“What?” Joe said. “What else . . . ?”
“That woman,” Clyde said, “who was nearly buried, the woman Max moved to the care home . . . she slipped out of the home when Buffin was asleep. Buffin woke and couldn’t find her. He couldn’t shout for the nurses. He leaped to the phone and called the Firettis then followed her trail straight out the front door. She must have known where they hid the keys. Mary and John and Buffin are out looking for her and so are the cops. We . . . But no one’s looking for the kid. A child alone, right now she’s more important.” He grabbed his jacket. “Come on, Joe, get a move on before she hits the highway.”
Dulcie and Courtney prowled the antiques shop touching a soft paw to the old, delicate pieces, guessing at their age and origin; though some were already tagged, telling which century each hand-shaped, hand-glazed porcelain piece came from, each handwoven tapestry or rug. They curled up at last in a delicate Queen Anne love seat, on a cashmere throw. Mother and daughter were whispering to each other ancient tales when the door at the top of the stairs opened. Dulcie vanished behind an ancient cast-iron stove. Courtney pretended to be comfortably dozing, snoring just a little in a ladylike manner.
Two men came down the stairs, softly talking: Ulrich Seaver and, yes, Joe’s new neighbor Nevin Luther. They turned right, toward the workroom and the outside door that led to the alley. The cats heard the soft tick-tick as Seaver turned the dial of a huge iron safe as tall as the men. Nevin handed him a package, a bulging brown envelope. Seaver pulled on a pair of cotton gloves, opened it, and removed a stack of money, fanning out hundred-dollar bills like shuffling decks of cards.
He didn’t count it; maybe he could guess about how much. Closing the envelope, leaning deep into the safe, he concealed the money beneath a stack of envelopes and papers far at the back, and locked the safe again.
Nevin said, “I’ll pick this up in a few days, once I have some accounts set up; maybe leave some of it here. What about that cat, what are you going to do with it now? They’ve put out a reward for it, there’re signs all over the village, a thousand dollars. No cat is worth . . .”
Seaver said, “I’m getting it up to the city pronto. I have a fellow up there building a nice big cage, three stories, little beds so she can change around, a scratching post, everything fancy for the looks of it, and everything a cat would want. She’ll be happy there. You can’t train a cat that isn’t happy. It’s a nice enough cat—but its color and markings, that’s what we’ve been searching for, you’ve seen the antique pictures, the old tapestries. The training, the tricks, that’ll be the icing on the cake.”
Courtney, pretending to sleep, thought she was going to throw up. A three-story cage—everything a cat would want. A cage, and he said she’d be happy there.
The hell she would. And you, Seaver, you don’t know the half of what we found, and saw, tonight.
She and Dulcie had not only enjoyed the wonders of the gallery, they had searched behind furniture, searched the shop’s hidden crevices, pried and prowled not knowing exactly what they were looking for—until they found a prize that had them both smiling; and Courtney meant to find more.
In an elegantly carved rolltop desk with dozens of little drawers inside, they had found one drawer which, when they pulled it all the way out, revealed an opening behind, a cherrywood cubicle filled with something furry and dark that made them draw back, claws raised.
But then they relaxed. Dulcie reached a paw in, and smiled. Courtney took a good sniff, and laughed softly.
The shelf held a man’s neatly trimmed beard and mustache, all in one piece, with some sort of sticky stuff on the back. That didn’t taste good when they licked it off their paws. Beneath this, neatly folded, was a navy blue cap and, when they pulled it out, long, dark hair hung down, shaggy hair the same color as the mustache. This was the library prowler’s disguise.
This was a find they could take to Harper. But, “No, don’t take it,” Dulcie said, “to move it is to contaminate evidence. But we can tell him where it is. The disguise of the man in the library.”
“And tomorrow,” Courtney said, lashing her calico tail, “tomorrow I really start to search. First, her side of the bedroom, the missing woman. Tomorrow, while I’m alone upstairs, I’ll find more clues for Max Harper, and then we’ll call him. Tomorrow maybe I’ll find out who this woman is who was almost buried alive.”
