Shirley Murphy - Cat Fear No Evil

These last months, Consuela had surely become a leader for the oldest junior high girls. Dulcie had seen her hanging around Dillon's school or with a crowd of young girls in the shops, where they were loud and rude. Both Dulcie and Joe, following the girls casually, had seen them shoplifting.

The first time, Dulcie didn't want to believe that Dillon was stealing. By the third time she followed them, she was trying to figure out where they were stashing the stolen items. At one of the girls' homes? Neither she nor Joe wanted to call Captain Harper. As proud as they were of their impeccable record of solving local crimes, they didn't want to tell Harper this. Dillon was Max Harper's special friend. Harper had taught her to ride, on his own mare, Redwing. He had helped her to become a capable horsewoman, had tried to help Dillon move easily and surely through her teen years without falling.

But then the kit had followed the girls and, apparently, had seen something so upsetting the kit would not talk about it. Dulcie had found her at home curled up in a little ball beneath the blue wool afghan looking wan and forlorn.

Pawing at the knitted throw, Dulcie had nosed at her. "Are you sick, Kit? Are you hurt?"

"Fine. Not hurt."

"Sick?"

"No."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I don't want to tell."

"You must tell me. I can help."

"Must I? Can you?" That was all the kit would say.

"Did someone hurt you? Did someone do something to you?"

The kit had shaken her head. Dulcie, having seen Kit following the four girls earlier that morning, could only suspect that she was upset about something Dillon had done. But Kit refused to get Dillon in trouble or to dismay the captain.

Well, Dulcie had thought, no one could force her. Kit would have to decide in her own time. Now, as she glanced at the kit, the tall, broad-shouldered girl with the black braids laughed loudly. "I bet he killed himself. Turned on the gas and sucked it up and croaked." She clutched her throat as if strangling, gagging and sticking out her tongue. Leah, Dulcie thought. The girl's name was Leah. Dulcie wanted to claw her.

"If I was that old and wrinkled," Consuela said, "I'd kill my self."

The three younger girls doubled up with merriment, their giggles self-conscious and loud.

"The dead guy's your mother's partner," said the blonde.

"I guess," Dillon snapped. "It stinks here, let's go."

"And that was her lover." Leah giggled. "That tall guy who left a while ago, that was your mother's squeeze."

"You have a big mouth," Dillon told her. "A big cesspool mouth."

"So isn't he her lover? You said…"

Dillon slapped the girl. Hit her so hard that Leah reeled. Catching herself Leah swung at Dillon.

Consuela stood leaning smugly against the side of the building, watching them, grinning slyly when Leah grabbed Dillon's hair. As Dillon swung to hit her again, she was grabbed from behind.

Max Harper was quick and silent, holding Dillon's arm. The captain's thin sun-creased face was drawn into an unforgiving scowl. He stood, thin and muscled and tall, staring down at Dillon. "Go home, Dillon. Go home now. And go alone."

"You can't make me," Dillon said tremulously, her face flushing.

Harper looked hard at her, and at the other three. "Leah and Candy, you get on to your own homes. Do it now.'"

Leah and Candy backed away from him, and left. Redheaded Dillon stood still, defying him. Consuela stood watching, still smirking.

Ignoring Dillon, Harper fixed on Consuela. "Miss Benton, I don't want to see you around Dillon anymore. You have no business with these girls."

"What I do is not your business!"

"It is my business if you are arrested for a crime."

Consuela flipped Harper the bird, turned away, and sauntered insolently up the street. Max Harper stood looking after her, then looked down at Dillon. All the closeness between them, all the easy companionship, was gone. "Go now, Dillon."

At last Dillon headed away in the direction of her own house, sullenly scuffing her feet like a young child. Harper, watching her, looked so sad that Dulcie wanted to reach out a paw and comfort him. He looked as if his own child had fallen in front of him and refused to get up.

The kit watched the captain, too, very still and frightened. Was there nothing she could do to make him feel better? She knew how to tease the captain, but she didn't know what to do about his hurt. She watched the girls fade away through the village wondering why Dillon ran with those others. Did you call a group of human girls a clowder, like cats? Why were those girls so angry? Why had Dillon turned so mean? The kit was so full of questions she began to shiver-but part of her shivers were hunger, too. The deep-down belly-empty hunger she always felt when her head was too full of fear and questions.

Behind them, an officer had come into the house and started closing windows; soon the house would be secured and additional crime tape strung around it. Dulcie and Kit looked at each other, slipped through the drapery, leaped out the window and up the nearest tree-and they raced away across the rooftops and along sprawling oak branches until they reached Jolly's alley.

On the roof of Jolly's Deli they paused with their paws in the gutter, their pads sinking down into the mat of wet leaves, looking down into the pretty brick paved lane with its flowers and benches, anticipating the usual nice plate of treats that Mr. Jolly put out for the village cats; after the stressful morning, a cat needed comfort food.

Mr. Jolly himself was just coming out the back door, dressed in his white pants and white shirt, white shoes and white apron. Bending over with a grunt because his stomach got in the way, he set down a paper plate loaded with smoked salmon and shrimp salad and roast beef, all smelling so good the kit drooled. The cats were ready to scorch down the jasmine vine and enjoy the feast, when Dulcie nipped the kit's shoulder and pulled her back quickly onto the shingles where they would not be seen.

Below them, Consuela was entering the alley pushing irritably past the flowering trees in their big clay pots. The black tomcat swaggered in beside her. Consuela, swiveling her hips, sat down on the little wooden bench. Azrael, glancing the length of the alley, crouched before the plate of deli scraps, and in seconds the food was gone. He scarfed it all, the smoked salmon and roast beef and the nice shrimp salad. The kit wanted to fly down there and cuff him away but he was pretty big. His purrs of gluttony filled the alley as loud and ragged as another cat's growls. Behind the rudely slurping beast, Consuela sat impatiently waiting, tapping her booted toe and tossing a key in her hand. Each time she flipped the key, it clinked against its dangling metal fob. With her frowzy black hair and black lipstick and black-lined eyes, the two were as alike as human and cat could be. Watching them, the kit looked up when Dulcie nudged her; and she looked where Dulcie was looking.

Across the chasm of the alley on the opposite roof, among the leafy shadows of an acacia tree, Joe Grey stood so still that he seemed at first glance no more than a smear of gray shadows among the dark leaves.

Had he been there all the time? His yellow eyes gleamed intently, telling the kit to be still. Then his gaze dropped to the alley where the black tomcat was cleaning the paper plate with a rasping tongue, holding it down with his paw.

As the black tom turned and sauntered across the bricks and leaped onto the bench beside Consuela, Joe Grey came to the edge of the roof, listening.

"Well?" the black tom said, watching her.

Coldly Consuela studied him. "What do I get? What's in it for me?"

"You'll greatly impress our friend, I can guarantee that. I expect he'll split with you."