Padding down the stairs, he circled the shop, brushing against expensive wool suits and nosing behind counters. He could detect no scent of the pair; the stink of the old lady upstairs still filled his nostrils. He found nothing disturbed around the cash register, nothing out of place, no one in the storeroom. Angry at his mistake, he fled upstairs again and out the window to pad along the edge of the roofs, looking over them, wishing he hadn’t lost Gail.
He searched for the look-alikes for some time, then headed again for their motel-passing Alice Manning, who stood below him in the shadows near the Shrimp Bowl. He guessed this was Alice, dressed in khaki shirt and skirt. Gail and Dorothy had been wearing jeans, Beverly a pants suit. Trying to sort out the four look-alikes was enough give any cat fits. He could see, through the restaurant window, that Beverly Barker had left. A waiter was clearing the table.
Making his way over tarpaper and shingles to the Wanderer, he dropped down into its patio just as the courthouse clock struck nine. The women’s motel room was still dark, the window still open, and there was no sound-but someone had opened the drapery.
Quietly working the screen free with his claws, he took a good look around, then slipped inside.
The soft lights from the patio bathed the room, picking out the open, half-empty suitcases and scattered clothes. Still no sound, no movement. He could not sort one woman’s scent from the other. Their mix of perfumes and lotions filled every space, making his nose burn.
In Gail’s open suitcase, under her robe, lay a black cat mask, a black leotard, black, soft boots and a pair of black suede gloves, thin and pliable-and smelling of brine.
Digging deeper, he found only jeans and underwear. The bottom of the suitcase was fitted with a zippered pocket, locked with one of those little combination locks designed to secure luggage that could be easily slit open with any sharp instrument-but not with a cat’s claws. It would take a lot of raking to tear that dense nylon. Dragging a paw across the pocket, he thought it might contain a few papers, certainly nothing thicker. He returned the clothes as neatly as he could, pawing everything back, and stood a moment looking at a jacket that hung over a chair by the door, studying its primitive, multi-colored designs. Latin American. How interesting.
But then, leaping to the dresser, nosing through a pile of papers, he unearthed a motel note pad where someone had written, Festival rehearsal Wednesday, 7 p.m.
This was Friday. Frances Farrow had died Thursday morning, the day after the rehearsal.
That night, after the three women rehearsed their number, had they gone somewhere for a late supper, maybe a few drinks? In the small hours, had Frances Farrow gone off alone, perhaps walked along the sea, getting her feet wet? Before dawn, alone, had she wandered into the patio of Otter Pine Inn? Maybe saw the tearoom door ajar and went inside-blundering into the burglary in progress?
And ended up dead.
Maybe she had grabbed for the thief, meaning to stop him or her, and the thief hit her-accidentally killed her?
Conjecture. All conjecture. Too many possibilities-as frustrating as hunting invisible mice in a glass house.
Returning to Gail’s suitcase, he sniffed at the gloves again, at the scent of brine, then retrieved a plastic bag from the wastebasket. Lifting each glove by its edge, he dropped them in.
He tossed the rest of the room as methodically as he could, going through suitcases and makeup bags. Standing beside Dorothy’s suitcase, he pawed her silk slip aside to reveal a small automatic, with the clip in. Maybe a.22 or.25 caliber, a little, ladies’ gun that would fit nicely into pocket or purse.
The brine-scented gloves were Gail’s, the gun was Dorothy’s. And then, standing in the sink pawing through a flowered cosmetic kit on the bathroom shelf, he found a small, zippered makeup bag that felt like it contained bullets. Attempting to slide the zipper, he got it on the fifth pull, nearly tearing out a claw.
Bullets. Soft nosed. Maybe.38s. Certainly a larger caliber than the automatic. He’d watched often enough when Max Harper and Clyde Damen cleaned their guns after going to the firing range to know the difference.
Well, there was no law against having bullets or a gun, even in California, if one followed the state’s intricate rules. But two armed women? What did that add up to?
