Shirley Murphy: Cat to the Dogs

Scaling the back fence, he galloped across the village, dodging tourists and cars, heading for Dulcie and Wilma's house, where he could find some peace and quiet without that zoo, and where Wilma's phone was accessible. If the cops missed that cut line, if they didn't look for it before the wreck was lifted from the canyon and hauled away, the evidence might be lost for good.

Wilma didn't like him and Dulcie meddling in police business any more than Clyde did, but she had better manners. She wouldn't stop him from using the phone.

Trotting past early joggers and a few shopkeepers out watering the flowers that graced their storefront gardens, sniffing the smell of damp greenery and of breakfast cooking in a dozen little cafes, Joe kept thinking of the dead man lying in the wrecked Corvette. A fairly young, apparently well-to-do stranger, and very likely an antique car buff-a man, one would think, who would be closely attuned to the mechanical condition of his vehicle.

Did the guy have some connection in the village, maybe visiting someone? Seemed strange that, just passing through, he would meet his doom at that particular and precarious location.

Whoever cut the brake line had to have known about that double curve. Joe didn't believe in coincidence, any more than did Captain Max Harper.

The question was, who in the village might have wanted this guy dead?

Hurrying beneath the twisted oaks, past shop windows filled with handmade and costly wares or with fresh-baked bread and bottles of local wines, he passed Jolly's Deli and the arresting scent of smoked salmon.

But Joe didn't pause, not for an instant. Galloping on up the street to Wilma's gray stone cottage, he made three leaps across her bright garden and slid in through Dulcie's cat door.

Wilma's blue-and-white kitchen was immaculate. The smell of waffles and bacon lingered. He leaped to the counter, where breakfast dishes stood neatly rinsed in the drain. The coffeepot was empty and unplugged. The house sounded hollow.

Heading for the living room and Wilma's desk, he was glad he'd left Dulcie occupied with the pups. She hadn't been in the best of moods lately-though the pups had evidently cheered her. He didn't like to admit that something might be wrong between them, had been wrong for weeks, ever since the earthquake. Ever since that three A.M. jolt when he raced down the street to see if Dulcie was all right, only to meet her pelting toward him wild with worry for him, then wild with joy that he was unhurt. After the quake and the ensuing confusion when people wandered the streets sniffing the air for gas leaks, he and Dulcie had clung together purring, taking absolute comfort in each other; he telling her how he'd heard the bookshelves fall in the spare bedroom as he felt the house rock; she telling him how Wilma had leaped out of bed only to be knocked down like a rag toy. It hadn't been a giant quake-not the Big One-a few shingles fallen, a few windows broken, one or two gas lines burst, people frightened. But at the first tremble, Joe had run out- Rube barking and barking behind him and Clyde shouting for him to come back-had sped away frantic to find Dulcie.

But then a few days later, a kind of crossness took hold of Dulcie, a private, sour mood. She wouldn't tell him what was wrong. She left him out, went off alone, silent and glum. All the cliches he'd ever heard assailed him: familiarity breeds contempt; as sour as old marrieds. He didn't know what was wrong with her. He didn't know what he'd done. When he tried to talk to her, she cut him short.

But that morning, distracted by the idiot puppies, she'd smiled and waved her tail and purred extravagantly.

Mark one down for the two bone bags. Maybe they were of some use.

Now, settling on Wilma's clean blotter atop the polished cherry desk, he could smell the lingering aroma of coffee where, evidently, Wilma had sat this morning, perhaps to pay bills. A neat stack of bill stubs lay beneath the small jade carving of a cat. He could imagine Wilma coming to her desk very early, catching up on her household chores. Beyond the open shutters, the neighborhood street was empty, the gardens bright with flowers; he could never remember the names of flowers as Dulcie did. Sliding the receiver off, he punched in the number for the police.

He got through the dispatcher to Lieutenant Brennan, but Captain Harper was out. He didn't like passing on this kind of information to another officer- not that Harper's men weren't reliable. It simply made Joe uncomfortable to talk with anyone but Harper.

Besides, he enjoyed hearing Harper's irritable hesitation when he recognized the voice of this one particular snitch. He enjoyed imagining the tall, leathered, tough-looking captain at the other end of the line squirming with nerves.

Max Harper reacted the same way to Dulcie's occasional phone tips. The minute he heard either of them he got as cross as a fox with thorns in its paw.

"Captain Harper won't be back until this afternoon," Lieutenant Brennan said.

"That wreck in Hellhag Canyon," Joe said reluctantly. "I'm sure the officers found that the brake line was cut. Sliced halfway through in a sharp, even line."

Brennan did not reply. Joe could hear him chewing on something. He heard papers rattle. He hoped Brennan was paying attention-Brennan had been one of the officers at the scene. Maybe they hadn't found the cut brake line, maybe that was why he was uncommunicative.

"There was a billfold, too," Joe told him. "In the dead driver's hip pocket. Leather. A bulging leather wallet. Did you find that? An old wallet, misshapen from so much stuff crammed in, the leather dark, sort of oily. Stained. A large splinter of broken glass was pressing against it."

He repeated the information but refused to give Brennan his name. He hung up before Brennan could trace the call; a trace took three or four minutes. He didn't dare involve Wilma's phone in this. She and Harper were friends. Joe wasn't going to throw suspicion on her-and thus, by inference, cast it back on himself and Dulcie.

Pawing the phone into its cradle and pushing out again through Dulcie's plastic door, he headed toward the hills, trotting up through cottage gardens and across the little park that covered the Highway One tunnel. Gaining the high, grassy slopes, he sat in the warm wind, feeling lonely without Dulcie.

She was so busy these days, spying uselessly on Lucinda Greenlaw. Maybe that was all that was wrong with her, watching Lucinda too much, feeling sad for the old woman; maybe it was her preoccupation with the Greenlaw family that had turned her so moody.

All day Joe hunted alone, puzzling over Dulcie. At dusk he hurried home, thinking he would find Dulcie there because Clyde had invited Wilma to dinner, along with Charlie, and Max Harper.

He saw Wilma's car parked in front of the cottage, but couldn't detect Dulcie's scent. Not around the car, or on the front porch, or on his cat door. Heading through the house for the kitchen, he sniffed deeply the aroma of clam sauce and twitched his nose at the sharp hint of white wine. Pushing into the kitchen, he looked around for Dulcie.

Clyde and Charlie stood at the stove stirring the clam sauce and tasting it. Charlie's red hair was tied back with a blue scarf rather than the usual rubber band or piece of cord. Her oversized, blue batik shirt was tucked into tight blue jeans. She had on sleek new sandals, not her old, worn jogging shoes.

Wilma was tossing the salad, her long white hair, tied back with a turquoise clip, bright in the overhead lights. The table was set for four. Two more places, with small plates and no silverware, were arranged on the counter beside the sink, on a yellow place mat. That would be Charlie's doing; Clyde never served so fancy. The sounds of bubbling pasta competed with an Ella Fitzgerald record, both happy noises overridden by the loud and insistent scratching of what sounded like a troop of attack dogs assaulting the closed doggy door.