Cat Striking Back

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  And then she’d gotten in one of her moods, had to have one more fling sunbathing, and look what it got her, she’d messed up everything.

  Taking his time around the hairpin turns, wary of some approaching driver trying to pass another on the narrow road, he played the radio, pushing the buttons for a new station whenever he got bored, selecting alternately the talk shows, the hourly news, some nutcase discussing alternative medicine, and a station that specialized in UFO sightings. Anything to keep his thoughts moving, not dwell on her. And not dwell on those cursed cats last night. The sea air was calming, but then going around a curve the wind hit his face hard, making the wounds burn like fire, so painful that he felt the cats on him again, clawing and biting. Even with the distraction of the radio, he kept seeing them exploding in his face, their eyes like fire. When he took his hands off the wheel, they were shaking. His stomach, full of breakfast now, was getting queasy again as it had last night. Last night he’d lain awake for hours sweating, seeing that pale cat bursting out at him through the broken window, feeling enraged cats all over him. That kept him awake until he got up, found the sleeping pills they sometimes used, took two, and then at last dozed off. But even then, he slept fitfully, would jerk awake, his face burning. Once he woke seeing Poe’s cat plastered inside a wall staring out at him, and then saw those cats screaming up from her grave letting the whole world know where she was buried.

  Trying to pass a slow-moving truck on the two-lane, he pulled his thoughts back to the road, looking ahead as far as he could to negotiate the curve. He couldn’t drive these hairpin curves with his mind obsessing over cats. The road was precarious here, the drop precipitous, straight down maybe a hundred feet. He’d passed the truck without mishap and was headed downhill when the steering wheel jerked in his hand, jerked again, back and forth. Oh, Christ, not here, not another tire! Wheel felt like it was alive, nearly pulling itself from his grip. He steered into the cliff to slow the heavy vehicle, afraid to apply the brakes and make it skid. But when he tried to edge it into the cliff to make it stop, the wheel jerked harder, he hit the cliff too hard and careened away, and had to use the brakes. He hit them only gently but the vehicle dropped hard in the left front where he’d had the flat, far more out of control. What was wrong? The way it wobbled back and forth, it felt like the whole wheel was coming off. He had a flash of changing the tire, of putting on the lug nuts wondering which way they should go, which way he’d removed them. Feeling in the dark the sharp corners on one side, the rounded corners on the other. Had he got them wrong, or not tightened them sufficiently? Had he put them on backward, and they’d worked loose? The RV careened toward the edge so hard he could no longer steer. Felt like the wheel was half off, wobbling bad, the RV skidded straight for the edge, the steering wheel in his hands useless. He grabbed at the door.

  The car was out over space, falling and rolling in midair as he fought the door. When he got it open, it swung and hit him. He managed to kick free and jump, the RV falling beside him. Its heavy bulk bounced against him and then he was under it, trying to swim through the air to get away from the hurtling vehicle. It twisted and came down on him and hit the sea-he hit the water on his back, the RV on top, driving him down, the jolt was like hitting concrete. Explosions of unbearable light shot through his head and then that pale cat exploding in his face; the whole world filled with cats screaming and raking him, and then her face, her face laughing at him and she had the blazing eyes of a cat. Her face was the screaming face of the cat closing over him…

  The weight of the RV drove him deep, forcing water into his mouth and nose and lungs as tons of metal carried him to the bottom and crushed him against the seafloor. He knew no more. Nor would he ever know more, the sea roiled and shook the drowned vehicle, and after a long while the RV eased up again, releasing him as a limp floater.