Or did Dorothy have two guns? He had, with the reek of perfume and hair spray numbing his nose, no notion whose cosmetic bag this was-he felt helpless. He had temporarily lost his most valuable skill.
Well, he hadn’t really expected to find the stolen money from the inn-but he was disappointed that he didn’t. Out of sorts, growling softly, he was fighting to open a drawer of the night stand when a click at the door sent him across the room and out the window, dragging the gloves in their plastic bag.
Crouching under the bushes, he could see nothing. He heard someone step inside, heard the door close. The windows remained dark. He could hear them moving around, pulling out drawers, apparently searching just as he had himself searched, by the soft light from the patio.
Leaving the plastic bag among the leaves and dirt, he eased up onto the sill again, trying to remain within the rhododendron bush, out of sight-looking in at Alice Manning. Same khaki skirt and shirt, same rope sandals. Where had she gotten a key?
But that would be easy enough. Stop in the motel office, say she’d lost hers. She looked exactly like the three occupants; who would know?
She knelt beside the open suitcase from which he had taken the gloves, her back to him, her tight khaki skirt hiked above her knees. Lifting out the leotard and boots and the cat mask, she removed the clothes beneath. He couldn’t see what she was doing, with her back to him, but she worked at something for a few moments then he heard the click of the lock and the zipper sliding. He couldn’t tell whether she was putting something into the bag or taking something out. He heard a faint rustling, like paper. He was so interested he nearly pushed on inside to have a look. And why not? Just a little friendly session of pet the kitty.
Except, with Azrael mixed up in this gig, he wasn’t sure who knew about the talents of certain cats. He could walk right into trouble.
And, was this really Alice Manning? He could detect no human scent at all, over the mélange of lotions and perfumes. Before he could move, she zipped up the compartment again. As the lock clicked, four blocks away the courthouse clock struck 9:30. Patiently, Joe waited for her to leave.
She didn’t leave. She moved idly around the room as if preoccupied, glancing at the strewn clothes and into the open suitcases, but touching nothing else. When she turned toward the window Joe lost his nerve and dropped down again into the bushes, crouching beside the gloves, puzzled. She stood just above him, looking out, then slid the window closed. As she pulled the curtains, Joe took the evidence bag in his teeth-he hoped the gloves turned out to be evidence-and headed across the village for the back door of the Molena Point PD, looking, he supposed, like he was hauling a pair of dead rats all done up in plastic for the home freezer.
Chapter Six
Joe Grey, carrying the plastic bag in his teeth, trotted through the patio’s flower beds, heading for the Molena Point PD. If the police lab found fibers from the dead woman’s leotard clinging to the gloves, Captain Harper would have his killer-accidental death, maybe. Or a clever murder? And even if murder couldn’t be proved, Harper would likely have his thief.
The night was dark, the moon thin. Climbing a jasmine vine beside the Chinese restaurant, Joe made his way across the roofs hauling the bag like a mother cat dragging a large and unwieldy kitten. Crossing the streets on the branches of the twisted oaks, trying not to trip on his slick plastic burden, he was soon on the roof of the jail.
He backed down a tree, his claws in the bark, the bag dangling over his shoulder as if he were a homeless wanderer with a see-through pack. The police parking lot was well lighted, with the area walled on one side by the police station, on the other two sides by the jail and the courthouse; the fourth perimeter was open to the street
. He crossed beneath the squad cars…
He was nearly to the steps, looking up at the heavy metal door of the station, when a car turned in-Captain Harper’s surveillance car. Joe scutched into the shadows beside the steps, crouching over his burden. He didn’t need Harper to find him here with vital evidence. Harper already had too many suspicions about the “phantom snitch.”
The car door opened and the tap of Harper’s boots approached across the concrete; Joe’s heart was quivering like a cornered rat. Harper climbed the steps inches from his nose and unlocked the metal door. Before it could slam, Joe was through behind his heels, hauling the plastic bag, flinching when the door banged shut. As Harper moved quickly up the hall into the squad room, Joe fled for the nearest conference room dragging the bag-a demented retriever unwilling to let go.
