Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

But even as she clung, steadying herself by pressing against the glass, they circled back, dropping down again into the oak, the bravest ones returning to the ledge to strut and eye her sideways with simpleminded bravado. If she hadn't been otherwise engaged, she would have had one for a little snack.

Hunched on the narrow sill, she peered down into the courtroom, wondering why the windows were closed, why the room below was dark. No lights burned, the long rows of mahogany benches were empty, the jury box abandoned, the judge's big leather chair deserted, the shadowed courtroom as lifeless as a time capsule sealed away to be opened a thousand years hence. Surely they hadn't concluded the case. Visions of Rob Lake being pronounced guilty and sentenced filled her with panic.

But it was too soon for a verdict, there were still witnesses to be called. There had been no time for a summing up, not nearly enough time for the jury to deliberate. Puzzled, she turned away, leaped back into the oak tree, sending the mindless birds scattering.

She sat among the branches, licking pigeon soil from her paws. In her haste she'd forgotten the hand towel, had left it stuffed high in the tree among the smallest twigs. She had to know why court was closed.

Maybe the Gazette was out early. Maybe it would tell her. Sometimes, when there was an unusual event, the evening edition hit the streets around midday. She gave her paws a last disgusted lick, backed down the rough trunk, and headed for the post office, where the nearest paper rack stood chained to a lamppost.

At least she had delivered the list, had deposited her copy of Stamps's itinerary safely at police headquarters. She hoped it was safe. She'd thought of faxing it to Captain Harper, a safe and direct route, but she'd have to use the library fax when no one was watching, a feat nearly impossible. Besides, the fax still unnerved her.

The Molena Point Police Station occupied the southern wing of the courthouse just across the alley from the jail, from Rob Lake's cell. The station's main entrance opened onto Lincoln Street. A second door, inside the police squad room, opened directly into the courthouse. At the back of the building a third entrance, a locked metal door, led to the police parking lot.

She had arrived long after the change of shift. The fenced parking lot was full of officers' personal cars and a few squad cars, but there was no one about, no officer passing through the lot, no pedestrian in sight at that moment. The brick wall of the jail, across the alley, was blank except for very high windows. No prisoner could see out. Certain that no one was watching, she had tucked the list under the metal door, praying that some officer, coming out, wouldn't let it blow away.

Now, leaving the courthouse, she glanced down the alley to the back of the station, looking for the little white folded paper. She couldn't see it beneath the door. Maybe Harper already had it. She had started over to take a look when a squad car pulled in.

Hurrying on by, she left the court building heading for the post office news rack. Trotting around to Dolores Street, she sprinted north a block, galloping up the warm sidewalk. The day smelled of green gardens and the sea; the shop windows were bright with their expensive wares; the gallery windows brilliant with an assortment of painting styles. Next to the post office, the Swiss House smelled of sweet rolls and freshly brewed coffee. Pink petunias bloomed beside its door, in ceramic pots. She sniffed at the flowers as she passed, approaching the news rack.

But the rack was empty-no early paper. Strange that the court postponement hadn't generated enough excitement for the Gazette to make an extra effort. And even if, at home, she were to push the buttons on the TV, there'd be no news this time of day, only the soaps, every channel busy with degrading human melodramas written by disturbed mental patients.

But at least at home there would be something nice to eat while she waited for the paper. Wilma always left a plate for her in the refrigerator. She hadn't had a bite since breakfast with Mama, a disgusting mess of oatmeal, and then that nibble of peach turnover-more peach on her ear than in her stomach. Breaking into a run, swerving around pedestrians, she nearly collided with an old man and an elderly dog wandering along in the sunshine; then, turning the corner, she was almost creamed by a fast-moving bike. She jumped back just in time as its rider swerved, shouting at her. But soon she turned up her own stone walk between Wilma's flower beds. Slipping in through her cat door, she made a round of the house to be sure she was alone. Charlie could be unusually quiet sometimes, not a whisper of sound, not a vibe of her presence.

No one home, the rooms were still and empty. But trotting back through the dining room she caught the scent of Charlie's drawing materials. Maybe she'd left her sketch box on the table.

In the kitchen, crouched on the counter, the instant she forced the refrigerator open she smelled fresh crab. Leaping down before the door could shut, she snatched the plastic plate in her teeth, set it on the little rug.

Beneath the clear wrap, the soft plastic plate held a generous portion of fresh white crabmeat arranged beside a small cheese biscuit of her favorite brand, and an ounce of Jolly's special vegetable aspic, heavy on asparagus just the way she liked it. For desert Wilma had included a small plastic cup of Jolly's homemade egg custard. She ate slowly, enjoying each small bite, puzzling over why Judge Wesley would have recessed court.

Maybe Mama Blankenship had gone to the police, maybe the recess was until they could arrange for her testimony. Maybe what Mama told the police had been important enough to put a whole new face on the trial. Musing over that possibility, she finished her main course, licked her plate clean, and licked the last morsel of crab off her whiskers. As she started on her custard, she knew she had to call Captain Harper, that she wouldn't rest until she was sure he had the list. Why was she so shy of the phone? It couldn't be that hard. Just knock the phone off its cradle and punch in the number.

Finishing her custard, she headed for the living room, for the phone. But crossing the dining room she was aware once more of the scent that didn't belong in that room, the sketching smell-charcoal, eraser crumbs, fixative.

Wilma's guest room had taken on Charlie's personality, overflowing with Charlie's personal tastes and passions, her sketch pads, her easel, her hinged oak sketch box, and a larger oak painting box. Drawings stood propped against the furniture and the walls, stacks of art books crowded every surface and were stacked on the floor. This clutter was a product of Charlie's deep interests, very different from the dead, dormant clutter of the Blankenship house. Charlie Getz might have left the art world to make a living, but her heart hadn't left it.

Now in the dining room, smelling Charlie's drawings, Dulcie reared up to sniff at the buffet, then leaped up.

Landing on the polished surface she slammed hard into a large drawing, nearly knocked it off where it leaned against the wall. Backing away, she paused, balanced on the edge of the buffet.

There were three drawings. Her heart raced. They were of her. Life-size portraits so bold and real that she seemed ready to step right off the page.

The studies were done with charcoal on white paper, and neatly matted with pebbly white board. When had Charlie done these? She hadn't seen Charlie drawing her. She leaped away to the dining table to get a longer view. Looking across at the drawings, she could almost be looking into a mirror, except that these reflections were far more exciting than any mirror image. Charlie's flattery made her giddy. Her tail began to lash, her skin rippled with excitement.