Shirley Murphy - Cat Striking Back

“We’re not moving,” Ryan said hastily, reaching to take him in her arms. “We’re not going anywhere, we’re buying a house as an investment.” She smiled as Joe relaxed, leaning his head on her shoulder. “If this works out,” she said, “we’re going into business remodeling houses.” She lifted his chin, smiling down at him. “Houses instead of cars. That make sense to you?”

“Into business?” he said dumbly. “You’re selling your construction firm?”

“I’m not selling, and we’re not moving. I wouldn’t give up the company! This is just a side venture,” she said, her green eyes searching Joe’s. “We thought it would be fun, working at our own pace-just a few remodeling projects that can pick up the slack for my crews between jobs or when things get slow.”

“When is the construction business ever slow?” In Molena Point, people waited months, years, for a contractor. “You mean because of the economic downturn?”

“Exactly,” Ryan said. “We’re hedging our bets. Does this sound okay? You approve of this?”

Joe grinned. Even with that small hint of joking sarcasm, how many humans would ask their cat about family financial matters?

“There is something troubling about it,” Joe said, glancing at Clyde then back at Ryan. “ Clyde ’s a wizard with cars, he can turn any old heap into new. But you do know he can’t drive a nail? That it’s an all-day project to change a leaky washer in the kitchen sink?”

Ryan ignored that. Maybe she thought she could teach Clyde. “We’re going up to look at the Parker house today, it’s just up above the senior ladies’ place. We-”

Joe stiffened at mention of the Parker house. “You can’t renovate that place, you can’t look at that house, it’s a crime scene.”

They stared at him.

“There’s blood in the pool, and-”

Clyde slammed down his fork. “Don’t start, Joe! The Parker house is not a crime scene. Where did you get that? We talked to the Realtor early this morning, she said we could look at it. Where do you get this stuff!”

Joe said, “Someone died there. Detective Davis -”

“Leave Juana Davis out of this! What the hell did you tell Davis? You think every-”

Ryan stopped Clyde with a hand on his arm. “What, Joe? What are you saying?”

“ Davis ran the scene this morning,” he said, licking a smear of syrup from his shoulder.

“Tell us,” she said, again hushing Clyde.

Scowling at Clyde, Joe gave them a blow-by-blow of the morning’s events, from the time he entered the overgrown yard of the Parker house, dragging his mice, until, crouching on the roof in the first hesitant drops of rain, he had watched Juana Davis carefully remove and bag small samples of what looked and smelled like human blood.

When he’d finished, Ryan was quiet. Clyde was scowling, shaking his head, as if the tomcat had conjured blood and drag marks from thin air, as if Joe had made up this nutty, twisted scenario to bedevil him and, worse, to torment the officers at Molena Point PD.

Ryan reached across the table, taking Clyde ’s hand and squeezing it hard. She looked at Joe with an admiration that warmed the tomcat clear to the tips of his claws. “You want to come with us?” she said. “Maybe Davis will let us in if she’s already worked the house. If I hide you in my tote bag and if we put on shoe protectors, maybe we can have a look.” And as Joe’s beautiful housemate rose to pick up their breakfast dishes, he gave her a smile that warmed her , in turn, clear down to her pretty toes.

WELL, HE HADN’T killed her, the woman killed herself, falling like that. She could be so damned clumsy, flinging herself away from him, stumbling or hitting something and then blaming him. Every damn time blaming him, and now she’d sure as hell done it, she’d really put him on the spot. He hadn’t slept all night, playing it over, seeing her lying there in the mud at the bottom of the empty swimming pool, going down there and realizing she was dead, and then later having to haul her out of there, drag her the whole length of the pool through the stinking mud and up the steps and nearly falling. Wondering what the hell he was going to do with her, trying to figure how he was going to get rid of the body. Why the hell did she have to be so clumsy, why did she have to do that!

It’d happened so fast, he still couldn’t believe she’d just swung away from him and fallen. Still couldn’t believe she was dead. She’d been a pain in the ass, but they’d had a good thing going, too. And then after it happened, after trying to revive her and finally knowing she was dead, the way the damned woman had timed it, he’d had to wait hours before it was dark enough to get her out of there. Couldn’t bring her up out of the empty pool in the daylight and haul her to the car, he’d had to wait at home worrying that someone would come along and find her.

Right at first, when he realized she was dead, he’d thought of calling the medics or the cops, but what would he say? They’d say he killed her, that he’d pushed her. They’d look at that big bruise on the side of her head and they’d think the worst. No, you get cops nosing around, who knew what else they’d find? You bring the cops into it, everything would hit the fan.

She’d start to stiffen up soon, he didn’t know how long that would take. Would she be harder to move then? And all the time he waited he was thinking, Why the hell did she do that? Why the hell did she have to go and screw things up?

He often worked Saturday but had come home early, around five, his last day before vacation. Had been all ready to head out and she knew she was supposed to be waiting, she knew it was important to leave before dark. She’d told him that! Had made him promise to be home early, before the neighbors all went in to supper, that the neighbors had to see them pull away. She was the one who said it was important for the neighbors to see them putting their suitcases in the car and heading out-and then she’d gone off like that.

She’d left her suitcase by the front door, beside his, had left her purse, too, but no sign of her. With her purse right there, he knew where she’d gone. And didn’t that put him in a rage. He’d stood there for a minute swearing, calling her everything he could think of, then he’d left the house, going out through the back, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t see him. Had shut the door real quiet, had slipped through the backyards to the next street, had walked the two blocks and turned back onto his own street, to the empty Parker house. If someone had seen him, if it came up later, he’d say it was a last-minute errand while she was getting dressed to leave.

They’d told everyone they planned to leave early, drive a few hours, pick up a burger, pull in somewhere around midnight. Their story was, drive up the coast then over to Reno for a few days to see her sister, then fly out of Reno for Miami and the Bahamas. So why the hell did she take the chance of going out at the last minute and screwing things up?

Well, she always did as she pleased, whatever spur-of-the-moment notion took her. It had been real hot the last few days, hot for the central coast in June. She liked that, liked lying naked in the hot sun. She couldn’t sunbathe naked in their own yard, the neighbors in three houses could see right down on her. She’d tried a few times to do that, and he’d really given her hell. Why the hell did she place such value on an all-over suntan? He’d told her a hundred times not to take her clothes off in public. Now look what she’d done, look where it had gotten her.

Approaching the Parker house, he knew she’d be back by the empty pool, hidden by the overgrown bushes where she thought no one would see her. Walking up the cracked driveway he’d smelled the coconut stink of her suntan oil long before he saw her-but as he passed the empty house he jerked to a stop: an explosion from the bushes and a white cat burst out from right under his feet, stared at him, and bolted away. Some neighborhood cat scaring him nearly to death. He’d stood, chilled, his hands shaking, trying to collect himself. He never could abide cats-and he couldn’t let her see how upset he was, she had no notion how sick cats made him. The look in its eyes before it ran, the way it glared at him, wouldn’t leave him.