The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  She couldn’t. Yet despite that discouragement she had faith in Lowe, he was far more positive than their trial attorney, he left her feeling so much more hopeful. She was thankful he’d taken the case, though she didn’t know where she was going to find the money to pay him, and she hated taking it from her mother. Lowe had told her to take her time to make payments, that what he was interested in right now was getting the appeal and winning it.

  This morning when she’d met Lowe at the courthouse she had just come from taking the ledgers over to Farley’s Dime Store and collecting her last paycheck. Farley would no longer need her services, and he had been pretty cool. He hadn’t apologized for letting her go, he had just abruptly fired her. Last Thursday she had lost three accounts including Brennan’s Dress Shop, and she’d known Beverly Brennan all her life. She couldn’t believe Morgan’s trial and conviction had caused such a change among people she’d thought would stand by them. And business at the automotive shop was so bad she wasn’t sure she could pay Morgan’s mechanic.

  Selling the automotive shop would help pay the bills. But would destroy what Morgan had worked so hard to build, destroy another big piece of his life.

  Lowe finished his coffee. “You can think of nothing else?” When she shook her head, he stood up to leave. “I want to check the records on Falon, see if the police missed any old outstanding warrants here or out on the coast, maybe in Washington State or while he was in California.” He put out his hand. “Please take care. Doors locked, that kind of thing.” He took both her hands in his, looking at her kindly. “Will you and Sammie be all right? You’ll be moving to Atlanta in a few days, to your aunt’s? You’ll be near the office then, when we need to talk.”

  She handed him the paper where she’d written Anne’s address and phone number. “Maybe we’ll be lucky, maybe he won’t know about Anne. His mother might remember, but they don’t get along, I’d guess he seldom sees her. We’re taking Mama’s car to Anne’s. Mine will be here, in Mama’s garage.”

  On impulse Lowe gave her a big bear hug that made tears start. “I’ll call you before I leave Rome, let you know what else I find, and of course I’ll call you at Anne’s.” He turned and left her, swinging out the front door heading for his car. Getting in and pulling away, he waved. She stood at the front door, tears gushing in spite of herself, watching him drive away.

  It was twenty minutes after Quaker Lowe left that she discovered someone had been in the house. She hadn’t gone into the bedroom when she got home. Now when she went in to change to a pair of slacks she stopped, looking down at scattered shards of smashed glass, at broken frames and the torn pieces of their family pictures. She spun around, her back to the dresser facing the closet door.

  Reaching up, she snatched the dresser key from where it clung to a magnet behind the mirror. She unlocked the dresser drawer and took out Morgan’s loaded and holstered .38. Only when she was armed did she open the closet door.

  No one there. Her blue dress, Morgan’s favorite, lay on the floor torn into rags.

  No other clothes had been disturbed but when she turned to the dresser and pulled out the drawers she found her bras and panties tangled in a mess and they smelled; every piece of her more intimate clothing reeked with an ammonialike male smell. Her sweaters, blouses, everything had been pulled out, wadded up, and stuffed back again. Morgan’s clothes had not been touched.

  Carrying the gun pointed down, her thumb on the hammer, she walked slowly through the rest of the small house, stepping back as she flung open each door: Sammie’s room, Sammie’s closet, the coat closet, the bathroom, the kitchen. When she checked the service porch, the back door was unlocked. She locked it and called the police.

  From now on she’d keep the loaded gun with her. She would train Sammie, she’d gun-proof Sammie just as she knew the children of police officers were trained. She should have done that before. Now she would drill Sammie over and over in the rules for caution and safety, she had no other choice.

  Standing at the front window she waited nervously for the police, but then when Sergeant Leonard did arrive, the stern older man made her feel that she had called him out for nothing. Leonard was a beefy man, forty pounds overweight with soft, thick jowls and an attitude of boredom. He made little effort to conceal his amusement even when, entering the bedroom among the broken and torn pictures, she showed him her ruined dress and the wadded clothes in her dresser. When he looked at them, stone-faced, embarrassedly she asked him to smell them. He sniffed her clothes with distaste and gave her another amused look. “Is anything missing?” he said as if she had made up the intrusion, had made this mess herself.