He collapsed beneath a chair, panting. Sometimes the stress of such moments got to him. He could use a quick pick-me-up, just now. A ham sandwich or a nice fresh rat. Or some of George Jolly’s imported gourmet treats. He was dreaming of Jolly’s Deli, of smoked salmon and fine cheeses, when Harper came running down the hall again, his boots thundering and three officers pounding behind him. Joe peered out as the back door banged open; they disappeared through it, and he heard three cars roar away.
Dragging the bag, he fled for the squad room where he could hear the police radio. Crouching under Harper’s desk, he heard the dispatcher repeat her call. Commercial burglary at Charles, Ltd.
Had they been robbed before he, himself, entered? Or after he left? Or had Greeley and the black tomcat been in there after all, maybe hiding in one of the dressing rooms? That made him feel really stupid.
Harper and his men had left without sirens. Joe knew they’d patrol quietly for anyone fleeing the scene, then would enter the shop in silence.
Slipping up onto Harper’s desk chair, he dropped the bagged gloves on the blotter, meaning to take off after the law. The big squad room was nearly empty, a couple of guys at their desks writing reports, the dispatcher behind her counter. He was about to make a dash for the front door, see if he could leap up unseen, push the release button on the wall and ease the door open, when he felt a draft coming from the back of the building.
There were no windows in the back, and he hadn’t heard that door open. The only other door was to the courthouse, and it was kept locked at night. Dropping down to take a look, he heard a brushing sound in the hall. Crouched for fight or flight, he peered around the corner-and was face to face with Dulcie.
His tabby lady looked back at him, her green eyes wide with amusement. “I followed you. Come on, Joe, get out of the hall. The janitor will close the door in a minute, he’ll see us.”
They slipped back into the squad room, under Harper’s desk. “Janitor’s cleaning the courthouse,” Dulcie said. “He propped the hall door open, into the station. He’s not supposed to do that-if Harper knew, he’d get him fired. I got into the courthouse when he went out to put some buckets on the steps.”
“Great security. So how did you find me?”
“I saw you from the tower; I was following Larry Cruz. He and Gail-I think it was Gail-went in that bar on the next street.”
“I thought you were watching Alice Manning.”
“I was on the roof beside their window. She and her husband had a cozy dinner for two, in their room, in front of the fire, then snuggled up watching an old movie. It was nice,” she said, purring. “She wears pink satin pajamas.”
“What time was that?”
“I got there about 8:30, left an hour later.”
“I saw Alice outside the Shrimp Bowl, about then-or did I? I thought it was Alice. Khaki skirt and blouse. Could you see her the whole time? Could she have gone out later?”
“She pulled the curtains about nine. I left at 9:30; the tower clock had just struck the half hour. I couldn’t see in any more, but the movie was still playing, I could hear it and could see the lights moving across the curtains. I guess she could have gone out.
“After she pulled the curtains, I was ready to give it up and drop off the roof, when I saw Larry Cruz standing across the street looking up, watching the Mannings’ windows. Dark clothes, standing in the shadows. I don’t know how long he’d been there. I guess he could see right in, before they pulled the drapes, it’s only the third floor, and they were right by the window. When he turned away, I followed him over the roofs.
“He stopped in the deli, got a sandwich, ate it walking around. He was all over the village. He met Gail near the courthouse, she was waiting for him-I guess it was Gail,” Dulcie said, her green eyes widening. “She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. She gave him a package, he tucked it in his shirt, under his jacket, and they went in the bar.”
Joe said, “Charles, Ltd. was robbed tonight. I was in there, I thought I followed Azrael in, but I couldn’t smell him. It might have been the shop cat. Found no one downstairs, and nothing looked disturbed. No sign of Greeley.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that we haven’t seen him?”
He sat looking at her. “You saw Alice in her room from 8:30 to 9:00. After that, you thought she was there. At 9:30 you left, and followed Larry. He meets Gail-you think it was Gail-about 10:00. They go in the bar.” Joe frowned, his ears back, his yellow eyes narrowing. “Say Larry has partnered up with Greeley, planning to lay the blame on Alice. Say he was watching Alice ’s room to be sure there were no witnesses to where she was, when the burglary came down.”
