Shirley Murphy - Cat Breaking Free

Wilma Getz's low, stone house stood so close to the hill that it had no backyard, just a narrow walkway before the hill rose steeply up. Wilma had made up for this lack by turning her deep front yard into a lush English garden with rock paths, great tangles of flowers and ferns beneath the sprawling oaks. A rich floral gallery that thrived under Wilma's care.

Both the front and back doors faced the street, the back door at the south end near the garage, the front door near the north end of the low Norman structure. Clyde killed the engine and sat staring at the dark house. "Where is she?" He turned to look at Dulcie. "Out searching for you? And she's just out of the hospital."

"She can go out if she wants," Dulcie said, standing with her paws on the window. "The light's on in the back, in the bedroom-the reflection against the hill. She's tucked up in bed, reading, that's all. She knows I'm all right."

"You damn near weren't all right!" Clyde snapped. He glared at the thin glow of light washing up the hill behind the house brightening the tall grass, and glanced at his watch. "It's only seven."

"She just got out of the hospital," Dulcie hissed. "At sixty-some years old, she can go to bed early and read if she wants."

Clyde opened the driver's door. As he stepped out, the cats leaped out over their own side of the open car and headed for Dulcie's cat door. The air smelled of woodsmoke: a fire would be dancing in the little red stove in Wilma's bedroom. Home! Dulcie thought. Wilma would be reading Bailey White's magical stories. Dulcie, able to think of nothing but snuggling down with her housemate beneath the flowered quilt, bolted away through her plastic door far ahead of Joe.

Before Clyde could ring the doorbell, Dulcie heard Wilma at the front door. She must have swung out of bed the minute she heard his car. Oh, Dulcie thought as she raced across the laundry, she must surely have been worrying. Looking through to the living room, she watched Wilma shut the door behind Clyde, and the two of them head for the kitchen. How lovely to be home, with Wilma all cozy in her red plaid robe, barefoot, her long gray-white hair hanging loose down her back.

In the kitchen, Wilma said not a word to Dulcie or to Joe. She and Clyde exchanged a long look, then stood watching as the cats fought the refrigerator door open. No one helped them.

Wilma had been worried all evening, and was feeling grumpy. She didn't know why she'd been so uneasy, since the cats were often gone for long periods. Somehow, today had been different. Dulcie could at least have called.

That thought made her want to giggle. Though it was perfectly true, the tabby cat could have called and saved her endless worry.

As to opening the refrigerator, already the cats were dragging out Dulcie's plastic dishes from the bottom shelf, which belonged exclusively to her. Hauling the covered bowls onto the kitchen rug, flipping off the lids with practiced claws, they devoted their full attention to the sliced roast chicken, the homemade custard, and cold beef Stroganoff that Wilma had left for them. They heard Wilma ask Clyde if he wanted coffee or a drink, glanced up to see Clyde open the lower cabinet where Wilma kept her meager supply of bourbon and brandy, retrieve the bourbon, and fetch two glasses. But everything tasted so good they could think of little else but their supper. They hardly paid attention until Wilma sat down at the table, saying to Clyde, "You look as angry as I feel. What have they done this time?"

Dulcie and Joe stopped eating and glared up at her.

"I swear you two have taken twenty years off my life," Wilma told them. "The idiot who said that living with a cat lowered your blood pressure didn't have a clue."

Dulcie's tail switched with annoyance. Clyde poured a double bourbon and water for himself and a light one for Wilma. "Tonight," he said, "I guess we shouldn't hassle them." He sat down opposite Wilma. Wilma's eyes filled with uneasy questions.

"So what happened?" she asked tensely. "And where's Kit? Is Kit all right?"

"It was Kit who saved the day," Clyde said. "But…"

"What happened? Lucinda's so worried. It's as if…" She looked down at the two cats. "Lucinda and I have been edgy all evening, for no real reason."

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Clyde waited for them to answer.

"Where's the kit?" Wilma demanded.

Dulcie looked up at her quietly, her green eyes round.

"What?" Wilma said.

"She's all right," Dulcie said around a mouthful of Stroganoff. She leaped into a chair, looking up at Wilma. Wilma put out a hand but didn't touch her; she sat tense and waiting.

Dulcie tried to begin at the beginning but had trouble deciding where the beginning was. She didn't want to tell Wilma all of it. Though Wilma had experienced plenty of danger, herself, before she retired from the federal probation system, when danger threatened Dulcie or any of the three cats, that was another matter. She told Wilma how they found the caged cats, but left out that they had tossed Abuela's house while the crooks slept. Immediately, Wilma saw there were omissions.

"What's the rest of it, Dulcie? You're leaving things out."

Dulcie sighed. It was no good living with an ex-parole officer; Wilma saw everything. She told her housemate about their search, but did not make much of it. Then told how Clyde and Chichi and Kit had gone in through Abuela's window and Clyde had cut the padlock and freed three captive cats. But Wilma sensed another lie of omission, and made her tell the rest, how she and Joe were locked in the cage, too. Then Clyde told how Kit had discovered where they were and brought him to rescue them. When they'd finished, Wilma poured herself another drink, stronger this time.

Sipping her bourbon, Wilma absently bound back her long hair into its usual ponytail and tied it with a piece of string from a kitchen drawer. "And they meant to sell those poor cats? They knew what they were, and meant to sell them! And to sell you!"

"We think it was more than that, too," Dulcie said. "The captives heard the men talking. Luis seemed to think they would tell someone about their robberies, and about some murder."

Wilma swirled the ice in her drink. "Could it be Dufio's murder? Oh, did Luis kill his own brother?"

Joe said, "Maybe Luis was afraid Dallas or Harper would trap Dufio into telling their plans, or into naming the gang members. Dufio wasn't famous for his quick wit." Joe licked up the last of the custard, and leaped into the fourth chair, rubbing his face against the edge of the table, smearing custard. Dulcie gave him a chiding look.

Joe licked his paw and cleaned his whiskers. "Luis and Tommie talked about 'the others.' Men apparently staying in half a dozen places around the village, rented rooms, the cheaper motels. Later, Kit heard it, too. From Chichi and Roman Slayter. Kit says Slayter is part of the gang."

"And Chichi, too." Wilma said. "Doing their surveillance."

Dulcie said, "If Chichi hadn't helped Clyde find us, we'd still be locked up. She didn't have to do that. And she was kind to Abuela." Hunching down in her chair, the little tabby sighed.

"Even if Kit did see Chichi spying, and heard them talking about the burglaries… Chichi did help us."

"Chichi had a close friend in L.A.," Joe said. "Frank something. I guess he was part of the L.A. gang. He was killed during that bank job Harper was talking about." The tomcat scowled. "It's frustrating when all you can do is listen, and can't ask Harper or Dallas what you want to know. Sometimes…"

Clyde set down his drink. "If you two start asking questions! If you…"

Joe smiled. He loved steaming Clyde, he could always get a rise, even when Clyde knew he was only goading him.