  “Nothing’s missing that I’ve found.” She told him she had locked both doors when she left the house that morning, and that just now, when she went through the house, the back door was unlocked, the bolt slid back.

  When she moved to the front door and asked him to look at the lock, the pry marks were easy to see, bright scratches in the weathered brass. When, in the kitchen, she showed him that the milk bottle had been left out and the leftover spaghetti had been dug into, she felt awkward and stupid. She said Sammie was at Caroline’s, that she hadn’t been home at all to enjoy a little snack. Everything she showed him or told him seemed to amuse him. He moved back to the living room, stood by the front door asking questions about what time she had left the house this morning, how long she had been gone, and where she had been. He didn’t make any notes, though he carried his field book in his hand.

  She said, “Can you take fingerprints, can you find out who was in here?”

  “If there’s nothing missing, no break-in, no door or window broken, we don’t take fingerprints.”

  “But the pry marks on the front door. That is the sign of a break-in.”

  Carelessly he scribbled a few lines in his field book as if to humor her. His disdain, his refusal to take prints made her feel totally helpless. This was not how the police handled a problem, this was not what she’d been raised to expect of them, in Rome or anywhere else. Enraged by his lack of concern, by his sarcasm, all she could think was that the entire Rome PD was against Morgan, was sure Morgan was guilty, and had lost respect for their family. Leonard said nothing more. He turned, let himself out the front door. She watched from the window as his patrol car pulled away.

  When he had gone she locked the door and checked the bolt again on the back door. Tonight she would either booby-trap both doors or go back to Caroline’s. She had moved home yesterday, leaving Sammie cosseted at Caroline’s, so she could get her bills and papers in order and pack what they’d need in Atlanta.

  In the bedroom she removed her clothes from the drawers, her panties and nighties, bras and slips, and put them in the washer. She washed everything twice, with a little bleach. But for months afterward the touch of her undergarments against her skin made her feel violated and unclean.

  While she was running the wash she called Quaker at the motel. He was out but she left a message. When he called back and learned what had happened he made her promise to go back to Caroline’s, where at least the neighbors were younger and more able to come if they were needed. “How soon can you leave for Atlanta? How soon can you be out of Rome?”

  “A day, maybe two. As soon as I can wrap up the figures for my last job.”

  He said to call him when she left, and again when she got to Atlanta, he wanted to know she was safe. “As soon as I get back to Atlanta myself, I’ll set up a meeting with Morgan, go over the transcript with him, see if he can come up with anything else, even the smallest lead I might follow.”

  “Don’t tell him Falon broke in. I’ve told him nothing about Falon’s attacks, it would only worry him when there’s nothing he can do.” She was still shaky when they hung up. She put her clothes in the dryer, dragged out their old battered suitcase and some grocery bags, and got to work packing.

  SAMMIE SNUGGLED DEEPER under the quilt, pulling Misto warm against her. “You’ll come with me tomorrow, you’
ll come to Aunt Anne’s house. No one will know.” It was late after supper, Mama hadn’t come to bed yet, she could hear Mama and Grandma in the kitchen, the bright rattle of silverware as they washed dishes, the soft murmur of their “good-bye” voices, their sad voices. “You can ride on top of my new suitcase or anywhere in the car you want and Mama can’t see you.”

  Sammie’s small brown suitcase, the one Grandma had given her, stood packed and ready, across the room on the cedar chest beside Mama’s battered one. She didn’t want to leave Grandma, she didn’t want to move to Atlanta, she wanted Daddy home again, not gone away like when he was in the war. Why did things have to change? Mama said life was change, she said the important things stayed the same because the important things were inside you. Like loving each other and being strong.

  Ducking her head under the covers she pressed her face against Misto. When she stroked his ragged ears and tickled him under the chin the way he liked, he purred and patted a soft paw against her cheek and she knew he loved her just the way she loved him. That would never change.

