Shirley Murphy: Cat Striking Back

But it was only cloud shadows, the mass of darker clouds moving in below the white ones, gray and dense and smelling more heavily of rain, serious clouds descending over the village-only some twelve hours later than the weatherman had predicted. That guru of scientific data had said it would rain last night.

With the primitive methods humans used, such pre dictions couldn’t be easy. Joe and Dulcie and Kit had known it wouldn’t rain until morning, they’d known they had the night to hunt. Though the month of June was temperamental, scorching one minute, dark with rain or fog the next.

But now, for sure, the rain was coming, and if it got here before the law did, the cops would find little left of blood, of drag marks or of footprints, the evidence would all be washed away. That mustn’t happen. The cops needed to see this, he needed to get them here before the rain hit.

Before hastily departing the scene, he took one last look for additional evidence, circling the house, investigating beneath the overgrown bushes-and making doubly sure that he, himself, had left no paw prints. His jaws were aching with the weight of the mice. Prowling, he found nothing more of significance until, beneath the yellow flowers of a euryops bush beside the drive, he spotted a pair of dark glasses. They smelled of suntan oil. He studied them, but left the silver-rimmed shades untouched, lying among the dead leaves, and hurried away from the scene. Pushing through between several overgrown mock orange bushes, he scorched up an oak tree to the neighbors’ roof and headed across the peaks to deliver his gift, and then to alert the law, though with some small misgivings.

If that was a murder scene, he’d be glad he made the call. If it wasn’t, if the seeming evidence led to some other scenario that he had not imagined, he would be deeply embarrassed. In all the time he’d been secretly passing tips to Molena Point PD, he had never once given the cops a false lead, to do so would tarnish the perfect record of the department’s most reliable snitch.

But no fear, he’d smelled human death. And though he didn’t rejoice in knowing that some innocent human had died, he knew, in every perceptive cell of his silver-gray tomcat body, that the evidence would prove him right.

HURRYING OVER THE rooftops the two blocks to the Chapman house, Joe was careful to carry his gift of mice high enough so he wouldn’t trip on them; at his every leap, his mousy burden dragged him down, thudding against his chest and against the roof shingles. Below him along the street, folks had begun to awaken. He glimpsed a man out walking in the cool early dawn. Two women in jogging clothes strolled along gossiping and exchanging giggles. As he jumped clumsily from tree to tree and over a narrow alleyway, above him the sky darkened even more, and he broke into a gallop, praying the rain would hold off until the cops had a look at the bloody swimming pool.

He had no question that as soon as he called the department, a squad car would head up there, that a uniform or maybe one of the detectives would take a look at the pool, and get a blood sample. Once forensics had established that that was human blood, which shouldn’t take long, Detective Garza or Davis would cordon off the scene and get to work. He wondered if any missing-person’s report had come in that could be tied to the dead body. He thought the dark glasses lying beneath the bushes were a woman’s, but with the smell of suntan oil on them, he couldn’t be sure.

Leaping from an oak limb down onto the Chapmans’ roof, Joe backed down a bottlebrush tree and into the heavily layered miasma of crowded bushes, flowers, and small trees that was Theresa Chapman’s garden-a tangle that might be criticized by the neighbors as an unkempt mess but which, to the neighborhood felines, was a jungle of delight in which to hide for a nap or for amusement, to hunt small rodents, and just to play.

Sheltered among the overgrown flowers and shrubs, Joe headed for the laundry-room window. Leaping to the sill, he clawed open the glass slider, releasing onto the morning air the sharp scent of female cat, the stink of used sandbox, and then the sweet smell of kittens. Apparently the latch was broken. The window was secured by a lock that allowed the pane to open four inches, just enough for Mango to come and go; when Theresa was home, she left the slider open. Quickly Joe slid on through.

The Chapman house was a remodel that had once, early in the last century, been a poky little summer cabin. Now, with the living room and kitchen enlarged and the addition of deep bay windows throughout the sunny rooms, and new sliding glass doors onto the back deck, the house was a charmer. Even Joe, with a tomcat’s disdain for architectural niceties, found the home appealing. The interior was, in fact, so commanding in its bold lines that the tangles of homey clutter in which the Chapmans liked to live did not detract from its imposing presence. Cluttered house, cluttered garden, but handsome and sturdy home. The mix seemed to suit exactly Theresa Chapman’s two-sided temperament.

She was a thin young woman with a perpetually delighted smile, as if all the world had been made new for her. Dark brown hair, brown eyes, prominent cheeks that she tried to erase by constant dieting, but which in truth only added to her charm. Her friends and neighbors said she should leave the dieting alone, but Theresa wouldn’t listen. Thin as a rail, still she dieted, seemed almost to starve herself, striving to thin those round, smooth, and appealing cheeks.

Theresa was a loving friend to every animal she met; she cried easily over lost or hurt animals, and she was giving and loving with her human friends. Only when she took offense at real or imagined wrongdoings did her emotions flare with sudden hurt and rage. Yet Joe and Dulcie and Kit, who overheard a lot of village gossip, some by accident and more on purpose, had never heard anyone say a bad word about her.

Dropping down onto the counter that held the laundry sink, Joe leaped to the floor and diffidently approached the big cardboard box in the corner where the kittens were nestled with their mama.

Theresa had left the yellow tabby shut in the house with her nursing babies for the duration of the Chapmans’ three-week vacation, wanting to keep the little family safe. She had left ample food and water, which the housekeeping service would replace regularly. Of course she hadn’t counted on anyone else, on any strangers, gaining ac cess. But last night, surely after Theresa and her husband had left, Joe and Dulcie found the female locked out of the house, separated from her bawling kits, and with no way to get back inside. They had come upon her yowling and clawing at the back door, frantic to get in, and they couldn’t imagine that the Chapmans had accidentally let her out as they were loading up to leave. Carl Chapman might do that, but not Theresa, not with her responsible and loving care of every cat she knew. They were certain Theresa would have checked on Mango the last thing before leaving. Had Mango slipped out past her at the last minute? That didn’t seem likely, not as careful as Theresa was. Or had someone from Charlie Harper’s cleaning service come in right after they left and accidentally let her out?

But why would they come in to clean so late in the day? And Charlie’s employees would never be so careless-nor, of course, would Charlie.

“Those kittens can’t last very long without milk,” Dulcie had said worriedly. “We have to get her back inside.” She had looked frantically at Joe, her green eyes wide, all her maternal instincts on full alert. “Did someone go in there after they left, maybe planning to rob the house?”

Softly she’d padded up the back steps, approaching the yellow cat, who had backed against the door snarling defensively, guarding her children. The cries of the kittens was heartbreaking, and one of them was clawing determinedly at the door, his mewls loud and demanding.