  39

  WITH THE HILLSIDE remodel now a crime scene and Ryan’s work halted, and with the completion of two other jobs she’d been juggling and their satisfactory final inspections, Ryan and Scotty turned their attention to finishing Ryan’s studio. She could hardly wait to move into her own bright space. She started work in the mornings before Clyde was out of bed, was still at it when he shouted up to her that supper was on the table. The house was filled with the pounding of hammers, the whine of the Skilsaw, the thunk of the staple gun, and the intermittent purr of its generator. The whole house, upstairs and down, smelled of sawdust, of drywall and then of plaster, of paint and tile adhesive. With all the fumes and noise, Ryan took Snowball up to Dr. Firetti to board and to have her annual checkup and shots. Ryan’s dad was more than pleased to share his time, his bachelor pad, and his lady friend with Rock. Only Joe Grey remained among the chaos, coming and going at his pleasure, but sleeping in his rooftop tower with the sea breeze blowing through, unassaulted by toxic fumes. Long before Ryan finished the studio, the Chapmans and the Longleys returned from their vacations.

  The Chapmans arrived the day after Charlie called them, Theresa rushing straight to the laundry to see to the kittens, hugging and snuggling the babies and Mango. She was distressed by the loss of her miniature paintings, which had not been insured, but that didn’t matter in comparison to her concern over her little cats, she’d wanted only to hold the cats and love them, making sure they were well and safe.

  The Longleys returned the next day. Earl Longley was still angry with Charlie and threatened to sue her for negligence, but she didn’t think that would happen. She thought he’d cool down when he’d collected what promised to be a large insurance settlement based on the appraisals that he had kept current of his rare books. The Watermans remained in Greece. Rita talked with their insurance agent and filed their claim by e-mail, then put the matter aside to enjoy their vacation. There were as yet no viable leads to any of the stolen property, no response to the police fliers from any fence or from legitimate dealers. There were no leads to the whereabouts of Ed Becker.

  Two weeks after the murder, Ryan finished her studio. That Sunday she and Clyde and Scotty moved her desk, her blueprint cabinet, her drawing board, and her computer from where they’d been crowding the guest room, up the stairs and into her bright new space; then she and Clyde threw a Sunday-night party.

  Wilma arrived carrying Dulcie, wearing a new embroidered denim jacket over a red sweater and white jeans, her long silver hair clipped back with a bar of gold and coral. The Greenlaws walked from home, across the village. They arrived with their canes, Kit trotting eagerly beside them, just as Dallas pulled up in his old tan Blazer with Detective Davis. Everyone had a tour of the solarium-like studio with its high ceiling, its three skylights supported between the heavy beams, its glass walls, Mexican-tile floor, and Ryan’s treasured antique fireplace that she and Clyde had brought home from their honeymoon trip. The mantel’s hand-painted tiles featured pictures of cats, and the rearing cat in the center matched exactly the carved cat that graced the old Pamillon mansion where the wild clowder now lived; but that was a story of its own.

  Ryan’s dad arrived with Rock on a leash and Lindsey Wolf on his arm. Lindsey wore pale jeans, sandals, and a honey-toned cashmere sweater that complemented her honey-brown hair and hazel eyes. Her infectious smile shone comfortably, and often, on Mike Flannery. When they let Rock loose, the big silver Weimaraner moved quietly among the guests, graciously accepting any and all offerings, working the room as adroitly as were the three cats. Snowball was the only antisocial little soul among the five animals. She was thrilled to be home from the vet and was happy to see her friends, but she soon retired upstairs to the master bedroom, away from the crowd and the noise.

  The Chapmans had been invited, and when they arrived the cats wound around Theresa’s ankles purring so extravagantly that both Charlie and Ryan gave them looks that sent them padding away again. But they looked back at their friend lovingly, saying little cat prayers that she was safe. She was wearing a pink T-shirt that set off her pink cheeks, and pale jeans and sandals. Her long brown
hair was tied back haphazardly, and was streaked from the coastal sun. Carl Chapman, always quiet, stood smiling complacently as Juana Davis asked about Mango’s kittens; Joe and Dulcie watched, amused. Had Juana weakened after all this time of living alone without a pet? Did she finally mean to give in to the pleasure of a feline companion? The squarely built detective, in her dark uniform, made Theresa look even slimmer and somehow more ethereal. As they discussed the basics of responsible kitten care, they joined the others gathered around the big kitchen table, taking up plates, dishing up helpings of the casseroles and salads. Max Harper was loading his own plate when his cell phone rang.