  MISTO THOUGHT ABOUT Falon in Becky’s house rummaging through Becky’s clothes, peering up at the closet shelf knowing something was there, never guessing that a ghost crouched inches from his face, an angry invisible tomcat who could have clawed and bloodied him if he’d wanted. Misto had simply crouched there entertained by Falon’s fear, he could still see Falon shiver and back away. Falon had been even more afraid when Misto streaked through the air letting his tail trail across Falon’s neck. Falon’s reaction would make any cat laugh.

  Now as Sammie drifted into sleep Misto slept, too, as deep and restorative a sleep as if he was a mortal cat; a sleep that helped embolden him against the dark that not only tormented Lee but so often traveled with Falon. As the little cat slept he knew in his enduring feline soul that he was not alone, that neither he nor Sammie was alone, that they could never be abandoned; eternity didn’t work in that way.

  12

  ANNE CHESSERSON HAD grave reservations about allowing Becky and the child to move in with her. She had never been close to Caroline, even when they were children, for reasons her younger sister wouldn’t have understood. Now she was already sorry she’d let Caroline manipulate her into letting Becky and the little girl live there. What had possessed her? She wasn’t comfortable with children, she had never wanted a family, she liked her life as it was. She didn’t like changes in her routine. She didn’t care much for houseguests, though she had room for them, and of course she had Mariol to wait on the few visitors she did invite.

  Anne was a handsome woman, meticulously turned out, her black hair coiffed in a sleek French twist, her dresses custom made of pale silks which, on anyone else, might become quickly spotted or watermarked. Her winter coats were confections of beautifully draped cashmere. Her couturière, in Morningside, was so well situated that she had an unlisted phone. Anne had invested wisely the money John had settled on her when he left. While Caroline, with much lower goals, ran a bakery business that couldn’t be very profitable. Anne couldn’t find much sympathy for Caroline or her niece in this present situation. Becky knew, when she married Morgan Blake, that he ran with a troublemaker in high school. Caroline should never have allowed her to marry the boy—Morgan had been only a boy when they married. Then when Morgan came out of the navy all he wanted to do with his life was become an auto mechanic. No one could support a wife as a simple mechanic; no wonder he’d resorted to theft. The Atlanta papers had been full of the robbery and murder, it was an ugly business that she would prefer to keep at a distance. She could hardly do that if Becky was staying with her. But the decision had been made, so she wouldn’t back out.

  At least Becky and the child would have the basement suite, downstairs where Becky’s early rising to go to work, and the child’s noisy play, might not disturb her. Mariol lived on the main floor in the back bedroom; Anne’s own bedroom suite took up the smaller, second floor where she could look out over the rooftops of Atlanta. Anne believed in stairs; the exercise kept her waist and legs trim. She liked to cook, and on the nights she was home she prepared their meals, though Mariol did the shopping. Anne had been a temperamental, nervous child, and had been treated with extra care. Their mother had kept her perfectly groomed, immaculately dressed, not a wrinkle allowed nor a hair out of place, while she let Caroline run as she pleased in ragged dresses or boy’s jeans. Caroline had been a sturdy child, Anne had not. Anne’s interest in perfecting her outer self had helped to build a wall of protection, hiding her inner fears; that was the best shelter their mother could provide for her.

  BECKY AND SAMMIE moved into the basement suite on a Friday afternoon, slipping almost subserviently down the carpeted stairs from the foyer carrying their tattered suitcases. The Tudor house was built all of pale stone, with sharply peaked slate roofs and diamond leaded windows. From the basement sitting area one could step out onto a stone patio surrounded by an expanse of velvet lawn and carefully shaped azalea and rhododendron bushes. The downstairs suite seemed as big as Becky’s whole house, occupying three fourths of the large basement, with a laundry off to one side. The bedroom wing had twin beds done up with elegant satin spreads. This room could be hidden by cream velvet draperies drawn across. The other wing of the guest suite, the sitting area, featured a Louis XV–style desk and a rose marble fireplace. The rooms were carpeted in off-white wool carved in a Chinese pattern, the cost per square yard a sum that would have kept Becky and Sammie in luxury for months. The storage chests and dressing table were finished in hand-laid gold leaf. The room terrified Becky. She couldn’t feel comfortable here; she was afraid that either she or Sammie would mar the furniture or leave a stain on the carpet, on the velvet settee or on the two brocade chairs, would mar this perfect grouping arranged before the marble mantel and gas log. Even now with the chill nights of early fall she wouldn’t dare light a fire.

