Shirley Murphy - Cat Laughing Last

It was there that he had spied on the black tomcat and his human partner in crime, Mavity's no-good, thieving brother. It was there that Joe had routed some of the evidence that convicted the killer of Mavity's niece. Besides, though Mavity's cottage was just an old fishing shack, it was all Mavity had-he felt, too sharply, the little woman's distress at her own impending loss.

If all those houses along the bay were destroyed, who knew what the village would do with that land? The city council was still arguing the issue. And now, with Mavity's friends planning to sell their houses too, and buy some big old house where they would rattle around, everything was changing. All these moves and prospective moves made the whole world seem shaky under his paws.

And to top it off, the entire Molena Point Police Department was being renovated, Harper's officers taking up temporary quarters in the courthouse while Harper remodeled the building.

Already Joe missed the big, casual squad room with all its desks and clutter. Now the space was full of lumber and Sheetrock and carpenters with loud hammers and louder power tools. The department that Joe thought of as the heart of the village was going to be totally different. He had no idea whether, with the new design, he'd even be able to get inside. When finally the renovation would be complete and everyone back together again, who knew what the offices would be like? Harper might make the building so secure that no cat could breach the locks to slip in to hide under the first handy desk.

What was he going to do then? It was hard enough for a cat to get police intelligence. Imagining the new setup made him feel like he was walking on a broken tree limb that hung shattered and ready to fall. As if there was nothing secure left in the world, nothing steady that he could count on.

When two cars pulled to the curb in front of the house, he dropped off the porch into the bushes. Watching Detectives Dallas Garza and Juana Davis and Captain Harper thunder up the steps, laughing-likely at some rank cop joke-and bang into the house, Joe felt for an instant incredibly lonely. Quickly he slipped through his cat door, following them inside. Slipping behind the couch, he heard beer cans being popped and the cards shuffled. He listened for some time, staying out of sight as Clyde preferred, and feeling put upon, but the conversation didn't touch on the break-in at Susan Brittain's house, it was just light banter. He had nearly dozed off when the phone rang.

Clyde answered, then Detective Garza took the phone. It was apparently a personal call, from the tone of Garza's voice. Yes, he was talking to his niece, Ryan, a young woman who was as close to Garza as if she were his own daughter.

"You what? You're kidding!" Garza sounded pleased. But Joe could hear the faint echo of a tight, angry female voice from the other end of the line.

"You're leaving him?"

Ryan was Garza's youngest niece. He had helped raise her and her two sisters after their mother died. Likely Ryan was calling from San Francisco, where she and her husband ran a building construction business-or apparently had run it. Sounded like they were splitting. For an instant Joe sensed what Garza must be feeling, deep parental distress for a young woman who had apparently decided to pull up stakes, chuck everything, and start her life all over again.

The foolish mobility of humanity, Joe thought. People abandoning families, racing off in every direction - it's a wonder the world itself doesn't fly apart.

"That's the best news I've had in ages," Garza said, laughing. "Where are you now? You have your key to the cottage?"

Garza listened, then, "Of course I understand. Guess I'd feel the same. But the cottage is there if you want it-when you want some company."

They talked for some time, something about a job Ryan had just finished. Interested, Joe trotted into the kitchen and leaped to the counter. When Garza hung up, he was grinning. He sat down at the table between Clyde and Juana Davis, where Clyde was counting out poker chips.

"She's left him. Packed up and moved out. He's been cheating on her for years. She came on down to the village, she's in the Turtle Motel up on Fifth. Wants some time alone. Wants to look for a house. Sounds like she means to stay."

Joe couldn't remember when he'd seen Garza looking so pleased. Stretching out, he waited to hear how the scenario would develop-and waited as well for the conversation to turn, as it inevitably would, to police business. Did the department have a make on Susan Brittain's burglar? Had they found him? Surely by now they would have a record of his prints. Joe waited patiently to pick up whatever tidbits the officers might toss back and forth over the poker table-until he felt Clyde's gaze on him. Then he closed his eyes and tried for a soft, rhythmic snore-not to fool Clyde, but to keep his relationship with the department as untainted as a sleuthing cat could manage. No point in enraging Clyde further, and making Harper edgy; though it was hard to resist the urge to taunt them both.

Clyde pulled the snack tray from the refrigerator and set it on the counter, giving Joe a warning look, his dark eyes threatening dire repercussions if Joe so much as reached a paw into the party food or made a scene in any way. Joe hissed at him in a casual manner and settled more stubbornly down onto the cold tile counter, watching the three officers and Charlie rise to load their plates, then fit them in beside their cards and poker chips and beer cans.

Harper's lined, sun-wrinkled face made him seem years older than Clyde, though they were the same age, had gone all through grammar school together, had rodeoed together when they were in high school. With his lean, tall build, he looked very at home on horseback.

Dallas Garza was built more like Clyde, blocky and solid. He was about the same age as Clyde and Harper, somewhere around forty. His tanned Latino face was square and smooth, his expression closed, his black Latin eyes watchful-a man who exuded a steady and comforting presence. Garza seemed always in control, calm and unruffled. And Joe had learned that Garza was an officer to be trusted-as was Detective Davis, with her dark, steady gaze.

Juana Davis was maybe in her early fifties, had been widowed, and had two grown children, both cops.

Charlie was the only fair one at the table, with her bright freckles and brighter hair. She was younger, too, maybe four years out of art school-which she described as her squandered past.

Garza said, "Ryan's been up in San Andreas for a month, designing the addition to a vacation cottage, surveying the land, finalizing the plans. She gets home, another woman's clothes are in her closet, a strange car in her half of the garage.

"She said she wanted to put her pickup in four-wheel drive and run that little red convertible right through the back of the garage. Only thing that stopped her was the legal mess she'd be in-and she didn't want her insurance canceled."

"I'd have killed him," Juana said, with a twisted smile.

Charlie nodded. "A slow and painful death."

"Rupert did her one good turn," Garza said. "The nine years they've been married, she's had a chance to work into the building trade-but only at her insistence. She got him to let her do some designing and to work on the jobs. She's learned the business well, and she has solid carpentry skills."

Garza discarded two cards and watched Juana deal. "In all other ways, Rupert's a real loser. But Ryan's good at what she does, she's made a name for herself as well as for the firm-something Rupert never gave her credit for. She has a nice design style, very original. She wants to get her license in this county, start her own construction firm. She loves the village. When the girls were small, we spent a lot of summers and holidays down here."