“If it’s the same woman,” Dulcie said. “And pray to the great cat god you don’t get yourself into big trouble.” She licked her child’s calico ear, reminding herself that Courtney was nearly grown and that she was strong and clever. They finished the shrimp and kibble that Seaver had put down for Courtney, and curled up for another little nap.
Lucinda and Pedric had finished supper, Lucinda setting aside an ample helping of hot beef stew for Kit and Pan. Its scent embraced the neighbors’ yards and drifted across the rooftops as the two cats raced along the oak branch and in through the cat door in the dining room window, Kit already telling their housemates about finding Courtney; she was halfway through her story as she flew to the table so she had to start over again. “Slowly,” said Pan and Lucinda and Pedric together. She tried, she told the whole tale of Joe Grey finding Courtney, of their secret entry into the antiques store to get her out, jimmying the powder room window; but she forgot to tell it slowly, her monologue raced faster and faster . . . “and Courtney was so willful and stubborn she wouldn’t leave. After we all got out the window safely, she leaped back in and sassed Joe but refused to come out, she means to stay there until she finds out who that woman is, if she’s his wife and if he tried to kill her and bury her alive and . . .”
Lucinda and Pan both hushed her. Lucinda rose, turned on the phone’s speaker, and began making calls to tell their closest friends that Courtney had been found—while Kit stuck her face in the phone’s speaker, adding her own long comments. They called Wilma first, because Wilma had fretted so about the lost kitten. When they called the Damens, Ryan answered. “The victim—Joe thinks her name is Maurita, he heard it in the tearoom—she walked out of the care home. We’re in the car, looking. And looking for Mindy Luther, she ran away, too. She—”
“Oh, my!” Kit didn’t wait for the end of the call, she spun around crowding Pan as they bolted out the cat door to look for Maurita. Lucinda watched them vanish.
Ryan said, “Joe’s with us. He told us about finding Courtney. Thank God for that—but how strange that Maurita disappears on the same night that Courtney is found, and then Mindy runs away.”
“Where do you want us to look?” Lucinda said. “Who shall we search for? If you’ll tell us where to start . . .”
“Why don’t you wait, Lucinda. Wilma and half the department—patrol cars and foot officers—are out searching . . .”
Lucinda didn’t want to wait at home feeling helpless. But for the moment she and Pedric settled back, building up the fire. While on the roofs, the cats ran, the bright night pulling at them, the moon making Kit so giddy she wanted to dance across the shingles except they were on more serious business. They peered down into every courtyard and alley, every garden, looking for the child who might still be nearby hiding—but always they moved toward Ocean Avenue. Maurita had a whole crew searching for her, while Mindy was alone and, most likely, was headed for the freeway, for Zeb’s farm, for her own true home.
As Kit searched and scented out in the moonlit night, part of her was still filled with Courtney’s ancient myths—until her dreams were jerked back. When, as they galloped up the roofs beside Ocean, they saw on the light-struck street below a little girl running. Red sweater, brown backpack. They scrambled down a camellia tree and ran silently behind her as she raced up the sidewalk’s steep hill heading for the highway alone, in the middle of the night.
“Damn kid,” Pan breathed. “Some no-good will have her. We need to turn her back before she hits the freeway.”
“Or before her family finds her,” Kit said. “Her father and uncles are
as mean as hornets and her mother not much better.”
He turned to look at her. “I’ll catch up, I’m stronger, maybe I can stop her. The vet clinic is right over there, go ask for help.”
And Kit was off, across Ocean Avenue among a tangle of cottages, past the automotive shop, through Mary Firetti’s garden heading for the cat door when she stopped.
Neither car was in the drive. No porch light shining. She slipped into the house through the little door they had installed for Misto before he died.
The house was totally dark, only a few shrinking coals left in the fireplace, enclosed by its glass door. Only silence, no soft breathing from the bedroom. Where had they gone? They were not party people, Dr. Firetti got up early, and so did Mary. Were they out searching, too? Kit leaped to the living room desk and called Ryan’s cell phone.
Ryan answered: “Mary? John?”
“It’s Kit. The house is empty, both cars gone. Where are they? Where are you? Looking for Maurita? Mindy’s run away, too, Pan’s following her toward the highway, I came here for help but no one’s home and . . .”
