Shirley Murphy: Cat Spitting Mad

Kathleen Ray was young, maybe thirty-five, a small, slim woman with long dark hair and huge green eyes, a woman who looked more like a model for petite swimwear than a cop. Juana Davis was pushing fifty, a stocky, solid woman with short dark hair and brown Latin eyes. Harper stood watching them, going over the scene, the muscles of his jaw tight.

For the first time in many days, the cats felt safe from predators, with the entire Molena Point PD and half the village milling around the hills and forest.

Soon another squad car arrived and four officers double-timed up the hill to organize teams of searchers. Two smaller parties, of skilled climbers, headed up toward the steep mountains.

When Davis had finished photographing, Max Harper laid out for her what he knew of Dillon and the Marners' activities that afternoon. As the detective taped Harper's flat, clipped voice, his words stirred a strange fear in Joe Grey.

"Helen and Ruthie met Dillon and me at my place about ten this morning; they rode over from the Murdoc Ranch, where they board their horses. We headed south along the lower trail toward Hellhag Hill. Rode on beyond Hellhag maybe five miles, turned back around eleven, and stopped at Cafe Mundo for lunch. Loosened the saddles, rubbed down our horses and watered them. Had a leisurely meal."

Cafe Mundo was located just above Valley Road, adjacent to one of the many bridle trails that bisected the Molena Point hills. It was famous for its fine Mexican dishes. The proprietor, having horses himself, liked to cater to the local horsemen, advertising a water trough and plenty of hitching racks. Cafe Mundo was always first to help sponsor overnight trail rides, charity calf roping, and rodeos.

"If Dillon's not still on horseback," Harper told Davis, "if she's fallen, Redwing will come home. I sent Charlie down to see, maybe half an hour ago. She knows the horses, knows how to put Redwing up. They were-Dillon was going to spend the night with Ruthie, going to stable Redwing with the Marner horses until morning. She…" Harper's voice missed a beat. "She's a strong, resourceful little girl."

He cleared his throat. "When we finished lunch, Helen and Ruthie and Dillon left. That was about one-thirty. They headed up in this direction, were planning on another two hours, up into the foothills and back. Dillon and Ruthie are-were training for an endurance competition." Harper fidgeted nervously. "Where the hell is the coroner?"

Joe watched him with interest. Harper had only called for the coroner maybe fifteen minutes earlier. It would take Dr. Bern a little while to get up the hills. They'd never seen the captain wound so tight.

But he couldn't blame Harper. If the captain had remained with the riders, this wouldn't have happened. Besides Harper's intimidating presence, even on horseback he would have been armed, very likely carrying the Smith & Wesson.38 automatic in its shoulder holster-if for no other reason than against predators. No one said what kind of predators. Every cop had enemies.

It had been the habit of the foursome, lately, to take an all-day ride on Saturday, as the girls worked on their endurance skills. Charlie Getz had ridden with them until Crystal Ryder came on the scene. Crystal had been too much for Charlie. Too bubbly, too much flirting-too much all over Max Harper. With both Helen Marner and Crystal attempting to take over Harper as private property, the skirmishes had been more than Charlie could endure.

From what Harper had told Clyde, the women's ongoing battle didn't thrill him either. He put up with them, to have ample chaperones for Dillon.

Max Harper hadn't dated since his wife, Millie, died several years earlier. His friendship with Helen had caused some talk in the village. But when Crystal moved to Molena Point and began to pay attention to Harper, there'd been a lot more gossip. Crystal was far more glamorous than Helen, and her persistence was amazing. She was, in Joe's opinion, pushy, wore too much makeup, and was always "onstage." Not Harper's type of woman.

Joe was no prude. And maybe his view of these matters was different from that of the human male. But he considered sleazy women totally boring-as tiresome as a perfumed Persian decked out in pink claw polish and a rhinestone collar.

Joe enjoyed a roll in the hay as well as the next guy, but he preferred his ladies with sharper claws and more fire.

"Interesting," Joe said, "that Crystal didn't ride with the group this afternoon-and that Harper didn't mention her."

Dulcie looked at him, wide-eyed. "What are you thinking?"

"Not sure. Just strange."

"Well, whatever's on your mind, we need to tell Harper which way that man chased Dillon. The kit said there, to the north."

"This is one time, Dulcie, the secret snitch is not going to tip the chief. Not with every cop and half the village swarming, and no phones except in the squad cars."

"But we have to! Dillon could be… You did it before. You called Harper from a squad car while the officers had their backs turned."

"Not this time," Joe said, his eyes blazing so fiercely that Dulcie drew back. "Anyway, there's no need." They watched Harper swing into the saddle and head Bucky away to the north, shining his torch along the trail, following those racing hoofprints. And soon the silhouette of horse and rider, backlit by the torch, melted into the night.

Dulcie stared after him, praying that Dillon had escaped, that she was out there on the dark hills hiding, and Harper would find her.

Glancing at Joe, she started to follow. But Joe, leaping away beside her, hit her with his shoulders and nipped at her until she slowed. "Don't, Dulcie. Leave him alone. What could you do? You couldn't keep up forever-alone in the night, you're cougar bait. If Dillon's out there, he'll find her."

She sat down in the pine needles, looking at him forlornly.

"Is nothing safe?" she said. "Is no simplest thing people do beyond danger? It was such a harmless pleasure for Dillon, having a horse to ride."

The two cats looked solemnly at each other, and padded back through the woods to join the sleeping kit; and to watch, below them, as Detective Davis began to lift plaster casts in their little frame boxes, where the creamy liquid had hardened into boot-prints and hoofprints. As Davis worked, the mist blew thicker over the hills, veiling the moon, casting moon-shadows across the coroner's thin face, where he stood watching the forensics team, making Dr. Bern look paler than ever. Beside Dulcie, the dozing kit woke, yawning a wide pink gape. Joe, angry at the world, it seemed, didn't wait for her to wake fully; he fixed her with a steady yellow gleam that shocked her right up out of her dreams.

"What were you doing, Kit, all that time after he killed them and you saw him chasing Dillon? Didn't you know something should be done? That Dillon needed help? Why didn't you race down to find us?"

"You weren't there to find. You were up here on the hills."

"But you didn't know that," Joe said impatiently. "What were you doing?"

"I ran after the man and the girl, I followed them, I didn't know what to do. Their scent led down the hills, and when I couldn't see the horses, I could hear them. I ran and ran. So many smells. I wanted to see if she got away, and then I couldn't smell her anymore and that was near the ruins so I thought she might hide there and I went in to look."

"Well?"

Dulcie said more gently, "Did you smell Dillon there? In the ruins?"

"So many smells. Foxes and raccoons. A coyote. I could smell him, and I hurried away under the rubble where he couldn't come. I smelled all the night hunters. There is water in the cellars. The big hunters come there to drink."

"We know that," Joe said impatiently.