Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

She admired Charlie for starting her life over after a false beginning, chucking an unsatisfactory career as a commercial artist at which she'd realized she'd never be tops, tossing away four years of art school education. Moving down to Molena Point to stay with her aunt Wilma, Charlie hadn't wasted any time in putting together an upscale housecleaning and repair business, a service that Charlie now ran so efficiently she found time not only to do her wonderful animal drawings, but had launched herself into a brand-new venture writing fiction for a national publisher.

Charlie took the attitude that if you were hungry to do something, give it a try. If you fell on your face, try something else. They'd laughed about that because Ryan had been hungry for such a long time to be free of Rupert and on her own. Charlie's understanding had been very supportive, had sustained her considerably as she established her own firm.

Cracking the door wider for a better look at Clyde's practical joke all laid out on her doormat, she didn't protest when the tomcat immediately shouldered past her into the kitchen-sans mouse. Both cats strolled in with all the pomp of a well-dressed couple stepping from their Rolls-Royce in response to her formal invitation to tea. Even the cats' glances were unsettling, Dulcie's green eyes and Joe's yellow gaze far too imperious and self-possessed. Were all cats so self-assured and bold? Padding past her into the big studio room they lay down in the center of the Konya rug, the most beautiful and expensive furnishing she owned, and simultaneously, as if on cue, they began to wash.

Watching them, she decided the two cats added warmth to the room, as well as a sense of whimsy.

The studio was large and airy, its white walls bathed with late afternoon sun. Only on the north side of the twenty-foot-square room did the ceiling drop to eight feet where one long barrier wall defined the kitchen, bath, and closet-dressing room. The studio's sleek, whitewashed floor showed off to perfection the rich colors of the Turkish Konya rug that she and Clyde had found at an estate sale, its thick pile and primitive patterns glowing in vibrant shades of deep red and turquoise and indigo.

That shopping spree had been their first date. Clyde had brought a fabulous deli basket for an early, presale picnic breakfast along the rocky coast. Sitting on the sea cliff where the salty spray leaped up at them, he had served her wild mushroom quiche, thin slices of Belgian ham, strawberry tarts, and espresso-a very sophisticated meal for a guy who often seemed ordinary, even cloddish. That morning, teasing her about being a lady contractor, he had made her laugh when she'd badly needed to laugh.

After breakfast, returning to the handsome villa, they were among the first group to tour the estate. They'd found wonderful bargains that they loaded into her truck. Her few furnishings had all come from that sale except her new drafting table. The desk that faced her front windows was a handsome solid oak unit with a dull, pewter stain and an ample wing for her computer. The two tomato-red leather chairs occupied the back of the room facing a wide wicker coffee table, and a wicker daybed covered with a handwoven spread and an array of tapestry pillows-all were from the sale, even the carved, multicolored Mexican dining table and four chairs that were tucked into the kitchen alcove. She'd brought nothing with her from the San Francisco house but her clothes and files and books, had wanted as little as possible from her old life, had wanted to start with everything new after what seemed an endless term of enslavement.

Nine years with Rupert. Why had she stayed so long? Cowardice? Fear of Rupert? The forlorn hope that things would get better? Chalk it up to ennui, to lack of direction-to stupidity. She felt, now, that she could whirl in circles swinging her arms and shouting and there was no barrier to force her back into that confining cage-a cage wrought of Rupert's vile rages that burned just on the edge of violence, and of his drinking and womanizing.

No more barriers in her life.

Except that this morning when she ran her phone tape she'd had not only the welcome message from Clyde saying he'd pick her up for the wedding, but a tirade from Rupert, a communication she had not expected, hadn't wanted and didn't understand.

You didn't think you'd hear from me, Ryan. I can't condone what you did running off and trying to take half my business that 1 owned before we were married.

I can't condone what you did to Priscilla but I feel obligated to tell you…

That had made her smile. What she did to Priscilla? That day before she left him she'd arrived home from a week in north Marin County finishing up an apartment job, had opened the garage door and found, in her half of the garage, a little red Porsche parked next to Rupert's BMW. She'd thought, thrilled and amazed, that Rupert in some uncharacteristic fit of generosity or guilt had bought her an anniversary present two weeks early.

But, opening the unlocked door of the Porsche, she had smelled the stink of cigarette smoke and perfume and seen another woman's clutter in the backseat- hairbrush, pink fuzzy sweater, wrinkled movie magazine. Checking the registration, she'd tried to recall who Priscilla Bloom might be.

And then in the house she'd found the woman's belongings all over the conjugal bedroom, Priscilla's clothes in the closet jamming her own garments to the back. That was the moment she ended the marriage.

Hauling out every foreign item from the bedroom, all of it reeking of cigarette smoke and heavy perfume, she had dumped it all in the little red car. Seven trips from house to garage, then she had backed her truck up the drive, hooked her heavy-duty tow chain to the back bumper of the Porsche, and pulled it out into the middle of the street blocking both lanes and seriously slowing traffic. What she'd wanted to do was move her truck up behind the Porsche and push it right on through the front garage wall, effectively wrecking the structure and the car in one move. Only the legal aspects of such an action had deterred her. She didn't need any further court battles.

The car sat in the middle of the street until the police came to issue a ticket, impound the vehicle, and haul it away. She hadn't answered the door when the officer rang; she'd been busy cleaning out the room she used as an office. When at last she came out to load her truck, the police and the Porsche were gone. Smiling, she'd locked the house and taken off for Molena Point.

The message she'd listened to this morning had badly jolted her… tell you that someone's been asking questions about you… about your plans this weekend. Are you going to some wedding? As little feeling as I have left for you, Ryan, I have to say be careful. I don't want anything on my conscience…

There'd been a long pause, then he'd hung up. She'd sat at her desk staring at the phone trying to figure out what he was talking about. Did his call have something to do with Priscilla Bloom getting back at her? But surely not. Why would the opportunistic Priscilla or any of Rupert's female friends have any connection to Max Harper and Charlie's wedding or even know about it? How would she know them at all?

Maybe Rupert had heard about the wedding and wanted to upset her by implying there was some kind of danger. That would be like him. Innuendo was just the kind of meaningless warning that would highly amuse him. She was so tired of his stupidity. Even the court battle now in process, that Rupert's attorneys had managed to delay endlessly as she fought for her rightful half of the business, even Rupert's testimony in court had been all hot air, all fabrication and lies-silly delaying tactics.

She'd worked hard to help build that business into what it now was. She wasn't dumping it all and walking away from what she'd earned. The Molena Point attorney she'd contacted had recommended an excellent San Francisco firm, and they were handling the case with minimum fuss for her despite the antics of Rupert's slick lawyers.