Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

What did she expect, attar of lilies? There'd been a fire there: the white walls, the white rugs and furniture were dark from smoke, the rooms smelled of smoke and dampness, and strongly of mildew. There were drip lines running down the smoke-darkened paint where water had leaked in from the fire hoses.

"I will want all the food removed from the cupboards, and that cat stuff thrown out." Beverly directed her glance to the dusty water and food bowls on the floor by the kitchen sink. "She kept a cat, but I suppose it's dead or has found somewhere else to live.

"I want you to clean the refrigerator thoroughly, and pack up all the dishes and cookware. Those will go to the Goodwill-there's nothing here worth keeping. I want the house completely emptied except for the rugs and furniture. You will see to having those properly cleaned, so that I can sell them." Beverly stood waiting, as if to be sure that Charlie understood.

Charlie dutifully noted the details on the pad inserted in her clipboard, then picked up the wet throw rugs and carried them out to the deck. Wringing them out, she hung them over the undamaged portion of rail. She'd drop them off later for cleaning-a good professional would do a better job than she ever could with a rented steam cleaner. Straightening the rugs, looking down the hill, she admired the view. Maybe someday she'd have a place like this. She wondered where the cat was, the one that belonged to the dusty water and food bowls. That would be the white cat that Wilma had helped to search for. Wilma thought the poor thing had died in the fire; they'd found no sign of him.

She stood in the big living room for a few moments, assessing the smoke-stained walls. They'd need a heavy scrubbing before she painted. The floors would be fine with a good mopping; nothing could hurt that Mexican clay tile.

"I'm in here," Beverly called imperiously.

Out of sight, Charlie stuck out her tongue, then moved obediently toward the bedroom.

This room was huge, too, and so bright it took her breath. It would make a wonderful studio. She'd kill for that view down the hills. Beverly stood beside the unmade bed, shuffling through a tangle of scrapbooks scattered across the rumpled sheets. The sheets were streaked with black dirt, too, and when she looked more closely she realized they were pawprints.

So Janet's cat had survived, had been in the house-or some cat had. Must have slipped in through the charred hole under the front door. Beverly seemed not to see the prints or was ignoring them, caring nothing about the cat.

Before she left, Charlie thought, she'd put out fresh water, food if she could find any, maybe leave the bowls under the entry deck where Beverly wouldn't notice.

"I'll want her clothes boxed up for charity. She had no valuable jewelry, only junk. Please look through the closet and dresser now, so you will know how many containers you will require. I will want a complete and detailed list for tax purposes." Beverly flipped through each album, left them in an untidy pile, and turned to inspecting the bookshelves, moving books and glancing behind them. It occurred to Charlie to wonder if Beverly Jeannot really ought to be in there. Maybe she hadn't any more right to be in this house than the general public, until the police cordon was removed and the trial was finished.

Opening the dresser drawers, she found them half-empty. Not as if Janet's clothes had been removed, rather as if Janet hadn't had much, as if perhaps the artist saw no need for an abundance of clothing. Her few jeans and sweatshirts lay neatly folded. There was one nice sweater, in a plastic storage bag, a dozen pairs of socks, two pairs of panty hose. Janet had worn plain cotton panties. She didn't seem overly fond of brassieres-she had only one.

Beverly, preoccupied and intent, moved from the bookshelves to the desk, opening drawers, shuffling through the contents. Charlie watched her, then checked the closet It was half-empty, too. Janet must have unpacked from her San Francisco trip before she went to bed. There was a small, empty suitcase on the top shelf beside a folded garment bag. The clothes on the chair must be what she took off that night, as if she'd been too tired to put them away. The closet contained a wide, transparent storage bag with three dress-up outfits: a beige silk suit, a print dress, and a gold, low-cut cocktail dress. Two more pairs of jeans hung neatly beside a second windbreaker and some cotton shirts. This completed the wardrobe. She heard Beverly pick up the phone and punch in a number, listened to her asking for Police Captain Harper.

She could imagine how that imperious tone would go over if she used it on Harper.

She had met Max Harper only once, but she knew enough about him from Clyde to know the dry, lean man didn't tolerate being patronized. What cop did? Listening, she returned to the dresser and pretended to inventory jeans and sweatshirts.

Beverly must have pull, in spite of her rudeness, because within seconds she had Harper on the line.

Though likely it wasn't pull at all but Beverly's connection to Janet. For all she knew, Beverly herself might be suspect in some way.

"Captain Harper, the man you sent up here to search this house has left an unacceptable mess. I can't imagine why he would do this-he has pulled nearly all the books off the shelves for no apparent reason, has, in fact, trashed the entire bedroom."

Charlie didn't see anything trashed. She could imagine the chief of police raising an amused eyebrow, puffing away on a cigarette while Beverly ranted.

"What do you mean, I'm not allowed in the house? This is my house now. Have you forgotten that Janet left the house to me? Surely your police rules apply simply to the general public. I don't…"

Abruptly Beverly stopped talking, was quiet for some minutes, then, "Captain Harper, I came up here on legitimate business. I would remind you that I don't live in Molena Point, and that my time here is limited. I came up here to assess the interior damage and to arrange for much-needed repairs-once you have released the premises. I'm sure you know that much of the damage was caused by your police officers and city firemen. I am, in fact, facing monumental cleaning and repair costs, thanks to you city workers."

There was another long silence, then Beverly gave a sharp huff of exasperation and hung up, banging the receiver. Charlie pretended to be absorbed in noting the number of moving boxes she'd want. She paced off the size of the rooms in preparation for ordering paint, then went down to the Mercedes to retrieve a box of paint chips from her canvas tote. Beverly wanted a perfect match to the existing white walls. This seemed a needless expense, to have the paint specially mixed, when the woman was going to sell the house. Particularly when she was in such a hurry.

But what does a simple cleaning person know?

Returning from the car, she looked up at the house with a stab of longing, dreaming how it would be to have that lovely apartment. The studio above could be rebuilt, with plenty of space for tool storage and building supplies, maybe room left over for a small rental.

Sure, just whip out the checkbook and plunk down half a million or maybe more, and it's mine. Molena Point property was incredibly expensive.

Back in the house again, she sorted through paint chips, India Ivory, Rich Almond, Pagan White, Winter Snow, Narcissus. She chose Pale Bone, matching it to a little patch of wall down behind the couch that seemed to have escaped smoke damage.

But when she checked the color with Beverly, Beverly huffed and had to try a dozen samples. She returned to the Pale Bone as if she had just discovered it. In a few minutes she was back in the bedroom. Charlie could hear her still rummaging, heard her open the closet door, heard the hangers slide, heard her unzip the suitcase, zip it up again. Whatever the woman was looking for, she hadn't found it yet.