Shirley Murphy - Cat to the Dogs

"You want eggs and bacon and toast this morning? Or do you want that cut-rate brand of cat food that you said tastes like secondhand snuff mixed with floor wax?"

Joe subsided. He said nothing more until he had finished his burnt bacon and scrambled eggs. Completing his meal, he sat comfortably on the table, washing his paws and whiskers, cutting only an occasional glance in Clyde's direction. Clyde had not offered any gourmet embellishments this morning, no smoked kippers or a little dab of Beluga caviar or even a slice of Tilsit, to create a memorable dining experience.

Clyde finished his eggs without speaking. You wouldn't think that a little friendly ribbing would make him this mad. But maybe he wasn't feeling well. Joe studied him, looking for some sign of illness.

He saw only a deep, dark fury.

Finished eating, Clyde laid down his fork and gave Joe his full attention. "I really appreciate your alerting Danny McCoy to this choice bit of news." He looked Joe over coldly. "With your thoughtfulness, you have treated the entire population of Molena Point to a long and sadistic laugh at my expense."

"I didn't call Danny McCoy! Hey, I might enjoy the joke, but I wouldn't have given it to a reporter. Don't lay this on me, Clyde. Everyone saw you-and heard you, shouting at those rookies on the street. Shouting at the pups. McCoy heard the story the way he gets all of his information, probably two dozen shopkeepers called the Gazette. Why do you always think I have something to do with your self-inflicted misfortunes! That is so tacky. If you-"

"Of course you had something to do with it. Look at the smart-assed grin on your face. You hardly took time to feel sympathy for those poor Greenlaw men. Talk about cold-hearted. You couldn't wait to paw through the rest of the paper, find McCoy's story. You were grinning wide enough to make the Cheshire cat look like a death-row inmate."

"How could you see if I was grinning. You had your back to me. And wouldn't you smile, if I got arrested accosting a police officer?"

"I was not accosting Officer McFarland. I was rescuing the pups-your pups, if I might remind you- from a cruel incarceration at the dog pound."

"My pups? I was the one who wanted to take those two to the pound. I wanted to let the pound feed them and find homes for them. But not you. Mr. DoGooder. No, you couldn't bear the thought. 'Look at the poor babies, Joe. Look how they're starving. How could you lock them in cages? Oh, just wook at the oootsy wootsy doggies.' And now look at them; you've already spoiled Selig rotten."

"Well, at least I … " Clyde stopped, looked again at the paper. Picked it up, jerking it from under Joe's paws. "What's this?"

"What's what?"

"The Letters-to-the-Editor column. You didn't read it?"

"How could I read it? You've been picking at me all morning. When did I have time to read it?" Leaping to Clyde's shoulder, he balanced heavily, scanning the three columns of letters.

SHOPLIFTING LOSSES TRIPLE IN RECENT WEEKS

What is Captain Harper doing to prevent the sudden increase in crime in our village? Molena Point relies heavily on the tourist trade, on its reputation for a slow, people-friendly, low-crime environment. We don't need shoplifters and petty thieves. The sudden outbreak of such crimes seems to have received no response from Police Captain Harper. Local businesses are losing money, our visitors have been approached by confidence artists, and the police are doing nothing to arrest and detain the lawbreakers.

Joe snorted. "Who wrote this? Some guy who doesn't like Harper. Probably some clown who lives on the wrong side of the law himself. Some cop-hater with an ax to grind." He dropped from Clyde's shoulder to the table and ripped his claws down the letters column. "The Gazette has no right to print such trash. If I paid for this paper, I'd cancel the damn subscription."

And he left the house, stopping to rake the living-room rug, then shouldering out through his cat door.

But, trotting quickly up the sunny street, he forgot the petty letter-writer, and fixed again on the tragedy of last night, on the dark, rainswept hill, on the swinging lights of the police torches.

Who else had been on Hellhag Hill last night, before the cops arrived? Who would want to kill Newlon Greenlaw and hurt Pedric? And Joe Grey wondered, would the little, wild tortoiseshell kit succeed in picking out the attacker?

But even if she did identify the man, still they needed proof. They couldn't drop a killer in Harper's lap without some hard facts, without enough solid physical evidence for Harper to take to the grand jury and for a prosecutor to take to court.

And Joe Grey moved on into the village, turning over in his sly feline mind every possible method he could think of for snaring the murderer.

THE TORTOISESHELL kit stood high up Hellhag Hill, above the cave, atop the pale rocks that flanked it. Joe and Dulcie saw her at once as they came up from the village onto the grassy verge along Highway One. The moment she spied them she lashed her bushy tail as if she had been impatiently waiting. The two cats, watching her, hurried across the empty two-lane highway and started up the hill. After the rain, the tall grass through which they padded was fresh and sweet-scented, alive with insects buzzing and rustling. Over their heads, sparrows and finches zoomed, diving low in the watery sunshine.

"Do you suppose," Dulcie said, slitting her eyes, "do you suppose it was Dirken on the hill last night?"

"Why Dirken?"

"He's the one doing all the digging and tearing the house apart. Whatever he's looking for, did Newlon and Pedric find it? And Dirken went after them? And did he think he'd killed Pedric, did he leave Pedric for dead?"

Pedric was still in the hospital, while Newlon waited in the morgue, duly tagged and examined by forensics. The official word was that he had died from a blow to the head, not from an accidental fall. Fragments of Molena Point's soft, creamy stone, which was used all over the village for fireplaces and garden walls, had been found in Newlon's abraded scalp, deep in the wound. The specific piece of stone that killed him had not been retrieved. The natural outcroppings on Hellhag Hill were granite.

"Interesting, too," Dulcie said, "that Cara Ray buttered up Newlon, then dumped him, and now he's dead."

She paused, glancing at Joe. "Maybe Dirken's looking for a will, to override Shamas's trust and leave the house to him? If he is, he wouldn't want Newlon and Pedric snooping around."

"Not likely there's a will," Joe said, "with the trust. Not in California, not according to Clyde. He says it isn't needed-unless you're disgustingly rich, as Clyde puts it."

"Well, but Shamas could have written one?"

"I suppose. What are you thinking?"

Dulcie flicked her ears. "Could Shamas have been fool enough to write Cara Ray into a will-and stupid enough to tell her?"

Joe smiled. "And to hurry the process along, she slips out on the deck of the Green Lady that night and pushes him in the drink."

"Possible," she said. "Would Cara Ray be strong enough to push a man overboard?"

"So someone helps her; she say's she'll cut him in."

"Newlon," Dulcie said. "Or Sam. Take your pick."

She glanced up to where the kit waited. "She is impatient." The dark kit was fidgeting from paw to paw, her ears back, her yellow eyes gleaming. The cats broke into a gallop, leaping through the grass; they were nearly to the cave when they crouched suddenly, low to the earth.

They felt the vibration first through their paws, like an electrical charge. At the same instant the insects vanished, and all around them flocks of birds exploded straight up into the sky.