If she’d had to have a child—and this child hadn’t been planned, it was Martin who insisted on keeping it—then why couldn’t she have had a boy like Kent? From the time the Colletto kids were little they’d been as bold as brass, she’d gotten along with them just fine. Though Kent was her favorite, Kent was the pusher, even more than Victor, taking what he wanted when he wanted, and exactly how he wanted, she thought, smiling.
Despite its two stories, the house was small, it didn’t take long to search. But it didn’t offer much space to conceal herself, either. The best place was the coat closet beneath the stairs. With the door cracked open, she could see into the living room, the kitchen, and through the kitchen’s glass door to the studio. The attached garage would have been an adequate place to wait for Maudie, but the outside pedestrian door was blocked with a stack of heavy crates, leaving no way to escape except through the noisy overhead door. By staying in the house she had access to the front door, the outside studio doors, or the low living room windows, one of which she’d unlocked earlier. She’d also unlocked an upstairs window. Later, when Maudie came up to search that floor, she’d been standing just outside on the roof that sheltered the front door below.
Earlier, at the bottom of the stairs, looking across the kitchen to the studio, watching Maudie at her worktable, she’d had no idea what instinct held her back, but she’d paid attention. She was nervous at the faint voices she’d heard from outside. That couldn’t be Arlie and Kent, they wouldn’t talk out loud, though they were probably already nearby, watching the target house. Maybe she’d heard some neighbors’ voices contorted by the wind, floating on the night.
As Pearl was waiting for Maudie to leave again to go pick up the child, as she seemed to be preparing to do, the sound of a car in the drive and then footsteps on the porch made her back deeper into the closet. Pulling the door to, she pushed in behind the line of hanging coats, into the smell of old wool. She heard the front door open, heard Jared call out to Maudie, heard Maudie’s step as she came out of the kitchen.
“I was just leaving to go get Benny,” Maudie said. “You missed a good dinner.”
“I’ll get him if you like. Maybe there’ll be some leftovers,” he said hopefully.
“I never saw so much food,” Maudie said. “But you’d better hurry, those cops wolf it down like it’s their last meal.”
“I’ll go get Benny, and then, early as it is, I’m hitting the hay. I’ve had a ton of homework this week, feel like I’ll never catch up on my sleep.”
Pearl heard the front door open and close, heard Maudie move away across the tile floor toward the living room, heard Jared’s car start and back out of the drive. Now, again, she and Maudie were alone. Slipping out of the closet, meaning to trap Maudie in the living room, she heard the voices again, closer. Someone was out there, and a sense of wrongness tingled through her, the feeling she got sometimes at the poker table when, despite how the cards were falling, she knew to stop betting. That instinct was at work now. If she was smart she’d go with it.
Easing open the closet door to peer out, she saw Maudie in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her back to her. Silently she slipped to the front door, cracked it open, but drew back when the voices came again, the soft grainy voice of the man and the faint laugh of the young woman. Quietly pulling the door closed, she left the house, not through the front or side door, but out the low living room window into the bushes, where she was sure no neighbor would glimpse her. Moving along close to the side of the house and then into the neighbor’s wooded backyard, she waited for her companions. She would return in a while, this time to do more than confront Maudie, this time to force Maudie’s hand.
37
FOUR HOUSES DOWN from Maudie’s stood a wood-sided Craftsman cottage, its ivory tones picked out by four decorative lamps standing among beds of pale alstroemerias that were nearly finished blooming for the winter. Grass clippings from the little lawn were scattered along the stone walk, where Alfreda Meiers or her gardener had apparently neglected to sweep. The walk was sheltered by a Japanese maple, bare now in the winter cold. Three steps led up to the cream-colored wooden porch and the pale front door that was carved with fern patterns and without any panes of decorative glass. The walls flanking the door were solid, too, and unbroken, there was only the peephole in the door itself through which to view whoever might ring the bell. A widow of twenty years, a shy, fearful woman, Alfreda kept her windows and front and back doors double-locked. She had no dog to provide protection or warning barks; she didn’t want dog hair on her furniture. She didn’t have a weapon for protection, she was afraid of guns, and she felt that even pepper spray was far too dangerous. She carried her cell phone in her pocket so that if she ever did have an intruder, she could summon help. She had two grown daughters, both married and living in Southern California. She had no desire to live with either of them, nor they with her. The girls visited their mother infrequently, and with restraint.