  There was no kitchenette and no possible place to comfortably open a can of tuna and a package of crackers except the bathroom. That room was done in mauve marble and mauve tile with both a shower and a tub, the shower protected by three layers of shower curtains, the outer, mauve one deeply ruffled. Stepping in the shower made Becky feel as if she was slipping into a closet filled with lacy ball gowns. The one new addition to the bedroom was the phone with a private line that Anne had had installed for her. Whether this was added out of thoughtfulness or to keep Becky from interrupting Anne’s own calls, the phone was welcome and made her feel more accepted.

  She had brought half a dozen of her own bedsheets to spread over the carpet where they would walk the most and to cover a six-foot square between Sammie’s bed and the wall so Sammie would have a play area. She had not allowed Sammie to bring paints or crayons, only a drawing pad and pencils. Sammie had specific instructions about keeping the carpet clean—Becky gave her more instructions than either of them wanted to deal with. Sammie was a good child, she was never intentionally destructive, but children were children and Becky worried obsessively about damaging Anne’s perfect house.

  For the first few days she made their breakfasts and dinners from cans, she and Sammie sitting on the bathroom floor on a folded sheet pretending they were having a picnic. Maybe she was making too much of trying to keep the rooms clean, but she hadn’t been invited here, she couldn’t help feeling like an intruder.

  She had turned the bedspreads wrong side up to keep them clean and now, after her third day of job hunting, she lay across her bed, exhausted. Her feet ached from walking the streets, her head ached from filling out countless job applications, answering the same probing questions over and over, and dealing with countless interviews. The questions always included the same inquiry about her marital status and her husband’s occupation. In the last week and a half she had applied for eighteen jobs and had been told eighteen times, after filling out all the applications, that there were no openings or that she didn’t fit the qualifications or that they would call her if something came up. What did
she expect when she told the truth, that Morgan was in the Atlanta pen for a robbery and murder that he hadn’t committed, that she was working with an attorney on an appeal?

  On the nineteenth application, where she must check either married, single, divorced, or widowed, she marked widowed, and she used her maiden name, Tanner. She had to find a job, and soon, and then a small apartment near a school for Sammie. The problem of after-school weighed heavily, she hadn’t solved that one yet. Now, when she was out job hunting, Sammie stayed quietly in their room but she couldn’t leave Sammie alone in an apartment.

  On their visits to Morgan she found it increasingly hard to hide her despair at the lack of a job. When she was with him she talked hopefully about their request for an appeal, but too often he would simply hug her and change the subject, knowing she was holding back her stress and doubts. She worried, too, because Sammie wasn’t sleeping well. And now Sammie wouldn’t talk about her dreams, though she had never before been secretive. Sammie had started to make a picture book of small pencil drawings in a plain, unlined tablet, but she didn’t want to show Becky, she made her promise not to look.

  But soon, when Anne was out at one or another of her club meetings, Becky would come home to find Sammie upstairs in the kitchen with Mariol; at first that disturbed her, but Mariol herself put Becky at ease. The housekeeper was a handsome Negro woman to whom Becky had warmed at once. She had been with Anne since before John left, before the divorce. Soon Mariol was giving Sammie a hot lunch, and then she had them both coming upstairs to a hot breakfast. Anne was quiet during those meals but she seemed to tolerate the arrangement. Mariol would hug and cuddle Sammie, but of course Anne didn’t put aside her own reserve, Becky knew she never would.