Shirley Murphy - Cat On The Edge

But now Bernine seemed wound tight. When the waiter had gone, she said, "If you'd tell me why you want to know…"

Wilma just looked at her.

Bernine sighed. "I broke it off because Wark was-so strange. Maybe it was his Welsh upbringing." She sipped her water.

"Strange, how?"

"Whatever this is about, Wilma, I really don't mind talking about him. Why should I?" She widened her eyes a little. "But I wish you'd tell me."

"I would if I could, Bernine."

Bernine sighed more deeply. "He made me uncomfortable. I never told him why I didn't-why I ended it. He has some really weird ideas."

"Ideas like what?"

Bernine nibbled at her salad. "It sounds crazy."

"Try me."

"I wish you'd tell me what you're after. Are you doing some kind of investigative work?" Half the retired probation officers they knew did some private investigation.

"I'd be breaking a confidence, Bernine. I can only tell you it's important. What was it about Wark that put you off?"

"He… It was the cats."

"Cats?" Wilma swallowed back an excited little bingo. She tried to sound and to look puzzled. "Why would cats…" She shook her head as if not understanding. "Cats, as in house cats?"

"Yes, cats. He'd get on the subject of. cats until I could scream, I got really bored with it. Sometimes he scared me, the things he said and did."

She tossed back her flaming mop of hair. "I don't much like cats, but he was… We'd be walking down the street, he'd see a cat. He'd stare at it. Right there on the street he'd sort of-stalk it. Would look and look at it, follow it, stare at it, try to see its eyes."

"How very weird. Did he ever explain his actions?"

"When he did explain, his ideas made my skin crawl. Superstitious ideas. He was really afraid of them, fevered."

"It's a phobia," Wilma said. "Some people have a terrible fear of cats."

"With Lee, it's more than phobia. He has this idea that some cats are-I don't know. Possessed. He thinks that some cats can-that they have, like a human intelligence or something."

Wilma laughed and shook her head. "He sounds very strange. Where would he get such ideas?"

"I don't know. His family was full of those stories."

"Family stories," Wilma said. "And he grew up believing them?" Then, "How does he get along with the men in the shop? I don't imagine he talks to them about his fixation."

"I doubt it. I guess the men like him well enough."

"How about Beckwhite? Did they get along?"

Bernine's salad fork missed a beat. "They got along fine, as far as I know."

"I heard there was tension between Beckwhite and Wark, some difficulty."

Bernine's eyes turned steely, then softened. "There's always some little difference of opinion, that's human nature." Her smile didn't hide an almost-frightened look. "You can't work in an office without differences. What is this? What are you into?"

Wilma poured the last of her tea. "I wish I could tell you. You know me, I'm incredibly curious." She looked at Bernine blandly.

The waiter took their plates, and offered the dessert menu. They ordered a flan to share. When he'd gone, Wilma asked her about procedures at the shop.

Bernine, looking resigned, gave her a concise rundown of the routine for the newly arrived cars. Each vehicle was cleaned in the work yard behind the main building. Trash and forgotten personal possessions were removed; the car was washed, the interior given a cursory vacuuming, then it was sent to Clyde Damen, for a tune-up, for any needed repairs or replacements, and for steam cleaning of the engine. The last operation was a final wash and wax, more careful cleaning of the interior, and touch up to any small mars in leather or paint: a final cosmetic detailing before the car went to the showroom. Beckwhite's handled Shelbys, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, the newly resurrected Bugattis, as well as Mercedeses and BMWs.

"They treat every one like a baby," Bernine said.

"Who does the original cleanup, when the cars are first brought in? Different employees?"

"Are you writing a book about shop management? Jimmie Osborne does the cleanup."

"Well he's a nice young man. We were on the city council together one year."

Bernine sighed again. "I have to run, my dear. It's nearly two, I have a hair appointment." She glanced at the bill, but Wilma picked it up.

When Bernine had gone, Wilma sat for a long while, wondering exactly why her questions had so harried Bernine. Wondering why Bernine had seemed afraid.

During the hours of darkness, the outer perimeters of Beckwhite Automotive Agency were well lit. The one-story stucco complex occupied nearly a full square block at the corner of Haley and Ocean. It stood three blocks above Binnie's Italian, and just across from a beautifully landscaped Ocean Avenue motel. Backing on Highway One, which gave it easy access to buyers arriving from other coastal towns, Beckwhite's occupied a prime location at the upper perimeter of the village shops.

The drive-in entry to the maintenance shop was on Ocean. The agency's showroom faced the side street, its brick parking area separated from the street by a wide strip of bird-of-paradise plants. In the predawn dark, they shone waxen in the strong glow of the security lights fixed to the side of the building.

The front of the building was primarily glass. The small portions of white stucco wall were freshly painted, below the slanted roof of curved red tile. Twin bougainvillea vines, heavy with bright orange blooms, flanked the glass entry. The streets were silent, no car moved on Haley or up Ocean. The time was four-forty. The two cats stood up on their hind legs beside a bougainvillea vine, their paws against the clean glass, looking in.

The showroom was immense. Its pale walls provided an effective and contrasting background for the six gleaming imported cars which stood bright as polished jewels within the enclosure. "That red car at the end," Joe said, "is a new Ferrari. Clyde was reading an article about the new model just the other day; he left the magazine open on the kitchen table. It called the car sensuous and artful." Joe grinned. "Those guys who write about cars really take this stuff seriously. Said the Ferrari was sleek and curvy and provocative."

"It is," she said, cutting him a sly glance. "How would it be to drive something that elegant? Or that little blue, open job, careening down the highway?"

"Yeah, right. With the wind whipping your ears down flat and tearing through your fur."

Far to their left was a closed door with a small, discreet sign which indicated that it led to the drive-through entry and the automotive shop. Straight ahead behind the sleek foreign cars, along the back wall, a row of open glass doors and glass partitions defined the sales offices. Each was furnished with a handsome ebony desk, an Oriental rug, and three soft, leather-upholstered easy chairs.

They had already circled the complex, trotting along the dark sidewalk, crouching against the building when the lights of the occasional car approached. They had climbed up onto the roof, as well, in order to see the entire layout.

Behind the main building was a large, enclosed work yard surrounded by secondary buildings, some of which were open sheds containing various pieces of unidentifiable equipment and a few cars in different states of beautification or repair. To the left of the yard, Clyde's repair shop was closed off by a wide metal door. At the end of the shop, facing the showroom, a second garage door led to the drive-through. This door was closed. And the drive itself was enclosed by two chain-link, padlocked gates.

The yard was completely shut away from the surrounding streets except for this fenced entry, and for a narrower passage at the back, a slim alley which was also secured by two locked, chain-link gates. That passage led through to a narrow parking strip facing Highway One. Both wire gates hugged the concrete paving, and their tops touched the roof of the walkway.