Alfreda’s dinner had consisted of a broiled chicken breast, a small salad, and for dessert a sliced pear with a square of white cheese. After dinner she allowed herself a cheerful gas fire in the fireplace, and curled up on the couch to read the latest in a series of gentle mysteries that wouldn’t keep her awake. She heard several cars pass on the street, saw their lights bleeding in arcs through her living room draperies. She was only vaguely aware of a car pulling into a drive four doors up, and then soon departing again; she knew it was at the Tudor house, by the heavy sound of the front door closing. She hadn’t met her new neighbor, not formally, but they waved to each other on the street. At nine-thirty Alfreda closed her book, turned off the gas logs, turned down the furnace thermostat, and switched off the lights. By ten o’clock she had washed her face, brushed her teeth, slipped on her flannel nightgown, and was in bed, already drifting off, willing her dreams to be happy. This time of year, she tried to fix her thoughts on the happy holidays of her childhood, not on those later on in her life. She woke again at ten-forty, rudely pulled from sleep by the door chimes ringing, accompanied by frantic pounding on the door itself, as if someone were in trouble.
UP THE HILL from Alfreda Meier’s house and Maudie’s, atop the Damens’ little cottage, Kit and Misto sat at the edge of the roof watching the street below. They had watched Maudie in her studio, had seen Jared arrive home and leave again, then later seen him return with Benny, the child stumbling into the house half asleep, leaning against Jared. Had seen the guest room light go on and shadows move about as if both Benny and Jared were getting ready for bed, and in a few minutes the light went off again. Soon Maudie’s light went out, too, the house was dark, and Kit imagined the three drifting off into sleep. Only the cats were wakeful, alert to every smallest sound, to that of a passing car along the surrounding streets, to the distant bark of a dog, to a door closing blocks away. To the tiny scratching from above as a flying squirrel landed on the rough bark of a nearby pine. He looked down at them with huge, dark eyes, and sailed away again into the night.
Kit had, with a thoughtfulness that surprised even Kit herself, used the cell phone to ease Lucinda’s and Pedric’s worries when she didn’t come home; they had gone to the party early and, wanting to see the pageant, had also left early. They were home now, and they did worry when she was out in the night. As Kit and Misto held their vigil, he told stories from ancient Wales that she had never heard, she had committed each to memory, making it forever a part of her hoard of mysterious tales.
Below, they heard a car park four or five blocks down, the reflection of its lights suddenly extinguished. Footsteps cut the night and then silence, as if perhaps the driver had gained his own front door, silently opened it and closed it, not wanting to wake those within; and again the neighborhood was still. Kit was reciting to herself one of Misto’s stories when they heard the faintest echo of a doorbell just down the street, and then loud, insistent banging—maybe half a block down? Kit scanned the houses below. The banging continued and the bell
kept on ringing, and they could see a dark shadow on the porch of the cream-colored house four doors down from Maudie’s. As they watched, the porch light blazed on revealing a thin man pounding, his back to them. He wore a black jacket, dark jeans, a dark cap. The questioning voice from within, a woman’s voice, was as thin as a whisper. Was she peering out through the peephole? How much of him could she see of him?