“She has run away,” Ryan said, “we’re looking for her. Mary and John are . . . oh, but that’s a long story. Kit, you said Mindy’s headed for the freeway? What’s the child thinking! We’ll be right there . . .”
Kit hung up and fled back through the cat door toward Ocean and the freeway watching for Mindy and Pan, looking around for Ryan’s red truck, but the first car she saw was Clyde’s dark green Jaguar gleaming in the moonlight. Clyde pulled over. Kit leaped in beside Ryan and Joe.
“There,” Joe said, front paws on the dashboard, staring ahead where Mindy and Pan were almost to the highway, Pan pressing against her legs, rearing up, pushing her back. When Clyde pulled up just ahead of them Mindy looked shocked and turned to run, but not before Ryan bailed out, grabbed her, knelt and put her arms around the frightened child. “Were you going home, Mindy? To your grandpa?”
The child looked uncertain, and nodded.
“In the night? Alone? You don’t know what kind of dangers . . .”
Mindy tried to break away. “Let me go. I won’t go back, not to that apartment. My father’s gone and good riddance. Now my uncle’s gone, too, and anyway he’s just as mean. So is my mother, most of the time. I don’t want to live there, they argue about money and about stealing and . . . I won’t go back.”
“If you want to go to your grandpa, we’ll take you there,” Ryan said, looking at her deeply, stroking the child’s mussed hair.
Mindy still looked uncertain.
Clyde said, “We trust your grandpa, and we trust you with him.”
“We’ve heard your parents fighting,” Ryan said. “We know how that must make you feel.”
Mindy’s look softened. Hesitantly she climbed in the front seat next to Joe Grey, putting her arms around him. Kit and Pan leaped in beside them, crowding onto her lap, while Ryan climbed in the back.
“Will you park away from the house, let me go in alone?”
“Yes,” Ryan said. “But we’ll wait, to make sure everything’s all right.” They were just passing the Harper ranch. All the lights were off except the outside yard lights. Cops got up early, Mindy guessed, and so did writers.
If anything happened at Grandpa’s house, once they were alone, if tomorrow Mama came to get her she could run to the Harpers, and hide. If Charlie wasn’t home, Billy would hide her, he took kind care of the horses and dogs and cats. For fourteen, he was responsible and smart, he’d know where she could be safe. Billy Young was an orphan, too. She wasn’t an orphan, but she felt like one—except that she had Grandpa.
At the next road, Grandpa’s house was dark, too, and tonight it looked coldly forbidding; they could see no movement within, beyond the moonstruck glass, no one looking out. Sometimes Zeb went to bed early, but sometimes he sat up watching old westerns. Clyde parked halfway up the gravel drive. Mindy flung the door open, untangled herself from the cats, and leaped out. “Will you wait for me? Until I make sure he’s home? Everything’s so still . . .”
“Of course we’ll wait,” Ryan said as Clyde turned off the engine.
But not everything was still. At the sound of the child’s voice a nicker came from the far field, loud and eager in the night, and then the sound of hoofbeats.
“Tango,” she cried, and a louder whinny reached them and Mindy was racing across the moonlit yard past the house, dropping her backpack, her sweater flying, the child herself flying to the back fence and under it where the big buckskin pony came galloping, still whinnying, so excited he rushed the fence and rushed Mindy. He slid to a stop beside her as she ducked between the rails; her arms went around his neck, he nuzzled and pushed and mumbled the child’s cheek, nosing at her tears, and that made her bawl the harder. Ryan had gotten out, and she was crying, too. And were those tears in Clyde’s eyes? Kit wiped her black-and-brown face with a tortoiseshell paw. If Joe Grey and Pan turned away, it was only because tomcats weren’t supposed to be softhearted. They all watched Mindy slide bareback onto the pony, without even a halter, and ride away into the moonlight.
13
When Mindy scrambled on Tango, she looked back toward the house, too, longing for her grandpa. But he would be asleep, and Grandpa was hard to wake—while Tango was wide awake, bright and sassy with the excitement of her return; he looked away through the pasture and beyond, ready to go anywhere; Tango loved the night; and when she leaned forward he broke into a canter. Her thrill of being home, of being on his back, of guiding the pony with no halter, with only her gentle movements; the thrill of his loving response filled her with the joy she had so longed for. They were together, free, with miles of country around them, just the two of them alone in the moonlight.
