Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

"It belongs with the police. Max Harper won't let the papers have it."

"Detective Marritt would, behind Harper's back."

"You think Harper would let anything happen behind his back?"

"Marritt messed up the investigation, didn't he?"

Joe sighed. "You're not really sure of that. We'll hide it for tonight, until we decide what to do." He rose and headed for the kitchen.

Pawing open the lower cupboard doors, he prowled among the pans until he found a supply of plastic grocery bags rolled neatly and stuffed in an empty coffee can.

Within minutes they had bagged the diary to protect it from the damp and rain, and had dragged it outside and hidden it beneath the deck, pushing it deeper under than the bowls which Charlie had left for the white cat.

"That was nice of her," Dulcie said. "I guess Charlie believes in the white cat."

"I didn't say I don't believe in him. I just think he's- Oh, what the hell. Maybe he'll show up and eat the damned kibble."

She gave him a long green stare, but then she snuggled close. "Come on, let's go con that old Mrs. Blankenship, see what we can find out."

"Suck in your stomach, try to look hungry." "I am sucking it in, I can hardly breathe." She let her ears go limp and forlorn, let her tail droop until it dragged the ground.

"Yeah. That's better, that's pitiful. You really look like hell."

"Thanks so much."

"A starving stray, not a friend in the world."

The plan was, she'd approach the old woman alone as this was definitely a one-cat job. One starving, pitiful little kitty could turn the hardest heart, while two cats tramping the neighborhood would give the impression of mutual support, of perhaps greater hunting options. A pair of cats could never achieve the same high degree of helplessness and neglect, elicit the same pity.

"She's still watching," Joe said, peering out at the old woman. "And even if she didn't see us come into the bushes, she's already seen us together, up at Janet's house. She knows you're not alone. I don't think this is going to work."

"It'll work." Dulcie studied Mrs. Blankenship. The soft, elderly woman looked a perfect mark, like some old grandmother there behind the curtain, her nose pressed to the glass. "But before I go into my half-starved act, we need a little drama, a little pathos. How about a cat fight? Before you nip out of here, how about you beat the stuffings out of me."

Joe smiled. "A screaming frenzy of a fight."

"Exactly. Poor little kitty torn apart by the big ugly bully."

"So who's ugly!" He lit into her, kicking and clawing, knocking her out onto the lawn. She screamed, yowled. He was all over her, they rolled clear of the bushes tearing at each other, raking and kicking, tearing divots from the grass-but not a bit of fur flew. They didn't lay a claw on each other. Dulcie's screams were loud enough to have drowned out all the fire engines in Molena Point, her voice ululating in crescendos of terror and rage.

Mrs. Blankenship's troubled face remained pressed against the glass for only an instant, then the old woman's window banged open. "Stop it! Stop it! Leave her alone!"

They gave it a few more licks for good measure, then Dulcie escaped into the bushes. The old woman yelled again, and Joe fled, hissing and snarling.

He paused behind a rhododendron bush out of sight. I'm pretty good at this acting stuff, a regular Robert Redford - or maybe Charles Branson. He pictured himself bashing skulls, leaping atop runaway cars.

Mrs. Blankenship had opened the screen and was leaning out, beckoning to Dulcie. "Kitty? Oh you poor, poor kitty." She reached out as if Dulcie would come to her outstretched hand. She was dressed in a flowered bathrobe, her gray hair confined beneath a thick, old-fashioned net.

Dulcie crept out from her shelter, staring up.

"Come on, kitty. Oh you poor, pretty kitty."

Dulcie mewled pitifully, her voice unsteady and weak.

"Oh, you poor little thing. Come on, kitty. Are you hurt? Did the bad tomcat hurt you?"

At least, Joe thought, the woman knows how to tell a tomcat. Broad shoulders, thick neck. It doesn't take a look at your private parts, necessarily, to know you're a stud. He watched Dulcie creep across the lawn, walking slowly, managing to limp. Shyly, warily, she approached the window. This cat was no slouch, either, as an actor-she could play Scarlett to his Rhett.

"Oh, you poor, poor kitty. Come on up here to Mama. Can you jump? Are you hurt too bad, or can you jump up?" The old woman tapped on the sill with a shaky finger.

But Dulcie lay down on the grass, trying for the wan, coy effect. Lying upside down, widening her green eyes with longing, she let her little peach-colored paws fold over her poor empty tummy.

Yes, that did it. Mrs. Blankenship leaned farther, her lumpy bosom pressed down over the sill. Her body in the flowered robe was round and soft, the robe bleached out from numerous washings, baggy and wrinkled. Her eyes were a faded brown. And her hair was not gray, but the color of old, dried summer grass.

"Oh, you poor, sweet little girl. That terrible tomcat. Come on, sweet kitty. Come on, dear. I'll take care of you."

Dulcie remained shy and frightened.

"I can't come out to get you, dear, Frances will see me, she'll have a fit." Her face wrinkled up, petulant and cross. "She doesn't like animals-doesn't like much of anything. Come on, kitty, you'll have to come up on the sill-if you're not too hurt to jump. Oh, dear…"

Dulcie played coy for another few minutes, wondering about this Frances, thinking maybe she ought to cut out of there while she had the chance. But at last she rose haltingly and approached the window.

"Come on, poor baby. Poor sweet baby, I won't hurt you."

She stood looking up, then gathered herself both in spirit and in body, and leaped, exploding onto the sill, their faces inches from each other.

"Come on, pretty kitty. Come and let me see. Did that old tomcat hurt you?" Old Mrs. Blankenship's wrinkles were covered with a thick layer of powder. Her brown eyes were faded. She had fuzz on her face and little hairs in her ears.

Standing on the sill halfway in through the window, Dulcie let the old woman stroke her. Mrs. Blankenship's hands were very fat, very wrinkled, laced with thick, dark veins like little wriggly garden snakes. But they were surprisingly strong-looking hands.

And the lady did know how to stroke a cat. She rubbed gently behind Dulcie's ears, then held out her fingers so Dulcie could rub her whiskers against them. Next came a nice massage down the back, her strong hands rubbing in all the right places. With this, Dulcie abandoned her shyness, purred extravagantly, and padded right on in over the sill and onto the dressing table, stepping carefully to avoid the clutter of little china animals, small framed photographs, medicine bottles, and half-empty juice glasses. She could hardly find room to set a paw. She just hoped she was doing the right thing. Hoped this old lady didn't turn out to be some kind of serial cat killer.

The table had been dusted without moving anything, so that around each little china dog and pill bottle shone a thick circle of grime. The stuffy, too-warm room smelled of Vicks VapoRub. Mrs. Blankenship did not close the window. The old lady seemed to understand that a cat with an escape route open behind her was far braver than a cat locked suddenly in a strange house. Dulcie smiled, giving her a dazzling green gaze and another loud purr.

"That's it, pretty kitty. Come on, sweet kitty." The old woman patted her lap by way of invitation. As Dulcie oozed down off the dressing table onto that ample resting place, Mrs. Blankenship's round wrinkled face broke into a smile of delight. "Did that old tomcat hurt you? Let me see, kitty. Let me have a look."