“There’s been a wreck,” the man said tremulously, “I need help. Please …”
The cats looked at the empty, silent street, the silent neighborhood. They’d heard no wreck, there was no wreck. Alarmed, they dove among the oak leaves, pawed the phone out, and Kit punched in 911, trying not to shout. “Man pounding on a door, a lone woman lives there. He says there was a wreck, but there was no wreck, there’s no car on the street … Could it be another invasion?” She ended the call before June Alpine could ask any questions. The new dispatcher hadn’t been sufficiently indoctrinated yet, in how to respond to these particular snitches, she hadn’t learned not to ask, but to call the chief pronto. Kit hit the disconnect, and they fled down across the roofs, two small, silent shadows. Kit would have carried the phone but it was too clumsy and heavy. Even as they approached the pale house two patrol cars came slipping along the street without lights, their radios silent, one from downhill, one from uphill behind them. Each pulled to the curb several doors away from where the man stood talking through the door.
Two uniforms slipped out of each car, keeping to the dark edges of the yard beyond the glow of Alfreda’s lights. They watched silently the figure at the door with his back to them. He seemed unaware of anything but the little click as Alfreda turned the dead bolt from within, possibly leaving the security chain in place—not that a chain would do any good, Kit thought. The cats watched the front door cautiously open a few inches—and everything happened at once. The invader hit the door with all his weight, jerking the chain loose and ramming the door back. He grabbed Alfreda, hit her when she struggled. Two cops charged up the steps and grabbed him, breaking his grip on the victim. And three figures exploded from the bushes, streaking into the backyard, heading for the wooded greenbelt beyond; the other two officers were after them, crashing down the hill.
Officer Crowley held the invader jammed against the house, pressing his face into the wood siding. Crowley was half a foot taller, thin but big boned, his large hands jerking the invader’s arms behind him. As Crowley snapped on the cuffs, securing them through the guy’s belt, Officer Brennan pushed inside to clear the house, his overweight frame blocking the lamplight as he passed. And as Crowley marched the prisoner to the patrol car, the cats got their first good look at the man.
It was Arlie Risso, black beard, black hair. He stood straight and stiff beside the car, his expression affronted as Crowley snapped on leg irons. More than one officer leading a handcuffed prisoner whose legs were free had been unpleasantly surprised by a sudden attack and escape. Crowley didn’t mean to risk that embarrassment.
“I was trying to warn her,” Risso was arguing. “I was at the door to warn her, why are you arresting me? You’d better call your captain.”
Crowley just looked at him, his big hands gripping Risso’s shoulders, hands strong enough, Kit thought, to easily rip a bale of hay in two. His look said he’d like to do that to Risso. Risso said, “You’d better go after the thieves, Officer. You’d better arrest them. You’d better get your commander over here, pronto, to straighten this out.”
“We’ll just make you comfortable in the patrol car,” Crowley told Risso dryly, “until we can arrange an appointment with the chief.” Towering over Risso’s six feet, Crowley turned the handsome, bearded man around as easily as spinning a doll, so he faced the patrol car. Opening the back door, he enthusiastically pressed Risso’s head down, making sure he cleared the opening without a concussion and an ensuing lawsuit. Above on the neighboring house’s roof, Kit and Misto grinned and switched their tails, laughing.
Officer Brennan came outside with Alfreda, where she sat down on the little low wall that flanked the porch. Three more squad cars arrived, their radios spewing canned voices, their spotlights washing across the neighbors’ yards and even up across the rooftops, forcing the cats to flatten themselves in order to stay out of sight. Leaving the black-and-whites, four officers ran for the greenbelt, their torch lights cutting through the bushes. The blare of a bullhorn thundered, telling the escapees to stop. It was pitch-dark back there, the swinging lights blinding as they swept into the tangled woods cutting pale swaths across the tree trunks.
In the Tudor house a light came on in Maudie’s bedroom, the cats could see her silhouette at the window, looking out. The guest room windows remained dark. Were Benny and Jared still sound asleep, unaware of the crashing and running, of breaking bushes and even of the bullhorn?
“Maybe the cops can make Risso talk,” Kit said. “Maybe he’ll ID the others.”
“Would he? Risso—Marlin Dorriss—he’s a cold one.”
“To save his own skin, he might.” She turned to look at Misto. “I never thought of Dorriss doing strong-arm stuff, like hitting a woman. Thought of him as the gentleman thief, the con artist, the slick crook who gets others to do his dirty work.”
