Shirley Murphy: Cat on the Money

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.

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.