Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

The garden below the house was largely undamaged, though its lush greens were dulled by ashes. The daylilies were blooming, their orange and yellow blossoms brilliant against the burn.

The front of Janet's apartment was all glass, the five huge windows dirtied by smoke, but unbroken. Behind the smoky glass, long white shutters had been closed across four of the windows, effectively blocking the view of the interior. The last wide window, down at the end, was uncovered-almost as if someone was there, as if someone had not been able to bear closing the house entirely. The sight of that window made Dulcie shiver-as if some presence within wanted sunshine, wanted to look out at the hills for a little while, look out at the village nestled below.

There was no police car parked below the apartment, and none above on the street behind, or in the drive which led to the studio slab. The little side street was empty, too, beyond the blackened vacant lot. There was no car at all parked along the side street before that untouched house. Strange that that ancient brown dwelling, among all the newer houses, would be left standing.

Steps ran up the hill. Halfway up, Janet's deck gave access to the front door. The cats avoided the steps, where charcoal and rubble had lodged. Trotting uphill they stirred clouds of ashes. Their eyes and noses were already gritty with ash, their coats thick with ash, Dulcie's stripes dulled, Joe's white markings nearly as dark as his coat. If they needed a disguise, they had it ready-made.

A fallen, burned oak tree lay across the entry deck. The front door was covered by plywood nailed across, affixed with yellow police notices warning against entry. They could see, beneath the plywood, the remains of the door, hanging ragged and charred. Dulcie dug at it, rasping deep into the burned wood, ripping away flakes and chunks of wood. She was nearly through when Joe hissed.

"Someone's watching-the house across the street."

She drew back tried to look like she was searching for mice. Glancing across the empty lot she could see within the lone house a woman peering out, the lace curtain pulled aside, her face nearly flattened against the glass.

"Hope she gets an eyeful." Dulcie waited until the woman drew back and disappeared before she dug again, tearing at the charred wood. She had made a hole nearly two inches wide when a patrol car came up the side street.

The cats backed away as it parked directly below. Slipping up the hill to the concrete roof, they crouched at its edge among heaps of ashes, watching a lone officer emerge. Detective Marritt came quickly up the steps, carrying a crowbar and a hammer, his tightly lined face seeming far older than his shock of yellow hair and his lean, muscular body.

Metal screeched against wood as he pulled nails and pried away the barrier. Leaning the two sheets of plywood against the house, he unlocked the burned door, disappeared inside. Dulcie moved to follow, but Joe nipped her shoulder.

She turned back, her green eyes blazing. "What? Come on, can't you?"

"You're not going to push right in under his feet."

"Why not? He won't know what we're doing."

"Wait until he's finished."

"We can't. We won't know if he finds the diary. If he puts it in his pocket…" She started down the hill again, but Joe moved swiftly, blocking her, shouldering her into a heap of ashes and rubble.

She hissed and swatted him, but still he drove her back, snarling, his yellow glare fierce. She subsided unwillingly, ears back, tail lashing.

"The cops saw too much of us, Dulcie, when Beckwhite was killed. Captain Harper has too many questions."

"So?"

"Think about it. We've already made Harper plenty nervous. He's a cop, he's not given to believing weird stuff. This stuff upsets him. You force yourself on him, and you blow your cover."

She turned her back on him, lay down in the ashes at the edge of the roof, looking over the metal roof gutter watching the door below, sulking.

Joe growled softly "We can't find out anything if every time we show our faces around the police, they smell trouble and boot us out."

She sighed.

He lay down beside her. "We do fine when they don't know we're snooping. Don't push it."

She said nothing. She was not in a mood to admit he was right.

"We make Harper nervous, Dulcie. Give the man some slack." He moved closer, licked her ear. And they lay side by side, watching for Marritt to come out and waiting for their own turn to search the house. Hoping, if the diary was there, that Marritt came through in his typical sloppy style and missed it.

The cats could hear from the apartment below a series of thumps, as if Detective Marritt was opening and closing cupboard doors. They heard crockery clash-perhaps he was moving dinner plates, looking behind them-then a metallic crash as if he'd dropped the saucepans. Dulcie smiled. "He's really good at this, very smooth." She shifted impatiently from paw to paw, then rose and began to pace, her ears swiveling with nerves.

"Settle down. He'll be gone soon." "If he finds the diary, we'll never see it." "It'll make a bulge in his pocket. So what's the alternative, go down there, snatch it out of his hand?"

She cut her eyes at him. "If I were alone, I'd charm him until he laid it down to pet me, then grab it and run like hell."

She shook herself, scattering ashes. Curving round, she tried to lick ashes off her coat, but that was like eating out of the fireplace. She spit out flecks of ashes and cinder. Beyond the heaps of ashes that had been raked up by the police, the charred garage door lay across the drive. The police had hauled away the remains of Janet's van.

"I wonder if her diary will have anything about the museum opening," Dulcie said softly. "I wonder if she wrote in it that night when she got home from San Francisco. It would be interesting to know her version of the weekend, after the testimony her friend Jeanne Kale gave."

Janet's friend from San Francisco had testified that Janet arrived in the city around seven Saturday morning, checked into the St. Francis, leaving her van in the underground garage, and the two women had breakfast in the hotel dining room.

"Imagine," Dulcie said, "breakfast at the St. Francis. White tablecloths, cut glass bowls, lovely things to eat, maybe French pancakes. And to have a beautiful hotel room all to yourself, with a view of the city. Probably a turn-down at night, with chocolates on the pillow."

He nuzzled her neck. "Maybe someday we'll figure out how to do that."

She opened her mouth in a wide cat laugh. "Sure we will. And figure out how to go to the moon."

Ms. Kale told the court that she and Janet had shopped all day Saturday, using public transportation, had ridden the cable car out to Fisherman's Wharf for lunch. "Cracked crab," Dulcie said, "or maybe lobster Thermidor." Her pink tongue licked delicately.

"I get the feeling your major interest here, is in the gourmet aspects of the case."

"Doesn't hurt to dream. They must have had a lovely weekend."

Late in the afternoon the two women had stopped at an art supply store, where Janet bought oil paints, four rolls of linen canvas, and a large supply of stretcher bars. She had had the supplies delivered to the St. Francis, where she gave a bellman her car keys, directing him to put the supplies in her van, in the underground garage. That night, Jeanne said, Janet had dinner with Jeanne and her husband and with the couple for whom Janet was doing a huge sculpture of leaping fish, the sculpture she had meant to finish the morning she died. They had eaten at an East Indian restaurant on Grant, walking from the hotel, taking a cab back to the St. Francis afterward.