“Maybe so, but they were afraid of him in prison. All the men were. And why do you care so much?” he said with interest.
Her yellow eyes widened. “I hate that man. These invasions are for one purpose. To discredit Max Harper, discredit the department, to hurt our friends. The cops are our friends. I hope Risso rots in jail for the rest of his life, that those men burn in hell forever.”
“I’ve never had a human friend I cared so much about.” Misto licked his paw. “What must that be like, to love a human friend?”
“That’s why you came here,” Kit said, “to find friends, cat and human. We’re your friends now,” she said softly. She went silent as a big pickup came up the hill and pulled to the curb. Max Harper got out, looking pleased that Crowley had nailed Dorriss. He wasn’t wearing his usual Western boots tonight, but soft black running shoes, more than ready for a chase. Up the street, Maudie had disappeared from her upstairs window, and in a moment she came out the front door. Standing quietly on the porch, she watched the scene below. Behind her, Jared came out of the front door, yawning, his hair tousled from sleep. He had pulled on a striped robe over the sweatpants he must have slept in, had pulled on his running shoes, the laces still untied. He yawned again, stood on the porch staring down the street toward the police cars.
“What’s happened? Not another invasion? Not here!”
“Where’s Benny?” Maudie asked with alarm.
“Sound asleep, he didn’t stir.” He didn’t take his eyes from the street. “It’s a robbery of some kind, the way they’re searching the yards. The lights and bullhorn woke me, their torches shining up.” He started down the steps toward the dark yards as if he meant to help search, but Maudie caught his arm. “Don’t, Jared. Don’t go out there, let the police handle it.”
He looked at her, and pulled away.
“Stay here,” she said boldly, almost angrily. “If you get into the tangle, they could mistake you for one of the burglars. In the dark they might shoot you.”
He hesitated. “I suppose you’re right, but … I’ll just go look in the backyard,” he said edgily, “while they’re searching down there. Maybe—”
“No,” Maudie began, “you—”
“Stay where you are,” Max Harper said, stepping out of the shadows beside the house. As Jared spun around, Harper grabbed him, threw him against the doorjamb, and jerked his arms behind him. Maudie caught her breath as Harper snapped handcuffs on him.
“What is this? Jared didn’t … He isn’t …” Then Maudie looked down, where Max Harper was looking.
The two cats, peering over the edge of the roof, could see it, too. A faint trail of grass clippings led across the porch from within the house. When Maudie turned on the inside light, two trails of clippings
led up the stairs for as far as the cats could see, one on each side of the steps. In the entry, one trail turned away toward the kitchen, one followed Jared out onto the porch where he now stood. And when the cats looked back at Jared, they saw bits of grass clinging to the elastic cuffs of his sweatpants, to his damp running shoes and to his dangling shoestrings.
An officer came up from Alfreda’s house, and together he and Harper loaded Jared into a squad car. Same drill with the leg irons, same ducking of Jared’s head to clear the door. Maudie stood very still in the doorway, simply watching. As the two squad cars took off with their prisoners, heading for the station followed by another black-and-white, Detective Ray’s old rental Ford pulled up in front of Maudie’s house. Kathleen, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, was carrying an evidence bag. She spoke with Maudie and Max Harper briefly and then began taking photographs of the two trails of grass, one coming down the stairs and out to the porch, the other leading away to the studio. On the roof, Kit gave Misto a quizzical look.
“That’s one we were wrong about,” she said. “Jared Colletto. Well, he was quick on his feet, you have to give him that. Slipped out of the house after Maudie went to bed? Was down there, closing in on Alfreda’s house, when the cops grabbed Risso?”
“He had to be one of the three the cops chased,” Misto said. “He veered away behind Maudie’s house, where we couldn’t see him, into the studio and upstairs again.”
“Threw on his robe,” Kit said, “and came down yawning, with not a thought to the grass clippings. Jared Colletto,” she repeated, and she felt sad that someone she’d almost trusted had turned out to be all deception and lies.
Cat Coming Home Page 21