  Answering it, he stepped into the guest room where he could hear without the din of conversation. His back turned, he didn’t see Joe Grey slip into the room behind him. When the tomcat leaped on the small writing desk and lay down at his elbow, the chief scowled at him, then grinned and stroked Joe as he talked, mildly amused by the tomcat.

  The Damen guest room had recently been redone, with plantation shutters, furniture designed in a combination of wicker and golden oak, and bright primitive rugs. Joe, stretching out just inches from the phone, could hear only half of what the caller was saying; soon he sat up straight, closer to the cell phone, nearly pressing his ear against it. If Clyde saw his nosy display, he’d kill him. The caller was Captain Jim Cahill of the CHP.

  Joe knew Jim, he was a nice guy, he used to stop in the station when he was dating a woman in Molena Point. Good build, tanned, nearly bald, but with the remaining hair shaved clean, brown eyes, and always an easy smile, even when his thoughts might be less than complimentary. Max had known Jim since their days at San Jose State, before either hired on with their respective departments.

  From what Joe could make out, the CHP had just pulled an RV out of the ocean, somewhere along Highway 1. Cahill was saying, “Driver’s dead. His description matches that on your dispatch, the prints belong to an Ed Becker, Sacramento address. He’s about six one, maybe two hundred pounds, black hair. We have a mug shot, I’d say he was a good-looking guy before his face got all scratched up.”

  “Damage from the wreck?”

  “No, this happened earlier, before the RV went over the side. Band-Aids still half stuck to him. RV was three-fourths underwater, on its side. A fisherman spotted it about four hours ago. We had to get divers, heavy equipment up there to get it up the cliff. No plates on it, and the divers couldn’t find any.”

  “Anything inside?”

  “It’s loaded, Max. Furniture, small imported rugs, looks like everything you describe. Everything soaked, the cartons of miniature paintings and books soaked through. The antique jewelry is all tangled together, and the seawater could cause corrosion.” He laughed. “The paperweights aren’t damaged.”

  “What were the scratches?” Max said, returning to the detail that puzzled him.

  “Don’t know, but he’s a mess. Maybe the coroner can shed some light.”

  “And you have the body and the RV where?”

  “Vehicle’s impounded at San Mateo PD. Body’s in a mortuary there until we can send it down to your coroner.”

  Max jotted down the phone number and address of the mortuary. “I’ll make arrangements and get back to you.” They talked for a few minutes about personal matters. Jim still had bird dogs, five English pointers. His wife had just retired from her job as a hospital nurse and planned to take a few private cases. She wasn’t a hunter, but she liked to fish, and they were planning a trip to Alaska. Thanking Jim and hanging up, Max finished up his notes then sat looking at Joe Grey, who lay innocently stretched out across the blotter. He scratched the tomcat’s ears for a moment, then rose and returned to the party. Joe waited a while, so as not to seem too obvious, and then followed him back to where supper was being served.

  IN THE KITCHEN, as Max picked up his loaded plate from the counter where he’d left it, he frowned at Dulcie and Kit. “You haven’t been sampling my dinner?” The two females sat in the bay window not inches from the plate. They looked innocent enough, and he had to admit that the plate didn’t look as if they’d been at it. Only when Joe Grey jumped up on the counter and padded across to sit beside the other two did Max get that uneasy feeling these cats sometimes gave him, a puzzled sense of missing something, that he could never quite figure out. He looked up as Charlie came to stand beside him, putting her arm around his waist.

  She looked narrowly at the cats. “They weren’t sampling your supper?”

  Max laughed. “Not as far as I can see. Sometimes…” He frowned at Charlie. “Sometimes these three make me uneasy, for no reason.” She just looked at him. “Their stares,” he said, “are more piercing than any judge I ever faced.”

  “Piercing?”

  “Haven’t you ever noticed? Don’t they look, sometimes, more aware than a cat should be?”

