Shirley Murphy - Cat Playing Cupid

She looked at Charlie, puzzled. "He would have been in his midsixties when he published this-after he published Aesop's Fables, some years after he did Land Birds, and Water Birds, and A History of Quadrupeds. If this is a genuine Thomas Bewick, Charlie, and if it's as rare as I think, it could be worth a fortune."

The two women knelt side by side as Wilma carefully turned the dry pages. The text was deeply embossed in a handsome, old-fashioned typeface-they could see where Willow had turned pages, too, could see the little, faint smudges.

Wilma had read all the old stories and history she could find about ancient and unusual cats, and had listened to many medieval tales and earlier folklore recited by Pedric Greenlaw. But she had never come across these stories. Still, the book seemed harmless enough, there was nothing to indicate that speaking cats were anything but fiction, ancient and entertaining myth-until they turned to the last third of the volume.

The last chapters were given over to Bewick's personal observations, which he presented as being true. The author's encounters with cats that spoke to him, his experiences while on a walking trek across the Scottish highlands, left Wilma and Charlie deeply shaken.

Closing the book at last, Wilma looked at her niece. "Bewick knew about the cats, and whoever buried the book knew." Turning to the front, to the flyleaf, she read aloud from a child's round, neat script. This book belongs to Olivia Pamillon. Christmas 1922.

Charlie rose to look above the French doors, staring up at the rearing cat. "If there are cats embossed on the building, then did the whole family know?"

"Maybe Olivia added the carving," Wilma said, "when she lived here alone, maybe contracted to have the carving done then?"

"Dr. Firetti said some of the cats who escaped from the Welsh couple came here, he said that was at the time the mansion was falling into disrepair." Charlie pushed back a lock of red hair. "Olivia could have overheard the cats whispering among themselves, could have discovered their talents, then. She would have been terribly excited to find out that what she already believed, from this book, was indeed real."

"Or maybe she knew , all her life?" Wilma said. "Remember, when Olivia was small, many of the Pamillons traveled in Europe and Great Britain. The grand tour, it was called then. Maybe they learned about the cats on those journeys? Maybe even brought a pair back with them, years before the Welsh couple brought more?"

"Imagine, if there were speaking cats here on the estate during Olivia's last years," Charlie said, "when she was alone. Maybe they were her only friends. She could have become obsessed with them. People think she turned strange and reclusive, but maybe that was simply her preoccupation with the cats."

The two women looked at each other, both wishing they could see into the past. "Whatever happened," Wilma said, "I find it strange that she didn't destroy the book, to keep safe the cats' secret."

Charlie rewrapped the book and placed it in the box, and slipped the box into the little backpack she'd brought, where it would ride safely; she rose, wondering where the book would lead them now that it was unearthed again. And knowing that, above all else, in the end it must be destroyed, and feeling sad about that.

T HAT EARLY AFTERNOONwhile Charlie and Wilma examined the rare old book, their horses waiting patiently among the fallen walls, down at Molena Point PD, Joe Grey paused uncertainly in the hallway. Crouching on the cold floor, he wondered whether to follow Mike and Lindsey into the coffee room, or stick with the chief as he headed for Dallas 's office carrying the plastic-wrapped letter.

The letter won. Quickly he slipped inside behind Max's heels and ducked beneath Dallas 's credenza. Crouching in the shadows, he watched as the detective ended his phone conversation and looked up at the chief. "That was Oregon. You won't believe this."

"They've ID'd the body?"

Dallas grinned. "From the dental records. It's Chappell."

"I'll be damned," Max said. "Had to be Greg Emerson, he's the only dentist I know who keeps records that far back. Keeps everything, that storeroom over his office is crammed with files. Ever since that cold case where records had been destroyed and he tried to do it from memory."

"He went right down to the office last night," Dallas said. "Found the file-called me around midnight. I met him here and we called Oregon. Palmer, at OBI. They compared the details over the phone, got a perfect match. Emerson's overnighting them a copy of his film."

Max shook his head. "So Lindsey Wolf was right. What kind of odds are those?

"Or what does she know?" Dallas said, frowning.

"Looks like this isn't a cold case anymore," said the chief. "You want to take it? Here's something you'll need. Ryder Wolf brought it in. Here are the notes I made." He laid the bagged letter and a notepad on the desk, and turned toward the door. "Have to be in court," he said shortly.

Dallas watched him disappear up the hall. After he'd read the letter and Max's careful notations, he buzzed the coffee room, told Mike to bring Lindsey back.

As their footsteps approached along the hall, Joe sauntered out from beneath the credenza, hopped up on the couch, and stretched out full length, in plain sight. He wanted to get a better line on Lindsey Wolf. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to animals, particularly to cats. Cat lover, probably okay. Cat hater, beware.

He knew this theory was an oversimplification, he'd met a few ailurophobes who were decent, honest folk. And he'd met a number of cat lovers who'd rob a person blind, including one full-blown psychopath who was a real pushover for cute kitties.

But still, the premise had merit; one didn't have to abide by it completely, it was just one more guidepost in the feline roster of clues to the human mind. He wanted a line on Lindsey Wolf, wanted to know what made her tick.

Well, he thought, she had had a dog, a golden retriever. He understood she'd treated the animal well, and that was in her favor. He watched her intently as she entered, Mike walking close behind her looking very possessive.

She seemed at ease in the office, had none of the telltale signs of nervousness. She exchanged pleasantries with Dallas, then sat down on the couch near Joe and reached to stroke him as if it was the natural thing to do. She smelled good, like soap and water.

"What a beautiful cat." She looked up at Dallas. "Is he yours? Hello, tomcat," she said softly. "You run the shop around here?"

Dallas grinned, and Joe had to hide his own smile. Even the fact that she realized, right off, he was a tomcat was in her favor. Most people, on first meeting, didn't care or bother to check things out. Her hazel eyes were kind as she looked deep into Joe's eyes. "Are you the department mascot? What's your name, big fellow?"

Mike stood by the desk watching her, both men assessing Lindsey just as keenly as was the tomcat. Was her animal-friendly gentleness an act, to gain favor? Of course she knew she was being judged, though if that made her nervous, it didn't show.

"That's Joe Grey," Dallas said, leaning back in his desk chair. "He has another home; he hangs around here because the dispatcher brings him fried chicken." He glanced at Mike, then looked back at Lindsey. "We have an ID on the body in Oregon."

Lindsey's stroking hand went still. She searched the detective's face. "It's Carson," she said softly.

Dallas nodded. "OBI got a match on the dental records. Your theory was a long shot, but it turned out to be right."

Joe could feel the sudden tension in Lindsey's touch, but then she began to stroke him again. Mike sat down at the other end of the couch. "He didn't abandon me, then," she said softly, her voice catching. "He didn't run out on me, on our wedding."