“But…”
“I wonder if room service saw her when they delivered their dinner. They could testify she was there, not ripping off the men’s store.”
“Dinner was in paper bags,” Dulcie said. “Takeout Chinese. Smelled good.” She licked her whiskers. “Maybe they got tired of fancy hotel food. So there was no room service. Manning picked up their order himself, was coming in when I got there.”
Dulcie rolled over, her tabby stripes blending with the shadows. “And there’s something else. This afternoon, on the inn’s patio, I was waiting for Larry. I thought I might learn something, the way you said. He came in from his car, that red Acura, carrying a black duffel bag, like divers use for their wet suits and equipment, and he smelled of the sea. His shoes were sandy, and when I sniffed around his tires they smelled of little dead sea creatures and tar, and there was sand in the treads.”
“So, the guy’s a diver.”
“And the corpse’s feet were wet from the sea.”
“What are you saying? We should take up diving, slip on a couple of wet suits and…”
Dulcie pressed against him, warm and sleek and purring. “I think we should follow him next time he goes to dive. Who knows what we’ll find?”
Chapter Seven
In Moreno’s Grill, beneath the table in a shadowed corner booth, the two cats pressed as far away from the shoes of Joe Grey’s human housemate, and of police chief Max Harper, as they could squeeze. The carpet smelled of stale French fries. It was the afternoon after the burglary at Charles, Ltd.
Harper and Clyde Damen liked to wind down at Moreno ’s after work, isolated in the far corner of the quiet bar where they could speak privately, no nosy idlers to overhear. Clyde was the only civilian with whom the police chief talked freely. The two men, having grown up together, were as close as brothers.
“Burglar alarm was disconnected,” Harper said. “No one knew about the break-in until Chuck Connover went back to the store that night, some time before 10, to pick up some papers he’d meant to work on. He started to turn off the alarm, then saw that it was off. Found the cash register open and empty. Went on into the back room, which was foolish. Said he was relieved when he found the safe locked. He didn’t open it until we got there, didn’t know until then that it had been cleaned out. The burglary could have happened anywhere between 8, when he left the store, and 10. We found no prints.”
“You pick up any fibers or hairs, or anything dropped?”
“The usual dust and lint, sen
t off to the lab. Found some hairs on the desk beside the safe-black animal hairs. Likely from Chuck’s old cat, she’s all over the shop.”
Under the table, Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Chuck Connover’s old cat? Or Azrael? But bigger puzzles than the identity of a black cat filled their thoughts.
They had spent the early dawn on the rocky cliffs south of the village, watching Larry Cruz suit up beside the tailgate of his red Acura. Larry had met no one, and had hardly spoken to the other divers. Watching him pull on his flippers and back into the water, they could see him for a while through the clear blue swells before he vanished, where the sea went black along the cliffs. He came out an hour later, and did not have any fish or shellfish. But he seemed to have done nothing different than any of the other divers.
Above their heads, Harper said, “I don’t like to lay this stuff on you, Clyde. You’re the only one I’d tell how uneasy it makes me. I laugh about it, in the squad room.”
“What stuff?”
“The phantom snitch is back. The messenger who leaves evidence in my car and at the back door of the station. Same guy who tipped us where the weapon was hidden that killed Samuel Beckwhite, and has been phoning me ever since. Same voice, same turns of speech.”
Beneath the table, Clyde shifted his feet with unease. “You told me it was a man and a woman. And that their information is reliable,” he said testily.
“A hundred percent,” Harper said. “But still they make me nervous. Last night, someone left a plastic bag on my desk, at about the time the commercial burglary report came in. Bag contained a pair of woman’s gloves. Black suede. Sent them to the lab this morning.”
The men were silent. Someone set down his glass. “I can’t discount these tips,” Harper said. “They’ve helped us in past cases. But they’re mighty hard to explain to the court-I’ve never seen these two, I have no information about them. Usually, I know my snitches.”
Cat on the Money Page 3
