Shirley Murphy: Cat Fear No Evil

The tomcat had returned to the village just once since he and Greeley sneaked away after robbing the village shops; traveling with them was Greeley's new wife-to-be. Sue flew often to Latin America on buying trips, so it was no problem for her to leave her shop in the hands of a manager. The couple were married in Panama and settled down in a Panama City apartment; but their conjugal bliss had, apparently, not appealed to Azrael.

Dumping Greeley and Sue, he had taken up with a little blonde he found in a tourist bar, and soon Azrael and Gail Gantry headed back to the States. Ending up in Molena Point, they had pulled some slick burglaries until Gail was arrested for the murder of a human accomplice. Immediately Azrael had slipped away and disappeared, had not been seen in the village again until last night.

Now, licking a scratch on his shoulder, Joe peered up into the tower. Above him, on the roof, Clyde had set down his bucket of hot water and cleaning rags and opened the tower windows. Joe watched him remove the shredded, ruined pillows and drop them in a plastic garbage bag. Joe had liked those pillows. Clyde removed Joe's water bowl and scrubbed it, then washed the inside of the tower, the walls, the floor, the ceiling and windows. The place would smell like Clorox for a week. Better that than tomcat spray. Clyde left the windows open so the tower could dry and air. Neither Joe nor Clyde had any idea what would prevent Azrael from a second foray, other than the smell of Clorox. Joe wondered if one black ear hanging from the peak of the tower's hexagonal roof would serve to keep the beast away.

He wished that he had obtained such a trophy.

Clyde finished cleaning the tower as the first blush of morning embraced the rooftops. Coming down the ladder and returning to the master suite, Clyde showered and dressed. Joe, waiting for him, prowled the two big rooms. The suite, with its pale plastered walls and cedar ceiling, with its dark hardwood floors and rich Turkish rugs, was really more than a bachelor needed. Joe wondered, not for the first time, if Clyde would ever, finally, settle down with a wife.

There had been plenty of women, for a night, a week, not pickups but good friends, lovers who, having ceased to be lovers, were still the best of friends. That said something positive about Clyde, something Joe liked. But he did wonder if Clyde would ever take a wife. If, in building this comfortable upper floor, Clyde was preparing for just such a move.

If he was, Clyde hadn't confided in him, in his steadfast feline housemate.

Joe had thought for a while that Clyde and Charlie Getz would marry, but then Charlie had fallen head over heels for Clyde's best friend, police chief Max Harper. An old story, Joe guessed, the guy's friend gets the girl. The stuff of fiction. But it had worked out all right, all were still best friends, and Charlie and Max's love was powerful and real.

Maybe he'd marry Ryan Flannery, Joe thought. Maybe Ryan, unknowing-or maybe hoping?-had built this upstairs addition as if destined to live here with Clyde herself?

So far, Joe could only wonder. Clyde had been as close-mouthed as a fox with a squirrel in its teeth. But the two got along very well, had fun together, and had the same sense of humor; they were comfortable together, and that meant a lot. And of course Joe never pried-not to the point where Clyde swore at him and threw things.

They went downstairs together, Joe padding quietly beside Clyde's jogging shoes, feeling Azrael's bites and scratches across every inch of his sleek gray body.

In the big remodeled kitchen Clyde started a pot of coffee and gave old Rube and the three household cats their breakfast. All four animals were nervous, the cats skittery and quick to startle, the old black Lab growling and staring up at the ceiling as if afraid whatever riot had occurred might yet come plunging down into the kitchen.

Sucking on his first cup of caffeine, Clyde fetched the morning paper from the front porch, spreading it out on the table so they could both read it-an act so magnanimous that Joe did a double take. "Why so generous? As you've said in the past, it's your paper, you pay for it."

Clyde glared at him. "You don't need to be sarcastic. This morning scared me. He's a big bruiser, Joe. I hope you can stay away from that cat. Next time, he might not back off so easy."

Joe shrugged, pacing the plaid oilcloth. What a downer, to find that beast prowling the village just before Christmas.

"What do you want for breakfast?" Clyde said diffidently.

"Any salmon left?"

"You ate it all last night. Settle for a cheese omelet?"

Joe yawned.

"With sour cream and kippers?"

Joe thought about that.

Clyde rose and began to make breakfast. "You look terrible. You're all frowns and droopy whiskers."

"You don't look so great yourself with adhesive tape stuck all over."

"Maybe the cat is just passing through," Clyde said. "Anyway, you don't need to be worrying about some mangy alley cat. You should be feeling like the proverbial fat feline, with the church bomber and Rupert Flannery's killer both set to go to trial."

Clyde was being so kind and complimentary that Joe found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Though he had to admit, their work on the church bomber and on the murder in Ryan Flannery's garage had been satisfying. No human cop could have done what they did, could have slipped in through Ryan's narrow bathroom window to spy on a prowler. Or could have trotted into the scene of the crime on the heels of a prime suspect, listened to his phone conversations, and passed on the information to the detective division. With those cases wrapped up, Joe knew he should be feeling as smug as if his whiskers were smeared with caviar.

But he didn't feel smug; he felt edgy.

Turning from the stove, Clyde looked deeply at him. "It's not just that tomcat that's eating you. It's those high-powered burglaries."

Clyde gave him a lopsided grin, shaking his head. "You think Azrael was involved in those thefts? No way, Joe. That wasn't Azrael. No cat, not even a beast of his caliber, with his thieving talents, could have pulled off those robberies."

Joe said nothing. He wasn't so sure. Joe was thinking about Azrael and what the unscrupulous black tomcat might be up to, wondering what had brought him back to Molena Point, and his stomach was full of nervous flip-flops.

Well, but maybe he was just hungry. Maybe he'd feel better when he'd stoked up some fuel, when his killer genes were appeased with a nice helping of fat and cholesterol.

Turning back to the skillet, Clyde said, "If you're going to count worries, what about my missing Packard? That car's worth a bundle; I spent almost a year restoring it. For that matter, if you want to worry, what about Kate? This search for her family is upsetting her big time."

Kate was another of Clyde's good friends whom, at one time, Joe had hoped Clyde would marry. Joe himself had a lot in common with Kate; for one thing, she knew his secret, she knew that he could speak, that he was more than an ordinary cat. And Joe, in turn, knew the equally bizarre secret of Kate's own nature.

Kate had, nearly three years ago, moved from the village up to San Francisco, and there had begun searching for some clue to her parents, whom she had never known. The adoption agency and foster homes had supplied just enough facts to frighten her. Personally, Joe thought she was more than foolish to be prying into a history that was best left alone.

But curiosity was just as much a part of Kate's nature as it was of Joe's own feline spirit.

Skillfully Clyde folded the omelet. "Since she started this search for her history she won't talk to you, she won't talk to me. She's so damn stubborn. When she called last night sounding scared, wouldn't say why she was scared…" He turned to stare at Joe. "She calls, then will hardly talk."