Shirley Murphy - Cat Spitting Mad

He stepped atop the pile of wrinkled bedsheets. "Why would I be grinning? This situation is not a matter for levity."

Clyde began to sort through his dark shirts, dousing spot remover liberally on shirt fronts and inside collars, forcing Joe to endure a fit of sneezing.

"Tell me something, Joe. I know I'm opening a can of worms here. But what, exactly, is your take on the Marner murders? What do you think happened up there?"

"You're asking me? You want my opinion? The lowly house cat?"

"Cut it, Joe."

"You never ask me anything. All you ever do is-"

"Kate and I had dinner last night. I think it's interesting that she didn't tell me a thing about the barrette."

"Maybe the department told her not to. So what's your point?"

"She told me-this wasn't in the Gazette, only in the San Francisco papers-that Lee Wark escaped from prison three weeks ago, with two other death row inmates."

Though he knew this, a chill coursed down Joe's spine. Kneejerk reaction to the mention of Lee Wark.

"Kate said prison authorities thought Wark might be in San Francisco."

"I hope Harper knows this," Joe said.

"Harper's not in the most talkative of moods." Clyde looked at him deeply, the kind of look that made Joe pay attention. "Kate said there's been a spate of cat killings in the city.

"She's terrified it might be Wark. That's why she came down here, to get away. I don't have to tell you, Joe, that scares the hell out of me."

"It doesn't make me feel like party time." Joe sat very straight. "Do you remember when Wark was sentenced? His outburst in court, that he swore he'd get Harper?"

Clyde nodded. "That he'd get Harper. And Kate. And anyone else who helped do him." Clyde fixed Joe with a keen stare. "Wark knows you cats helped."

He reached to touch Joe's shoulder, looking at him deeply. "Kate says that for a week before the Marner murders there were no cats killed in city. Two days after the murders, they started again."

Fear sparked between Joe and Clyde.

The idea of Lee Wark slipping around Molena Point made Joe Grey as shaky as if he'd eaten a poisoned rat.

LIKE A CAVE in the side of the hill, the Garza family cottage nestled against a steep wooded slope above the north end of the village, its living room windows affording a view of the village rooftops, while its kitchen windows looked up into the back gardens that crowded above it.

The rafters and paneled walls were washed antique white, and the living area divided by a creamy stone fireplace behind which was a small, open study. Beyond the study were Garza's bedroom and bath. At the other end of the large, airy great room, before a deep bay window, stood a dining table big enough to seat a vast tribe of Garza relatives. A stairway tucked next to the kitchen led down to two additional bedrooms and a bath.

On the shelf of the bay window among a scatter of patchwork pillows, Joe Grey sat eating broiled shrimp and pilaf from a flowered plate. At one end of the long table, Dallas Garza and Kate and Hanni enjoyed larger portions of the same fare, and a green salad in which Joe had shown no interest. The detective glanced up at Joe occasionally, amused possibly by Joe's excellent appetite, or possibly comparing him unfavorably to members of the canine persuasion. From the photographs on the walls, it was obvious that Garza was a dog man. Joe was surrounded by professional-quality color shots of businesslike hunting dogs. Pointers, setters, two Labradors and a Weimaraner, each picture accompanied by the dog's extensive pedigree and a list of his field honors.

Some of the photos were not posed portraits but had been taken in the field, the dog carrying a pheasant or quail or duck to Garza or to Hanni; in many instances, Hanni was just a little girl-she'd had black hair then, but you couldn't miss those dark, laughing eyes.

Joe knew of dog-oriented families where cats came under the heading of vermin-right down there with a cockroach in the kitchen cupboard. He was surprised Garza had let him in the door.

Shortly before supper, Joe and Kate had made their entrance, Kate carrying Joe over her shoulder, asking nicely if the tomcat could stay for a few days. She said cats in the house upset Harper and made him sneeze, and that Clyde and Harper were painting the interior of Clyde's house, to keep Harper occupied in the evenings while he wasn't working. She said paint fumes were death on cats. It was true about the paint; Kate's manipulation of Clyde had been extensive, Joe thought, smiling.

Garza had studied Joe with the same expression that, Joe imagined, he used on a particularly seedy transient arrested for mugging old ladies. "Can't Clyde take the cat to a kennel?"

"Clyde put the other three cats and his Lab in the kennel. But Joe pines away. He won't eat. The last time Clyde boarded him, Joe worried and paced until he made himself sick.

"And Wilma Getz couldn't take him; her cat has the sniffles- like kennel cough, you know." She had given Garza that lovely bright smile. "I don't want him to be a problem. It's just that… I volunteered, I guess. I could take him to a motel."

Garza snorted. "You know you can't get a motel on short notice-particularly with a cat in tow."

Kate had watched Garza diffidently, glancing at Hanni.

It was then Joe made his move.

Leaping down from Kate's shoulder and looking the detective square in the eye, he had meowed twice, boldly, the way a dog would speak, and lifted a paw to shake hands. Such pandering disgusted him-but he was doing it for Harper.

Garza had widened his eyes and burst out laughing, a hard, bawdy cop's laugh.

Joe had kept his paw raised, watching the detective with the same keen intensity he had seen in the expression of an attentive German shepherd.

Garza, possibly impressed, certainly amused, had leaned down to shake Joe's paw. "I guess he can stay. As long as he doesn't spray the furniture. Who taught him to shake hands?"

Kate said, "Clyde's taught him a number of tricks. Clyde says sometimes he seems almost as smart as a dog."

Joe cut her a look.

"Can he roll over?"

"Roll over, Joe. There's a good boy."

He had flopped down on the rag rug and dutifully rolled over, an appalling display of submission. He was going to kill Kate.

Amazing what indignities a good sleuth had to endure, for a little inside information.

"He can fetch, too," Kate said. Wadding up a piece of paper into a twist, she tossed it across the room.

Joe fetched the paper back to her, quickly expanding the list of embarrassments he was going to visit upon Kate Osborne. She had sensibly ended the list of his talents with the fetching routine.

Now, finishing his shrimp, he sat on the window seat washing his paws and observing the human diners, wondering if he could work them for seconds. With a few more "cute" exhibits of caninelike intelligence, Garza might have offered a glass of wine.

Thus began Joe's surveillance of the man who had been appointed to clear-or to destroy-Max Harper. When, after dinner, Kate and Hanni went for a walk in the village, Garza retired to his desk and turned on his tape recorder. And Joe leaped nimbly onto the protruding end of the mantel, where he had a clear view of the top of Garza's desk.

The first interview tape that Garza played, with Dillon's parents, made Joe feel deeply sad-and then angry.

The Thurwells blamed Max Harper for Dillon's disappearance.

Even with the heartbreaking tragedy of their missing child, they had no right to blame Max Harper. Harper had treasured that child, had been so proud of her increasing riding skills, of the way she handled Redwing.