Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

Pause… Behind Williams's back, Joe slid across the room and under the bed.

"Why is it none of my business! If I'm going to do the work, I… Does this have to do with her divorce?"

Joe could make out a faint metallic reverberation from the other end. Sounded like a woman's voice, sharp with anger. Creeping along under me bed, gathering strands of cobwebs that made his ears itch, he crouched directly beneath Williams. Amazing how fast these little busy spiders could set up housekeeping.

"Of course I did. Yes, a code she won't find. What do you think? So the Jakeses hit the fan, what then? So what's the purpose?"

Angry crackling. Definitely a woman.

"Thanks. I go to all the trouble, to say nothing of the risk, and all you can say is, Don't sweat it! You tell me don't sweat it!"

Crackle, hiss…

"She's what? What time in the morning?"

A terse response.

"What time? That's the crack of damn dawn. Well, isn't that cute… Of course I'll be out of here. When did you find this out? Why didn't you… Well, all right. Don't be so bitchy… No, I won't leave anything lying around!"

Crackle, crackle…

"All right. And what if I spill about Martie ?"

The voice at the other end snapped with rage. Williams listened, drumming his fingers on the bedside table. "Well, it's just between you and me," and he brayed a coarse laugh. "Just between us and Martie! Martie Martie Martie." He pounded on the night table. "Martie Martie Holland.. ." then banged the phone down, giggling a laugh that made Joe's blood curdle.

This guy was one weird player.

And Ryan had gone out with him. Ryan had, Joe thought with a sharp jolt, Ryan had beat up on him… this guy who was, in Joe's opinion, first in line for the nut farm. And, first in line as having killed her husband.

For instance, what would most men do if a woman tried to beat up on them? Grab her arms and get her under control-or knock her around and pound her. Williams had done neither. How many men would just stand there and take it, as limp as a decapitated mouse? No, Larn Williams, in anyone's book, was a long way from normal.

And what did he mean to do to Ryan later? What might he be saving up to do?

Furthermore, if that was Marianna on the other end of the line, why would she want to cook Ryan's books? What did Marianna have to gain by framing Ryan?

And who was Martie Holland?

Above Joe on the bed, Williams shifted his weight, still giggling and muttering. Joe heard him pick up the phone again, heard the little click of the headset against the machine, heard the dial tone then a fast clicking as if Williams had hit the redial.

Laughing that same crazy laugh, Williams shouted the name over and over, "Martie Holland Martie Holland Martie Holland," then he slammed the phone down again, rose, and padded into the kitchen. Joe heard him open the refrigerator, then the cupboard, heard the icemaker spitting ice cubes into a glass, and could smell the sharp scent of whisky. While Williams mixed a drink, Joe lay under the bed trying to make sense of his phone conversation. Williams brought his drink into the bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and stretched out on the bed so the springs creaked above Joe's head. He heard Williams plump the pillows then straighten the covers as if perhaps preparing for sleep. The tomcat was about to cut out of there when he heard, outside the window, the faintest rustling of bushes.

Scooting on his belly to the window side of the bed, he peered up at a familiar shadow dark against the glass-then it was gone.

He didn't wait to find out if Williams had seen Clyde. Leaving the bedroom fast, he leaped at the front door, praying the dead bolt would give before Williams heard him-wondering if he'd be able to turn the bolt.

There was not a sound from the bedroom except Williams shaking the ice in his glass. Joe leaped again, and again. Dead bolts were hell on the paws, most of them stronger and with less leverage than a cat could manage. Had Williams heard him? Why was he so quiet? Joe was swinging and kicking when, glancing across the living room where moonlight slanted down against the mantel, he saw something that made him drop to the floor, looking.

Something about the three smooth black indentations that held the three pieces of sculpture wasn't right. Two were smooth and properly constructed. But in the angled moonlight, the right-hand rectangle looked rough and unfinished. Someone had taken less than the required care in smoothing the concrete, had left a ragged line and rough trowel marks.

Considering the perfection of detail in the rest of the house, that did seem strange. Considering Marianna Landeau's reputation for demanding perfection, it seemed more than strange. He was about to slip closer, for a better look, when beyond the front door he heard Clyde's whisper. "Joe? Are you there? Joe? "

In the bedroom, Williams stirred, sending a shock of panic through Joe. He turned, watching the man. He didn't think he wanted to play innocent lost kitty with this guy.

Leaping for the lock in huge panic, driven by desperation, he just managed to turn the dead bolt, seriously bruising his paws-the door flew open. Clyde loomed, his familiar scent filling Joe's nostrils. Joe glanced to the bedroom again, but Williams had turned over and seemed to be dozing off.

"Wait," Joe said. "Pull the door to and wait, I just want to…"

"Wait, hell. Come out of there now."

"One second," Joe said, and he was across the room rearing up, staring up at the moonlit mantel.

Yes, definitely flawed. Sloppy work that Marianna should never have permitted, or for that matter, Ryan either-though possibly you couldn't see this in the daylight; Joe hadn't seen it then. Only now did the sharply angled light pick out clearly the thin, ragged line that ran diagonally across the black concrete.

Wondering if such a flaw could have gone undetected, he heard Williams stir again and push back the covers. Taking one last look at the rough black concrete, Joe fled for the door. Clawing past Clyde's feet, he was out of there racing ahead of Clyde across the yard into the dark, concealing woods, where they crouched together among the bushes like two thieves.

"What was that about?" Clyde snapped, snatching Joe up in his arms. "Why did you go back? That guy…"

"I… something I needed to look at."

Behind them there wasn't the faintest sound, the front door didn't open. Rising slowly, holding Joe half-concealed under his jacket, Clyde slipped out of the woods and headed fast for the car. Jerking open the driver's door of the Hudson, he tossed Joe on the torn seat, slipped in and locked the door behind them. "You're risking your neck in there and risking mine, you sound like a herd of bulls jumping at the door, but then you just have to go back-for another look at what? Did it occur to you that this guy might snatch up a cat and…"

"It occurred. It occurred. It was something urgent."

Clyde started the engine. "I endanger life and limb playing bodyguard to a demented gum-paw, and something in there is so important you risk both our necks, going back."

"We didn't risk our necks. That guy's a wimp. Ryan beat him up."

Clyde sighed and headed down the hills, turning his lights on the instant he was around the first curve. Watching him, Joe felt almost bad that he wasn't sharing what he'd seen with Clyde.

But for the moment he wanted to keep that puzzling glimpse of the fireplace to himself, wanted to think about it without Clyde's take on the matter, without anyone's input. When something strange nagged at him, he liked to let it fall in place by itself. Let it rattle around with the rest of the mismatched facts and see how they shook out; see what his inner thoughts would do, without outside influence.