Shirley Murphy - Cat Fear No Evil

Looking along the bottom of the glass he saw where it was locked in place so no one larger could enter. Higher up where the glass door joined the wall, he saw the tiny red lights of an activated security system, a strip of lights that rose from six inches above the floor to about six feet, a barrier impossible for a human to circumvent unless he was circus-thin and agile enough to slide in on his belly, or was a skilled high jumper. Sniffing all around the open glass he could catch no animal scent, cat or otherwise, could smell only salty residue from the sea spray. He could see no one inside the room beyond the glass, but the place was huge, with angles and niches that might conceal an army.

Slipping beneath the electronic barrier ready to spin and run, he eased beyond the beam. Once inside, he expected his every move to trigger an interior beam, but no alarm sounded. Uneasily he rose to his full height, his gray ears pricked, his short stub tail erect, his yellow eyes searching every angle of the furniture, dissecting every shadow. Still no alarm-and talk about architectural bravado!

The walls of the soaring, two-story great room were hung with large and vivid action paintings from the mid-1950s. Thanks to Dulcie's coaching, he recognized several Diebenkorns, two Bischoffs, half a dozen Braden Wests. Opening from this soaring gallery were a dozen low, cavelike seating niches, cozy conversation alcoves that were tucked beneath the floor above. Each little retreat was furnished in a different style designed around some esoteric collection. One conversation area featured miniature landscapes. One was designed to set off a group of steel sculptures. In another, couch and chairs were tucked among huge six-foot-tall chess pieces. An array of carved wooden chests and small cupboards was arranged among soft velvet seating. Joe could imagine Dulcie and Kit prowling here for hours, riven with delight at every new discovery, rolling on every velvet settee and hand-woven cushion.

Keeping to the shadows, scanning every niche to make sure he was alone, he expected any second to see someone sitting among the exhibits, silent and still, watching him. Or to come face to face with whatever animal, most likely a cat, enjoyed access through the open glass door. At the back of the room, behind a vast, two-sided fireplace, was a dining room with dark blue-gray walls. The huge carved table and chairs were rubbed with white, the chair seats upholstered in white. He would not have noticed these niceties if he had not spent so many hours with Dulcie. At every break-and-enter, she had to admire, examine, and comment upon the decor.

In the left-hand wall of the dining room, a door stood open to the kitchen. Far to the left of the kitchen an entry hall led to the carved front door, and here rose a broad and angled stairway. Was Dorriss's office up there on the second floor, his desk and files? Or did Dorriss have a secretary hidden away in some village office to take care of business matters? Likely he relied on a broker in some large firm to tend to his investments, but he had to have letters, personal bills. Wouldn't a house of this size and quality have a safe? Did Dorriss keep his stocks and bonds at home, along with the valuable pieces of antique silver and jewelry that he was known to collect?

Skilled as he was with his paws, Joe's expertise did not, as yet, include safecracking. Anyway he was here for bills, not silver. Who kept their Visa bills in a locked safe? Contemplating the possible extent of Dorriss's security arrangements, and his skin rippling with nerves, he made for the wide stairway.

Leaping up the carpeted stair, he gained the top step and stood listening, sniffing the soft flow of air from open windows somewhere on this floor, seeking any waft of human or cat scent. The house was meticulously clean; peering into a bedroom, he could see that the spaces under the chairs had all been freshly vacuumed. He could smell the faint afterbreath of the vacuum cleaner, that dusty aroma ejected through the dust bag even in the most expensive of models-though this dust-scented air was perfumed, as well, with cinnamon. Likely the housekeeper added powdered cinnamon to the fresh dust bags. Joe knew that trick- both Clyde and Wilma did it, to delicately perfume the house. Surely Clyde had learned the habit from Wilma, he'd never have thought of it on his own. The spice was far superior to air fresheners, which made Joe and Dulcie sneeze.

The wide upstairs hall was lit from above by a row of angled skylights. Paintings were spaced along both walls, again work by Diebenkorn, Bischoff, West, and James Weeks. Each piece had to be worth enough to keep Joe in caviar for ninety-nine cat lives. Five bedrooms opened from the hall. Each was handsomely designed, but none looked or smelled lived in. Only the last room, on his left, smelled of recent occupancy and looked as if it were regularly occupied; the shelves were cluttered with books and papers and several small pieces of sculpture, the smell of aftershave mixed with the scent of leather, and of charred wood from the fireplace. The fireplace was laid with fresh logs over a gas starter. The paneled wall on either side looked hand-carved, the oak slabs thick and heavy.

The master bedroom joined Dorriss's study through an inner hall, which also opened to the master bath and dressing room. This suite occupied the entire south end of the second floor. Around Joe the house was silent, the only sound the dulled crashing of the sea and the whispering insistence of the sea wind. Intently listening he trotted into Dorriss's office and leaped to the desk.

The desk faced a wall of glass; one of the three panels was cracked open a few inches. Crouching on the blotter with his nose to the window, Joe had the sensation of floating untethered above the cliff and the sea.

A fax machine stood beside a phone. Dorriss's computer occupied an adjacent worktable of boldly carved African design. The monitor was the newest model, flat, slim of line, dark gray in color. There were no file cabinets, but the desk had one file drawer. How would all of Dorriss's various business and charity pursuits be conducted with no more file space than that one drawer? At home, Clyde's automotive interests overflowed four file cabinets and all the bookshelves, plus six more file cabinets at the automotive shop. Did Dorriss keep all his business records in the computer? For the first time Joe wished he'd brought Dulcie; she could get into that computer like a snatching paw into a mouse hole.

With her official position as Molena Point library cat, Dulcie's access to the library computers, and her interest in such matters, had allowed her to become more than conversant with the daunting world of megabytes and hard drives. That, plus her female-feline stubbornness, assured that no computer program would outsmart this sweet tabby.

Joe stared at the computer wishing that he'd paid attention. Instead, he tackled the desk drawers, surprised to find them unlocked. Clawing the top drawer open, he wondered if, any second, he'd trigger a screaming alarm. Or a silent alarm that would alert some private security company? Because why would Dorriss leave his desk unlocked unless he had it cleverly wired?

Or unless he kept nothing of value here.

The smaller drawers contained only office supplies: pencils, pens, paperclips, various-size labels, and thick cream-colored stationery embossed with Dorriss's elegant letterhead. Joe tackled the file drawer. As he clawed the drawer out, a noise above him brought him up rigid, ready to scorch out of there.

But it was only a bird careening against the window and gone, leaving a long smear of feathery dust. He scowled, annoyed at himself. He was a bundle of rigid fur, rotating ears, nervously twitching whiskers.

Why did he do this to himself? Why wasn't he out napping in the sunshine like a sensible, normal cat?