Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

Tossing a fifty-pound bag of dog kibble into the truck bed, and dropping the bag containing her deli sandwich next to her on the bucket seat, she headed for the little park at the bottom of her street where she and the dog could share their breakfast. In a fit of possessiveness she had bought, from the market's pet section, a new leather collar, a leather leash, a choke chain, and a long retractable leash that would make Dallas laugh. No competent dog trainer would be caught dead with such a contraption, but for the time being she thought it might be useful. She had not seen behind her as she headed down the hill from her duplex, the two cats taking off on their own urgent errand, racing across the neighbors' yards and down the hill in the direction of Molena Point PD.

Nor would she have paid any attention. She would have no reason to think that the cats were headed for Curtis Farger's cell, to wait for her and Rock. That they would soon be crouched outside the high cell window which, on this bright morning, should be wide open, secured only by its heavy iron bars. She would have no reason to imagine that four-legged spies would be waiting, intent on any scrap of information she might glean from the young bomber.

News of a murder in Molena Point traveled swiftly through the village, flashing from phone to phone, to on-the-street conversation, to phone again to gossip passed on by waiters, customers, shopkeepers, in short from friend to friend. Clyde Damen listened to the details as related to him by his supervising mechanic while Clyde inspected the engine of a '96 BMW. Turning away from the sleek convertible, he went into his office to call Ryan. When her phone rang ten times and no answer, he called Wilma.

Wilma had heard about the murder from the tortoise-shell cat when the kit came running home. The kit had heard about the death as she lingered beneath a table of the Courtyard Cafe. Kit would have been a witness to the police investigation except that early that morning she had veered away from Joe and Dulcie as they raced down the hills toward Ryan's duplex following the sirens like a pair of cheap ambulance chasers.

The kit, heading into the village, had trotted along the sidewalk sampling the aromas from half-a-dozen restaurants. She had paused before the Swiss House patio examining the fine scent of sausages and pancakes. With whiskers and ears forward and her fluffy tail carried high she padded into the brick patio to wind around friendly ankles, smiling up at tourist and local alike, at whoever might feel generous.

The kit was not an opportunist. But having spent most of her short, transient life running with bigger cats who took all the garbage, leaving her with none, she viewed the matter of food seriously. Not until she met Joe and Dulcie and her first human friends, did she realize she could stop snarling over every morsel, that some cats and humans enjoyed sharing.

Now in the cafe's patio she soon bagged a fine breakfast of sausage and fried eggs and thin Swiss pancakes, all laid out on a little saucer by a kind tourist. Life was good. Life was very good. The kit's purr reverberated beneath the table like a small and busy engine.

But then, having eaten her fill, she slipped away before her benefactor knew she'd gone. Prowling the village, nipping into shops, wandering among antique furniture and displays of soft sweaters, she soon entered a rug gallery where she paused to have a little wash on an expensive oriental carpet. Wandering out again, she slipped into a gift shop, drawn by the scent of lavender. Then down the street threading between the feet of tourists and in and out of shops, alternately petted or evicted according to the shopkeeper's temperament. When the sun had warmed the rooftops she wandered there, across the tilting shingles and peaks until she was hungry again, then followed the aroma of broiled shrimp to a nearby patio restaurant. It was here that she heard the news of a body in Ryan Flannery's garage.

As the kit gobbled shrimp from a little plate beneath the table, rubbing against the ankles of the gallery owner who had provided the delicacy, that lady remarked to her companion, "He was a womanizer, you know. Rupert Flannery. It may be crude to speak so of the dead, but Ryan's lucky to be rid of him."

"Maybe that's only gossip," whispered her friend. "Maybe he… Do you think she killed him? Right there in her own garage?"

"If she did, I wouldn't blame her. You know, my dear, one of my gallery clients is Ryan's sister, decorator Hanni Coon. Well, of course Hanni never said anything, but her office manager told Bernine… You know Bernine Sage, she worked for Beckwhite's until after he was killed, then she worked for the library for a while. Well, Bernine knows some friends of the Dannizers in San Francisco, and she told me all about Rupert. She says he does like to sample the herd, as my husband would so indelicately put it."

The kit wasn't sure what that meant, but she certainly understood about the murder in Ryan's garage. As soon as she'd finished all the handouts that seemed forthcoming she galloped down the street three blocks to the library and in through Dulcie's cat door, and leaped to Wilma's cluttered desk.

She waited in Wilma's office for perhaps three minutes before she grew impatient and trotted out into the reference room. Hopping onto a library table, then to the top of the book stacks, drawing smiles from several patrons who were used to seeing her and Dulcie among the books, she trotted along the dusty tops of the stacks looking down on the heads of patrons and librarians until she spotted Wilma behind the checkout desk. Wilma stood shelving reserve books. Her long silver hair, bound back in a ponytail, shone bright against the dark bindings. The kit, hanging down over the shelves above Wilma's head, mewed softly, the kind of small mutter she would use when speaking to another cat.

Looking up, Wilma reached to take the kit in her arms. She didn't speak, the kit was too impetuous; Wilma was always afraid the little tattercoat would forget and say something back to her, blurt out some urgent message in front of other people. Certainly the kit had something vital to say, she was all wriggles, she could hardly be still.

But Wilma was not to be hurried. With the kit settled across her shoulder she finished her shelving, stroking the kit's back and scratching her ears to keep her quiet. Taking her time, she at last headed for her office.

The moment the door was closed the kit launched into her story of murder, into every smallest detail she'd overheard. "… and Ryan hasn't been arrested yet, but that woman who gave me the shrimp thought she would be. She said Ryan's husband liked to sample the herd. What does that mean? Is that why someone killed him? Oh, Ryan didn't kill him, Ryan wouldn't kill anyone."

Setting the kit on her desk, Wilma held her finger to her lips, and immediately she called the station. As the phone rang the kit jumped to her shoulder and settled down with one tortoiseshell ear pressed against the headset. She tried not to wriggle or purr as she listened.

When Dallas came on he gave Wilma the particulars of the death. Ryan had not been arrested. She was on her way to the station to interview the Farger boy.

Wilma had hardly hung up when Clyde called from the shop. As they talked, the kit left quietly again, through Dulcie's cat door, and galloped over to the police station to hear what she could hear. That boy in jail didn't need to see her, that boy she had jumped on and made to set off his bomb. She would just slip into the station past the dispatcher, she would be just a shadow, no one would see her.

In Ryan's truck the dog sat cutting his eyes at the paper bag that lay on the console between them, sucking in the scent of charbroiled hamburger and fries. He made no move to touch it, and Ryan stroked his head. "You have lovely manners." She studied him as she waited for a stoplight. "Where did you come from? How could anyone abandon you?" This was a valuable dog, not one of the registered "backyard bred" animals whose owners had given no thought to what such a mating would produce. That happened too often when a breed became popular. This big, strong fellow was far above those ill-planned mistakes. He looked like he could hunt from dawn until dark and never tire. His breed had been developed for all-around work and stamina, to retrieve on land or on water, to point, to track, to hunt big game, to work by both sight and by scent. Watching him, Ryan was more than smitten, she was overboard with desire. This was a fine, intelligent animal, a hunter's dream.