  Charlie laughed. “I never noticed that. They’re sweet and smart, but I don’t see anything unusual. What was the phone call?”

  “Jim Cahill. The CHP found Becker, dead. He went over the cliff and into the ocean north of Santa Cruz. Driving a brown RV, with the stolen goods in it, maybe the whole lot. Everything’s soaked through.”

  “Oh, Theresa’s paintings. Oh, I’m sorry.” She couldn’t feel sorry for Ed Becker. He was a thief and a killer. Was she supposed to grieve for him?

  “They had to get heavy equipment up there, to pull it out of the water. I don’t know what happened to the guy before he went over, Cahill said his face was covered with deep scratches, something that happened before the wreck because he was already bandaged.”

  Charlie glanced at the cats before she could catch herself. Joe looked away, Dulcie glanced down, and Kit blinked. “They’re looking at your plate,” she said. “Poor things. I’ll get them some supper.” She turned away to the table, certain that the cats had been at the man, or some cats had. She could hardly wait to hear the rest of that story.

  Max watched her filling a plate of delicacies for the cats with the attention most people gave to their children. He picked up his own plate and headed into the living room, making for the one empty chair, Joe Grey’s clawed and fur-covered easy chair that was the last anyone wanted to occupy. He was happily enjoying his buffet supper, hoping to keep the cat hairs out, when Charlie appeared, followed by the cats. She set their plate on the mantel, watched them leap up and tuck into their supper. She did have a way with cats, an empathy he admired-but that sometimes made him as uncomfortable as did the cats themselves.

  Across the room, the gray Weimaraner watched Charlie and the cats every bit as keenly as did Max-though only with greed. To Rock there was nothing startling about the three cats, he’d learned early on that these were not ordinary cats. Being only a dog and not driven by the complications of human logic, he had no reason not to believe what, to him, was perfectly obvious. These cats were different. He’d learned to live comfortably with their bossing him and expecting him to mind them.

  Bringing her own supper, Charlie sat down on the arm of Max’s chair. He was relaying to the little group what Jim Cahill had told him. The Chapmans didn’t want to believe that Ed Becker had been a liar and a thief, that he had turned on people who’d been his close friends, that he could ever have been vicious enough to kill Frances.

  Theresa said, “To break in like that, break into our houses where he’d made himself at home and was always welcome. They were friends with everyone on the street…Or we thought they were. They were always there for us, they babysat for people’s children…” She looked sadly at Max. “He killed her? Because she found out he planned to steal from us?” A tear slid down her cheek. Quietly Carl put his arm around her.

  Max said, “A lot of questions still unanswered. We have, apparently, no one to prosecute, but that doesn’t mean we won’t still dig for answers. For one thing, Becker’s MO could fit a whole string of similar unsolved burglaries, we’ll be working on that.”

  On the mantel, the cats looked so satisfied at the resolution
of the case and at the death of Ed Becker that Clyde glared at them, and Ryan raised a warning eyebrow. Turning away, they wiped the smug little cat smiles off their faces and leaped down.

  But as Joe went to sit behind Clyde ’s chair, out of sight, a look of triumph returned to his gray-and-white face. Dulcie, as she leaped to the arm of Wilma’s chair, was purring. Only Kit, as she snuggled on Lucinda’s lap, looked not quite at ease with herself, looked as if she was still filled with questions.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, when Dulcie and Wilma were home again by themselves, Wilma told her, “You cats are getting careless, you looked way too interested tonight. When you learned that Becker was dead, all three of you looked much too alert, far too pleased.”

  Dulcie said nothing. She watched Wilma turn back the bedcovers and kneel to light a fire in the woodstove. As Wilma tucked herself up under the quilt with her book, Dulcie jumped up on the bed beside her, but still she said nothing.

  “Do you want to spoil everything?” Wilma asked, stroking her. “You want to blow this exciting life you’re living? You want to spend the rest of your lives trying to be no more than clueless housecats, not daring to do anything interesting?”