Far behind her at the house, Clyde tried the kitchen door, found it unlocked, and he and Ryan stepped in, the door squeaking, the three cats crowding against their ankles. Ryan found the wall switch and turned on the overhead bulb. Harsh light glared in their faces.
They stopped cold.
They stood looking, both guns drawn, as the cats slipped back silently into the shadows. They scanned the open doors and what they could see of the living room—then stared at the floor where the old man lay sprawled silent and unmoving, blood seeping from his torn arm. Blood flowed from his wounded head and face, running across the scarred linoleum. Clyde grabbed his phone and called the chief’s house as Ryan called 911.
Max said, “On my way. Call the station, get a medic. Are you carrying?”
“Did that. Of course we are.” Clyde grabbed the kitchen towels Ryan handed him, they both knelt trying to ease the bleeding but still watching the open doors to the bedrooms and the living room. The three cats slipped away staying to the shadows, meaning to inspect those rooms even before the cops arrived. Ryan couldn’t tell if Zeb was conscious but when she took his hand, his eyes flashed open filled with rage and he came up swinging.
Then he saw who it was, and he lay back down; gently she helped him, supporting his undamaged arm. Clyde said, “Lie still, it makes the bleeding worse. The medics are on the way.” And in the silent night they heard a truck come barreling over the back road from the Harper place, soon they saw its lights out the kitchen window and saw, at the far end of the pasture, the pony veer away to safety, Mindy leaning over him. In minutes they heard the medics’ sirens, too, from the highway, and could hear two cop cars, could see their flashing lights.
As the rescue team pulled into the drive, the kitchen door squeaked open and Mindy stood in the doorway staring down at her grandpa, her face white, the pony pushing through where she’d forgotten to latch the gate, pushing into the house behind her. Ryan put her hand on his nose and backed him out as the little girl knelt beside Zeb.
The next half hour was all confusion, front and back doors wide as the cops cleared the house, the four EMTs bringing in their equipment and a gurney. Ryan led the pony into the pasture and locked the gate properly. Max arrived in wrinkled jeans an
d a work shirt. He questioned the old man as much as he could, with the medics hushing him as they tried to do their work. Mindy tried to cling to Zeb, but a medic gently moved her away. When Zeb did talk, his speech was shaky, sometimes muddled. “It was the boys, fighting. Fighting bad . . .”
He spit up blood, then spoke more clearly. “I was in bed, I heard a car pull up, heard someone come in . . . I thought a burglar was in Nevin’s bedroom . . . a light went on . . . I put on a robe and went out. It was Nevin . . . rummaging like he was packing some of the stuff he’d left . . .”
He was quiet for a while, then, “I sat down at the table . . . another car wheeled in . . . the kitchen door opened again, I’d forgot to lock it . . . Footsteps . . .”
A medic tried to hush him. “If you’ll be still, maybe I can bring your blood pressure down.”
Zeb paid no attention. “His white hair . . . It was DeWayne, he headed right to Nevin’s bedroom, he must’ve seen his brother’s car . . . maybe seen the light . . . They began talking real loud then yelling at each other. I got myself some crackers and a glass of milk . . . I sat listening to them fighting. I shouted, ‘Keep it down.’ I didn’t give a damn what they were arguing about, I just wanted them out of there.
“Nevin yelled that DeWayne was into his bank statements, that they were all out of order. ‘Or you were,’ he shouted at me. He said he saw my horse one day over at the Harpers’, said maybe I showed them to Harper. He looked back at DeWayne, said, ‘Either him or you were pawing through them.’ They came reeling out to the kitchen stumbling and pounding each other . . . red faces . . . then stopped and stood staring at me.”
Zeb was running out of steam, his voice dropped to a whisper, weak and angry. “I was afraid. Afraid of my own boys.
“Nevin grabbed me, shouted, ‘You know, don’t you, old man! You know about the money. And you know what happened at the bank. You say a word, and Thelma goes to jail right along with me—it was her car—there’ll be no one left at home, and where does that leave your precious Mindy? Child welfare.’”
Cat Chase the Moon Page 9
