Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

She'd had no notion Charlie was drawing her. And who had known Charlie could draw like this? What is Charlie doing cleaning houses and grubbing out roof gutters, with this kind of talent?

She did a little tail chase on the dining room table, spinning in circles, and for a moment she let ego swamp her, she imagined these images of herself hanging in galleries or museums, saw herself in those full-color glossy art magazines, the kind the library displayed on a special rack. She saw newspaper reviews of Charlie's work in which the beauty of Charlie's feline model was remarked upon. But then, amused at her own vanity, she jumped down and headed for the living room. Her mind was still filled with Charlie's powerful art work, but she had to take care of unfinished business.

Leaping to Wilma's desk, she attacked the phone. Joe did this stuff all the time. Lifting a paw, she knocked the headset off.

The little buzz unnerved her. She backed away, then approached again and punched in the police number. But as she waited for the dispatcher to answer she grew shaky, her paws began to sweat. She was about to press the disconnect when a crisp female voice answered, a voice obviously used to quick response.

Her own voice was so unsteady she could hardly ask for Harper. She waited, shivering, for him to come on the line. She waited a long time; he wasn't coming. She'd sounded too strange to the dispatcher; maybe the woman drought her call was some kind of hoax. She was easing away to leap off the desk, abandon the phone, when Harper answered.

When she explained to him about the list which she had tucked under the back door, Harper said he already had it. She told Harper the list had been made by James Stamps, under the direction of Varnie Blankenship, and she gave both men's addresses, not by street number, which she hadn't even thought to look at, but by the street names and by descriptions of the two houses, the ugly brown Blankenship house, and the old gray cottage with the addition at the back.

She told Harper that Stamps walked his dog every morning, watching when people left for work, when children left for school. She said she didn't know when the two men planned the burglaries, that she knew no more than was on the list. Except that Stamps was on parole. This interested Harper considerably. He asked whether it was state or federal parole, but she didn't know. He asked if she was a friend of Stamps, and how she had gotten her information. She panicked then, reached out her paw ready to press the disconnect button.

But after a moment, she said, "I can't tell you that. Only that they're planning seven burglaries, Captain Harper. I thought-I supposed you'd need witnesses, maybe a stakeout."

She'd watched enough TV to know that if Harper didn't have eyewitnesses, or serial numbers for the stolen items, his men couldn't search Stamps's room and Varnie's house. Even if the stolen items were there, she didn't think the police could get inside without probable cause.

She knew it was expecting a lot to imagine that Harper would set up a stakeout every morning until the burglaries were committed, that he would do that guided only by the word of an unfamiliar informant. Her heart was thudding, she was afraid she'd blown this. "Those are expensive homes, up there. It would be terrible, all of them broken into in one morning. I don't know what vehicle they'll use, but maybe the old truck in Varnie's garage. It would carry a lot." She was so shaky she didn't wait for him to respond. In a sudden panic she pressed the disconnect and sat staring at the headset as the dial tone resumed.

Then, embarrassed, she leaped to the couch and curled up tight on her blue afghan. I blew it. Absolutely blew it. Harper won't pay any attention. I didn't half convince him. She thought about what she could have said differently. Thought about calling him back She did nothing; she only huddled miserably, disappointed in herself.

How was she going to tell Joe that she had failed, that she hadn't convinced Harper, that she couldn't even use the phone without panicking?

She wasn't like this when she hunted; Joe said she was fearless. It was that disembodied voice coming through the wire that put her off. Feeling stupid and inept, she squeezed her eyes closed and tucked her nose under her paw.

She slept deeply, and soon the dream pulled her in, spun her away into that world where the white cat waited.

He stood high above her on the crest of the hills. He beckoned, flicking his tail. And this time he didn't vanish; he turned and trotted away, and she followed. High up the hills, where the grass blew wild, he turned again to face her, his blue eyes burning bright as summer sky. Above him rose three miniature hills. Two were rounded, the third was sliced off along one side, sharp as if a knife had cut down through it. The white cat stood imperiously before it, his eyes glowing with a fierce light.

But as she approached him, a damp chill crept beneath her paws. She was suddenly in darkness, felt cold mud oozing beneath her paws, sour-smelling. They were in a cave or tunnel-blackness closed around them, and a heavy weight pressed in.

A thud jerked her from sleep. She leaped up in terror that the walls had collapsed on her.

But the dark walls were gone, and she was in her own living room, standing on her own blue afghan.

Glancing up at the windows, at the change of light, she realized she had slept for hours. She yawned, made a halfhearted attempt to wash. She felt lost, groggy. It was hard to wake fully. She thought the noise she'd heard might have been the evening Gazette hitting the curb.

Trying to collect herself, she trotted into the kitchen.

Pushing under the plastic flap of her cat door, she saw the paper out on the curb. Trotting down the steps, fetching the Gazette from among the flowers, she dragged it back, bumping up the short stair, and pulled it endwise through her cat door. And why would any neighbor find her actions strange? She had always carried things home, had stolen clothes from everyone in the neighborhood at one time or another, had stolen not only from their houses but from their porches and their clotheslines and their open cars.

Dragging the paper into the living room, onto the thick rag rug, she nosed it open to the front page. She read quickly; her tail began to lash.

SURPRISE WITNESS IN LAKE TRIAL

Observers predict that new evidence which has come to light in the trial of Rob Lake may be so important that Judge Wesley will call a new trial. A new and unidentified witness is scheduled to testify this week. Neither defense attorney Deonne Baron nor the county attorney would release the witness's name. Neither would speculate as to the nature of the impending testimony. Ms. Baron was not available for comment…

Dulcie rolled over, laughing. Mama did it, that old lady did it. Mama really came through - even if she was scared into testifying by the sudden interference of attorney Joe Grey.

She wondered if Joe had seen the paper.

The article speculated endlessly about the identity of the new witness, and recapped old facts just to make copy. A blurred photo of Rob Lake and a larger picture of Janet took up half the page.

Maybe I blew it with Harper, but we pulled this off. And maybe - maybe Mama's testimony can free Rob.

And maybe after tonight there would be more evidence, maybe there would be forty-six of Janet's paintings for evidence.

Carefully she folded the paper, carried it back through the kitchen, and pushed it out her cat door. She didn't want Charlie to come home before Wilma and wonder how the evening paper got in the house. Quickly dragging it across the garden, she left it at the curb, then slipped back inside, and cuddled up again on her afghan. She'd just have another little nap, then go to meet Joe. Mama did it. Hope she doesn't change her mind, get cold feet at the last minute. And she closed her eyes, smiling.