damn machine. Maybe I should come down there. I wish you knew more about computers.” Whatever they were into sounded illegal. What he wondered was, did this have anything to do with why Gran died?

  Emmylou couldn’t lock the bedroom slider once she’d pried it open and stepped inside Alain Bent’s house. She pushed it shut and closed the draperies over it, making sure there was no crack for light to shine out. There was no one back there in the woods, surely no one to hear her prying metal against metal as she’d jimmied the door, but still she was nervous. She had parked on a little side street down the hill where her car might not be noticed. The house was stuffy inside, and cold. Moving up the hall, she found the thermostat, she felt a thrill of satisfaction as she turned it up to nearly eighty and heard the furnace click on. She wondered if the water heater had been turned down, too. She made a quick tour of the house to be sure she was alone, then returned to the master bath, with its peach-tinted tiles and peach-colored marble, and ran the hot tap in the basin.

  When the water ran hot she smiled, shed her clothes, dropping them on the floor, turned the shower on full blast and got in, luxuriating in the hot water and steam. She stayed in a long time, scrubbed real good and washed her hair. When at last she came out she found a thick towel in one of the drawers, and dried off beneath the heat blowing from the furnace vent. Moving into the bedroom, she pulled a blanket off the bed, draped it around herself and tucked it in. Carrying her clothes into the alcove by the kitchen, she found the laundry soap and threw them in the washer, jeans, shirt, socks, panties, everything. While the wash ran she ransacked the kitchen cupboards. Finding canned soups and fruit, she pulled a saucepan from a lower cupboard, warmed a can of black bean soup, and opened a can of apricots. She had found the bowls and was gulping her breakfast when she heard the bedroom slider open—she was so startled she burned her mouth on a big spoonful of soup. She half rose, pulling her blanket tighter, looking to the front door for escape.

  She was too late. One second’s hesitation, and here came a woman down the hall, silent and quick, a tall woman dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, long dark hair down around her shoulders, and she was wearing a holstered gun. Emmylou had seen her around town, but only in uniform. Cop. Woman cop. She stepped to the table.

  “Having breakfast?”

  Emmylou stared at her.

  “Smells good. I guess you’re doing a load of laundry, too?”

  Emmylou said, “You were down at Sammie Miller’s house. What’s happened down there? How did you know I was in here?”

  “Someone saw smoke, they thought it was from the chimney. I came up to see if Alain had returned.” She glanced down over the rail at the cold fireplace. “I guess what they saw was hot air from the furnace vent.”

  Kathleen didn’t mention that Ryan Flannery had already come up here to have a look, had circled the house and then slipped inside while Emmylou was in the shower. Kathleen didn’t mention—because she didn’t know—that it was not, in fact, Ryan who had first spied the white trail rising up from the chimney, it was Joe Grey. He saw the condensation, alerted Ryan, and, because Kathleen was busy with the CSI technicians, she’d walked up the snowy street, walked along the front of the house and through the patio, had knocked then rang the bell. When no one answered, and she could hear water running, she’d gone around to the back, found the glass slider to the master bedroom jimmied, the frame bent, the door not quite closed, and a crowbar lying inside tucked against the wall. After slipping in to look, which she knew was foolish, after seeing that it was only Emmylou in there, she’d called Kathleen on her cell.

  Ryan had remained in the bedroom while Kathleen cleared the house. She could hear them talking, Kathleen and Emmylou, she heard the washer stop and in a moment the clothes dryer kicked on. When Kathleen came back down the hall, her expression was both annoyed and amused; the detective had trouble, sometimes, maintaining the unreadable façade of a seasoned cop. “Emmylou’s having breakfast. Wrapped in a blanket, cozy as a cat in a basket.”

  “It was pretty cold last night,” Ryan said, straight-faced. She followed Kathleen into the kitchen, where Emmylou had found some tea and had put a saucepan of water on to heat. They watched her drop teabags into three cups. She poured hot water over them, looking up inquiringly. Kathleen nodded, and they sat down at the table, Kathleen facing both the front door and the hall. It might be out of order for an arresting officer to socialize with someone breaking and entering, but Ryan didn’t think, from Emmylou’s behavior, that Kathleen had made an arrest. The detective was watchful and silent—there was something in the moment as tentative and frail as a whisper.

  Did Emmylou know that was Sammie Miller down there? Ryan wondered. Was that what this was about? Was she on the verge of identifying the body without ever seeing it? Or even, perhaps, on the verge of confessing to killing her? Ryan remained still, sipping her tea, trying not to telegraph her interest, trying to keep her thoughts, her whole demeanor, blank and withdrawn.

  Whatever their individual thoughts, none of the three women, not even the detective, was aware of movement in the master bedroom, of someone else slipping in through the glass door and down the hall to listen: an intruder padding stealthily, his shadow low to the floor; no one heard the hush of his so
ft paws.

  Joe slipped closer through the shadows of the hall, crouching where he could see all three women. Now, he realized, Alain Bent’s house was an adjunct to the case, a part of the crime scene: It had been broken into at least twice by players in this tangle, once when Debbie searched it, and again this morning by Emmylou—to say nothing of the phantom snitches. With this much interest, one had to wonder what the connection was, what was here of such value, or what had been here? What did Debbie, and Emmylou, think was hidden here? How did their interest tie in with the murders, and with Alain’s absence? How, in fact, might this house play out in the scenario of Hesmerra’s death? Kathleen was saying, “We’d like you to have a look at the body, Emmylou, see if you can identify the woman.”

  “You think it’s Sammie,” Emmylou said, her face going pink as if with suppressed tears. “Who else would be buried there, under Sammie’s own house? When did this happen? I saw her two weeks ago, and I’ve been up here nearly every day since, looking for her cats. Was she lying there all that time?”

  Kathleen said, “You told Officer Brennan you had a key. I’m surprised you didn’t stay there in the house, as cold as it’s been. You’ve been living in your car?”

  “She kept the key under the porch. I told the officers it wasn’t there, that it’s gone. Yes, I broke in but when I saw the mess I was afraid to stay there, someone’s been in there. Maybe only raccoons, maybe not. Someone has the key, and that scares me.”

  Kathleen said, “If the body is Sammie Miller, did she have family, someone to be notified?”

  “No one,” Emmylou said. “Just her brother, and Birely would be hard to find. He does have a cell phone, the number’s in Sammie’s Rolodex, you could try that. He doesn’t have a home, he calls himself a hobo, he comes to the village now and then and phones her, that’s why she bought him the prepaid phone. She meets him down near the river, the homeless camp there. Or up at the bridge where they all camp in bad weather.” She looked evenly at Kathleen. “There’s no one else who cares about Sammie. No friends I know of, only me.”