Shirley Murphy - Cat to the Dogs

All very efficient.

All displaying a degree of unselfishness that did not seem natural to Shamas Greenlaw.

"And," Dulcie said, "if he was supporting his aunt, why didn't he send the money directly to the nursing home?"

The cats looked at each other, and smiled.

"Nice," Joe said. "Very nice."

"It's only conjecture," she said.

"Yes," he said, pawing through another box. "And here are the receipts. Valencia Home for the Elderly. Greenville, North Carolina." He compared the first few receipts with the letters, and with the ledger. The dates and amounts matched. He looked at Dulcie, his yellow eyes as keenly predatory as if the two cats had a giant rat cornered. "Any bets that no such home exists?"

Dulcie grinned; then stiffened as they heard a car pull away and a trailer door slam.

Then silence.

In the next box was a stack of purchase orders from Bernside Tool and Die Works in Spokane, Washington, to a variety of customers. Payments to this company had been made directly by the purchasers. No name appeared more than once. These payments, too, were entered in Fulman's ledger. Each date coincided, within a few days, with the gifts to Aunt Sarah.

"So," Joe said, "it was Shamas's company, and he was donating his income to Aunt Sarah."

"Sure. Right." Dulcie fished a letter from the stack, a statement and the matching purchase order. Setting these aside, they pawed the rest of the papers back into their boxes. The cats were inside the closet, maneuvering a shoe box back into the cubbyhole, when the trailer was jolted as if someone had burst through the front door. Glancing around the door as a second jolt hit, they saw the dining chairs flying on their casters, banging into the walls. The closet door slammed closed. Something crashed against it. They heard dishes fall and breaking glass.

When the earth was still again, they felt as if all air had been expelled from the trailer, leaving a gigantic vacuum. As Joe fought the doorknob, they heard, from the far end of the park, scattered cries of distress and amazement.

They worked at the door until they were hissing at each other, but couldn't open it. When they heard the front door bang open, they thought it was another quake-then wished it had been a quake.

"Fine," Fulman snarled, stomping in. "Go on back to your suppers. A little jolt never hurt nothing." The door slammed and a light flared through the crack beneath the closet door-and Fulman's papers lay scattered, in plain view, up and down the hall.

"WHAT THE hell!" Fulman shouted. The cats heard him heaving broken glass or china, as if into a metal container. "Damned quake! Damn California quakes. I'll take a North Carolina tornado any day."

Cara Ray giggled, a high, brittle laugh.

Crouched on the closet shelf beneath Fulman's dirty clothes, Joe and Dulcie listened to his heavy step coming down the hall.

"And what the hell's that!"

He stood just outside; they imagined him looking down at the scattered letters and invoices, then they heard him snatching up papers. He stopped once, perhaps reading some particular letter. "Damn it to hell. The quake didn't do this. Someone's been in here."

"Who, lover? What is it? What's happened?"

He was quiet again, shuffling papers. Outside among the trailers the excited voices had quieted, as if those residents alarmed at the quake had taken Fulman's advice and returned to their suppers.

"Don't look like they took nothing," Fulman said. "Maybe the quake scared 'em off. Check the windows, Cara Ray. See if one's open or unlocked. Get a move on." He jerked the closet door open; light from the kitchen blazed in through the rumpled shirts and shorts, beneath which the two cats crouched, as still as two frozen cadavers.

From beneath a fold of laundry, they could see Fulman kneeling below them, pushing papers and boxes back into the hole, his brown hair rumpled, his thin shoulders stringy beneath a thin white T-shirt. Sliding the plywood panel onto its screws, he turned away from the closet but did not close the door. They heard, from the kitchen, a drawer open, and in a moment he returned, carrying a hammer, his thin lips pursed around a mouthful of nails.

Kneeling again, he nailed the panel in place tighter than the surrounding wallboard had ever been secured.

When he had gone, the cats burst forth, panting for fresh air, and peered out where he'd left the door cracked open.

A sickly yellow light burned over the kitchen sink. They could see one of the shoe boxes and the small black ledger on the kitchen table; they watched as he fished a white-plastic grocery bag from a kitchen drawer and shoved the ledger and papers inside.

Dropping the bag on the table beside the empty box, Fulman fetched a bottle of vodka from the cupboard, with two glasses and a can of orange juice.

The cats remained in the closet for the better part of an hour. If the great cat god had been smiling down on them tonight, he'd have provided them with a tape recorder-or an electronic bug hooked directly into Molena Point PD. If ever a murder confession was thrown in their furry faces, this was the moment.

As Fulman mixed the drinks, Cara Ray prowled the trailer. Instead of her little pink skirt, she was wearing form-fitting tights printed with Mickey Mouse, an item she had apparently picked up in some children's department, maybe as a lark, little-girl clothes that looked far more fetching on Cara Ray than on any child they were made for. Above Mickey Mouse, she was snuggled in a huge chenille sweater the color of raspberry ice cream. Her long blond hair hung loose. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, making the tiny blonde look vulnerable and innocent. If she were to appear in court like that, she'd snow any jury.

Sipping her drink, wandering down the narrow hall, she moved into the bedroom, trailing her fingers along the walls and molding, prompting Dulcie to wonder if she had already tossed the cupboards and drawers at some earlier time, and was now pressing for less obvious hiding places. She opened the closet door, her head inches below the cats, stood looking down at the wall where Fulman had nailed up the plywood.

But what was she looking for? Certainly she'd heard from Fulman about the empty canvas bag. But maybe she didn't believe that Lucinda had the money.

Sitting down at the table, Cara Ray's glance scanned the ceiling, as if imagining the dead spaces above the thin plywood.

Fulman's expression was dryly amused. "You won't find any money in here, Cara Ray."

She did not look embarrassed, only startled. She looked back at him evenly.

"What I want to know, Cara Ray, is how did she get into that concrete wall? When that wall cracked, in the quake, well, hell, you saw it. That whole wall-as thick as the wall of a federal pen."

"So how come it cracked?"

"Someone cracked it before the quake." He looked at her intently. "That old woman had to have help."

"Whatever. She has the money now." She paused. "Doesn't she, Sam?" Beneath the table, Cara Ray's fist tightened. "Or maybe it was Torres; maybe he got here before he said."

Fulman shook his head. "I searched his car that morning. He didn't have nothing. And why would the old woman act like she had the money if she didn't?"

"I don't know, Sam. Could Torres've come up from L.A. earlier than I thought? Used a second fake name- been in another motel? Could've been here all along while I was down seeing my 'sister' like I told him? Snooped around that old house, found the money- maybe knew right where to look? Could've gone up into that wall from under the house?"

Cara Ray pushed back her long, pale hair. "So when I called him that morning, said that I had car trouble coming back from my sister's, he'd already got the cash?