Shirley Murphy - Cat Playing Cupid

"And the trustees were?"

"George Walker, who was a local bank president; Alan Seamus, who managed one of the golf courses; and her attorney, Marvin Wells."

Dallas nodded, scanning the notes in the file. "And the manager they hired? How did he do?"

"Apparently, only passably well. About a year later, the trustees liquidated the business. I was in L.A. by then."

"And you had no share in the business at that time?"

"I never did, I'd been only an employee."

"How much did Irene get for the business?" Dallas said. "And where is she now?"

"She died last year, you must know that, Detective. She was an old, sick woman. I don't know how much she got, I was in L.A. "

"The original interview says she was very fond of you. When she died, how much did she leave you?"

"She didn't leave me anything," Lindsey said, stiffening. "Except for Carson 's personal belongings, which I don't think are of any monetary value. I was fond of her, and when I lived in the village we had lunch now and then. But we didn't talk about personal business, certainly not about money. She was a very private person."

Joe supposed that, after Carson disappeared, the department had checked Lindsey's bank accounts and net worth. He knew Dallas would now do that again.

Soon Dallas finished with his questions, checked his watch, and rose. Shoving some papers in his briefcase, he told Lindsey he had an appointment, thanked her for coming in, nodded to Mike, and left the office.

Mike and Lindsey remained only a few minutes, idly talking, and then followed Dallas out. Joe thought Mike should be more relaxed with her now, since he wasn't running an investigation, but instead he seemed ill at ease.

But then, as Joe followed them up the hall, Mike said, "You want to have dinner tonight? Maybe Lupe's Playa-if you still like Mexican?" And Joe didn't know whether to read romance into the question, or whether Mike wanted to pursue more questions on his own, or whether he had doubts, maybe new ones, that kept him operating in cop mode.

"I'd love to have dinner," she said. "Of course I still like Mexican, and I love Lupe's."

And that was fine with Joe Grey. At Lupe's he could settle comfortably atop the patio wall above Mike and Lindsey's table, get their attention, pour on the charm until they'd fixed a plate for him, and then comfortably eavesdrop while enjoying an appealing selection of his favorite Mexican delicacies.

D INNER AT LUPE'S PLAYAdidn't turn out as the tomcat had planned. While Mike and Lindsey enjoyed an array of delectable Mexican dishes, Joe left the restaurant with a hollow belly, feeling grossly neglected. Heading hungrily home over the rooftops, followed by the aroma of enchiladas and chiles, he prayed fervently that Clyde and Ryan would be home soon so he could once more indulge freely in the delicacies to which he was accustomed.

The minute Mike had left the house, tonight, in Clyde 's yellow roadster to pick up Lindsey, Joe had hightailed it over the rooftops to Lupe's, to crouch on the patio wall, concealed among the branches of a bottlebrush tree, waiting for them to arrive and be seated. At Lupe's he couldn't drop down to the patio's brick floor and wind charmingly under the tables mooching handouts. Unlike other village cafés with outdoor dining, Lupe's frowned on cats among the guests' ankles. At Lupe's he had to wait atop the wall for Clyde to hand him up his supper-and tonight he'd expected to do the same. Expected to yowl at Mike and make up to Lindsey until the two shared their orders with him, passing up a bit of tamale, or enchilada, or chile relleno.

But not so. When the couple entered, they were seated not against the wall, as Clyde always requested, but near the center of the patio, next to a table of loud folks in a partying mood.

There was no way he could cadge a treat. Worse, with the surrounding talk and laughter pounding at him from dozens of tables, he had to strain to hear even snatches of their conversation; he could barely make out Mike's questions, or Lindsey's soft answers.

He heard Lindsey say, "It's a shock, but…," then something more, then "…know where she got…" Then again something the tomcat couldn't hear. And then during a lull in the surrounding noise Mike said, "If not Nina, do you have any idea what other woman might have gone with him?"

Loud laughter from the four couples at the next table drowned out Lindsey's answer. They were celebrating the skinny brunette's birthday, and her laughter was the loudest. When at last they quieted, Lindsey was saying, "…but did the sheriff look for a second body?"

Mike said something Joe couldn't hear, then during another short silence he caught snatches of Lindsey's words. "If that woman…her clothes in his pack?" Another loud burst from the happy diners, then Mike said something that made Lindsey look the way she had in Dallas's office as she read the plastic-wrapped letter, made her go pale and still and rigid. Joe was watching her so intently, pushing out from among the bottlebrush leaves, that he almost fell off the wall. There was more laughter from the party table, then two waiters appeared with loaded trays and began serving the revelers-and soon all was still there, as the diners concentrated on their sizzling platters, and Lindsey was saying, "…didn't know her that well, she would never have confided something like that. If she'd had a gun, with California 's strict gun laws, surely she wouldn't tell anyone."

"Was she coming on to Carson, back then," Mike asked, "despite the fact that her husband and Carson were partners?"

"That could have been," she said, looking down, twisting her hands in her lap. "I didn't see much of her, she was my boss's wife, but I didn't like her much, and I guess she felt the same." At the next table several people were talking at once. Mike leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. He looked at her for a long moment, then put his arm around her, his words soft and private. Joe crouched on the wall for a few moments more, but when the large party of diners had demolished their dinners enough to start talking again, even louder, he gave it up, abandoned his supperless vigil, and headed home ravenously hungry, royally out of sorts, and having learned very little of interest.

He was in the kitchen morosely eating dry, tasteless kibble when the two came in, the heady scent of Mexican food wafting in with them to further enrage the tomcat. At the sound of the front door opening, a commotion of barking rose from the patio where Mike had left Rock for the short time he'd been absent. Joe sat in the center of the linoleum floor listening to Rock scratch at the locked doggy door. He scowled up at Mike and Lindsey as they came through to the kitchen smelling unkindly of Lupe's Playa-scowled until he saw that Lindsey was carrying a small, white Styrofoam box.

Abandoning the kibble, he rubbed against Lindsey's ankles, purring loudly.

She stood holding the box, looking uncertainly down at him. "You sure this won't hurt him? It's awfully spicy."

Mike shrugged. " Clyde says to give him anything he wants. Chinese, curry, Mexican. Says the cat's never sick." But Mike, too, regarded Joe with misgiving.

Joe, leaping atop the counter, yowled demandingly in their faces. He wished he had a tail to lash. Having lost his tail when he was a kitten, he missed it only when a wildly switching appendage could augment a repertoire limited, temporarily, to imprecise yowls and hisses.

"He's so hungry," Lindsey said. "The poor thing. If you're sure it's all right…"

"It's what Clyde said to do. If he gets sick," he said, grinning, "you get to clean it up."

She opened the box. Joe rubbed against her arm, purring louder than ever. When she set the container on the counter before him, he shoved his face into the still warm enchilada, lapping and slurping. Heaven couldn't be better than this.