Shirley Murphy - Cat Seeing Double

"But you…"

"It's the only phone handy." Slipping under me truck to the far side, he was up through the window in a second and punching in information. Another minute and he had rung the Coldiron number and was talking with Eby. "This is a neighbor of me Landeaus…"

He peered out once, but the three women were still inside; and Dulcie sat watching the door, the tip of her tail twitching. When he'd finished explaining to Eby Coldiron what needed to be done, he dropped from the window. "Go home, Dulcie. Go call Dallas, I'm afraid to do that from this phone. He has caller ID. I'll be along soon."

She looked at him with suspicion.

"It's safe, trust me. Would I do something foolish?" He brushed his whiskers against hers.

She widened her eyes, and cuffed him. Of course he would do something foolish.

"Tell Garza, if he'll get over to the Coldirons pronto, they'll give him a rug from the Landeau cottage, that it's vital evidence. They're waiting for him. Tell him to look for little bits of concrete with black paint on them, and to check for blood. My guess is, the DNA will match that of Rupert Dannizer. Tell him the rug has been sponged, then doused with wine."

"You're building a lot on a few little bits of concrete."

"And a scar on the fireplace. Go on. If Dallas isn't there, talk with Davis."

"Of course I'll talk with Davis." But she gave him a whisker kiss, and a nudge for luck. "Come on, Kit, get moving." And as she and the kit headed at a gallop toward the village and home, Dulcie wondered: with Garza checking on Rupert's lovers, would this call about the fireplace tie in somehow? Would it, she thought shivering, tie in with his ballistics report?

Joe was not the most patient of tomcats. Waiting in the bushes by the front door, he kneaded the dry leaves, and scratched his ear. He wanted to yowl at the three women to get on with it, finish their business and leave. But when at last Ryan's truck pulled out, Marianna and Hanni stood in the doorway-not three feet from him, just above the holly leaves-indulging in incredible inanities as both women tried to smooth over their earlier confrontation. Hanni would make amends because Marianna was her client. Marianna's motive, in being nice, was less clear.

He tensed as Hanni turned to leave, and crouched.

The instant Marianna turned back inside he was through the door behind her like a shadow easing behind the Mexican chest.

He heard Hanni's van start and pull away. He was alone with Marianna Landeau, locked inside the cottage. Any route of escape would take at least a few minutes to accomplish, perhaps under conditions he didn't want to consider. He could hear her rummaging in the bedroom as if she was shifting the clothes in the closet, maybe one of those pointless rearranging orgies to which all women seemed addicted. When he heard her go into the bathroom he strolled through the bedroom door and slipped under the bed, frightening a little spider, wishing someone would dust under there. Didn't she have a cleaning crew?

A light shone under the bathroom door, and the closet door stood open, the big walk-in space all fitted out with sleek white shelves and drawers and zippered garment bags. Absolutely neat. No place in there for a cat to hide. The hanging rods contained minimal wardrobes, his and hers. He supposed if one had three residences, it would be convenient not to cart suitcases back and forth.

The bathroom door opened and Marianna's elegantly sandaled feet appeared inches from his nose, her stiletto heels suggesting formidable weapons. He listened to her rummaging in the closet again, heard a zipper close.

Stepping out, she dropped a small duffel by the bedroom door then crossed the tile entry to the sunken sitting area. He heard her close the long windows and lock them, then she stood at the top of the steps with her back to him, as if admiring the rich new rug.

But then she moved swiftly to the kitchen, returning with one of those little plug-in hand vacs designed for quick cleanup, for those moments when someone scatters coffee grounds or cookie crumbs across the kitchen floor. With the brand-new rug, what was there to clean up? Joe went rigid, watching.

Kneeling before the fireplace, her tight skirt hiked up around her thighs, Marianna slid the mesh curtain back and reached in to vacuum the corners of the firebox behind the clean, stacked logs. Surely removing the same debris that the kit had picked up on her fur.

She did a thorough job, forcing the nozzle into the back corners. But when she returned the little machine to the kitchen, Joe smiled. She'd forgotten something. Retrieving the duffel bag from the bedroom, and shutting the closet door, she jingled her keys and was out of there, locking the front door behind her.

Not until he heard her car pull away, did he come out from under the bed.

First he tossed the bedroom, working open the night table drawers, then the drawers of the television armoire. He checked between the mattresses, poking a wary paw in, then crawling deeper, but he found only lint. Swinging on the closet-door handle, he was in within seconds, leaping at the bank of built-in drawers, gripping and kicking.

Forcing each one open in turn, he pawed carefully through. Dulcie would love Marianna's expensive lace undies, the silk and satin perfumed with fancy little sachets. The last drawer contained half-a-dozen evening bags and as many compacts, all of them expensive looking. Crouched on the edge of the drawer, Joe frowned. Should he?

Well, why not? What could be more opportune? Pawing half-a-dozen compacts into a quilted evening bag, he snapped closed his prize and carried it in his teeth to the front door. There he began the tedious, paw-bruising, leaping contortions necessary to slide the dead bolt, turn the knob, and escape from his self-made prison.

Lashing her tail with amusement, Dulcie pushed the phone back onto its cradle and rolled over on Wilma's bed, her paws in the air, a Cheshire cat-smile lighting her tabby face. Oh, she did enjoy these anonymous phone calls. Dallas had not only assured her that he would drive over to the Coldirons' cottage at once, to pick up the brown shag rug, but he thanked her. He knew as well as she that it was futile to ask her questions.

Though at first, he had argued with her. He said the concrete crumbs in the rug could be simple debris left over when the fireplace was built. Dulcie reminded him that the black recesses had been painted some time after the fireplace was built, and the fragments had black paint on them. Then Garza said that the three sculptures had been installed in those niches only recently, and that probably accounted for the black-painted chips. He'd gone silent when Dulcie informed him that the sculptures were fitted with special tension brackets at the back, so they had no need of bolts to hold them in place.

Garza hadn't asked how she knew so much about the sculptures and about the interior of the Landeau cottage. Like Max Harper, Detective Garza had learned that it was useless to ask such questions, that he'd best take what he was offered and run with it. So far these anonymous tips had been 100 percent; both cops knew that. And maybe, she thought, this information might dovetail with lines of investigation that Garza was already pursuing. That would be interesting.

And, she thought rolling over and purring, this morning, with this phone call, Detective Garza had almost taken orders from her. He had agreed to collect the rug right away, absolutely trusting her, never once making light of her instructions. Oh, she couldn't wait to tell Joe.

The quilted evening purse, stuffed with its six compacts, was hellishly heavy. But Joe wasn't willing to jettison even one bit of possible evidence. Why a woman needed a dozen compacts was beyond him. Well, he never claimed to be an authority on female vicissitudes, cat or human. He could track a rabbit through rocky terrain, could dispatch the biggest wharf rat that ever snarled in a cat's face, could leap six feet between rooftops. But he couldn't tell you much about a lady's love of finery. Gripping the quilted bag firmly between determined teeth, he hurried through the bright morning along the less frequented lanes of the village, avoiding passing cars and pedestrians. Dragging the bag up three trees and across innumerable rooftops, he arrived home at last with aching neck muscles and tired jaws. Crouched on the front porch, he listened to the racket above him, from the attic, hammers pounding, nails being forced from old wood with tooth-jarring screams, human voices sharp with tension. "Hold it. There. Back a little. Whoa - Put your level on it. Up… A little more… There! Nail it!" Above him, the porch roof shook. Sticking his head through his cat door, he looked around the living room.