Shirley Murphy - Cat Pay the Devil

Dulcie’s creamy stone cottage shone out of the darkness, and there were lights at the windows. The tabby ran so fast she hardly hit the shingles, and twice she tripped over her own paws. But, then, warily they stopped on the roof of the next-door house, looking.

There were only two police units, now, at the curb. And two officers stringing yellow tape around the edge of the garden. As if this is a murder scene, Dulcie thought sickly. As she approached the house, she began to shiver.

But of course Harper would want to mark the premises off limits, to preserve any possible evidence they might have missed. Taking heart, she leaped from the neighbors’ roof into the oak tree by Wilma’s living room window.

Just beyond the open window, Max Harper sat at Wilma’s desk, busy with paperwork. Dulcie drew nearer along the branch, and could see that he was filling out a report. Both cats tried to read it upside down. Behind them a car pulled to the curb and Dallas stepped out, alone; perhaps he had swung by the station to drop off his officer. He hurried in through the open front door. The whole house seemed to be open, though the heat that had collected within would take half the night to dissipate; the walls would stay hot long after the late breeze had cooled the rooms. Dallas drew up a chair beside the desk, glancing inquiringly at Max.

Max shook his head. “Nothing. You?”

“No sign of Wilma, and Lilly doesn’t seem to know anything. One or two details were strange; I’ll fill you in later. Anything on the Tucker and Keating murders?”

“Reports just came in,” Max said. “Linda Tucker case, the only sets of prints besides the Tuckers’ belonged to the cleaning lady and to a plumber who was in the house three days before.

“The Keating case, Elaine’s husband had a poker game last week. All we got were the Keatings’ prints, and those of five poker players. We’ll need a day or two to get that bunch in for questioning.”

Harper didn’t seem terribly interested in those possible suspects, and the chief’s indifference shocked Dulcie. “What’s he thinking? Is he off on some other track?”

But Kit’s yellow eyes had widened with dismay. “Does he think…” She looked at Dulcie and shivered. “Does he think the husbands did it? Oh, that would be too bad.”

Dulcie watched Kit with interest. The young tortoiseshell cat, after helping gather information on so many cases, and hearing about other murders from Joe and Dulcie, should be inured to such matters-but she was not hardened to the thought of a husband killing his wife, and Dulcie understood. The fact that these men might have murdered the partners they had vowed to love and cherish, seemed to hurt something deep and tender in the young tortoiseshell. Kit had never, as a kitten, known a loving and nurturing family; did not remember her mother or her littermates. A close and loving family seemed to Kit rare and wonderful; she looked on family as having a sacred bond of love and decency, and the thought of murder within that family bond hurt her deeply. Dulcie looked at Kit, hunched miserably on the branch, and she licked Kit’s ear, trying to soothe her; but suddenly both cats startled to attention as Max, pushing back his chair, stood up from the desk.

He shoved his papers in a folder and looked at Dallas. “I’ll stop by the Greenlaws, see if they’ve heard from Wilma, if they have anything that could help.” The lean lines of his face fell into a deeper dismay. “They have to be told she’s missing; I don’t want them hearing it on the news if some reporter picks it up. Will you call Ryan again? I’ll keep trying Charlie. Those two…They get off with the horses, they never turn on their phones, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

“I’ll keep trying,” Dallas said. “Or I’ll take a run up there.”

Max nodded. “Maybe by the time we get hold of them, we’ll have better news.”

Dulcie and Kit watched Harper head up the walk to his squad car; as he pulled away they were already racing across the roofs, heading for Kit’s house. Kit wanted to be there with Lucinda and Pedric, to be close to comfort them when Max told them that Wilma was missing. She wanted to be there for them just as, when she was little and lost and frightened, Lucinda and Pedric had comforted her, had held her close, petting her; had snuggled her in their soft bed and given her nice things to eat. Now her humans would need comforting, would need what Pedric called “a wee bit of moral support.”

Though Kit couldn’t bring them good things to eat-unless Lucinda and Pedric had developed a taste for fresh mouse.

T hat soft tapping wasn’t caused by the wind; Wilma listened to the sounds above her hoping it was a squirrel in the attic, or a raccoon, or maybe a crow on the roof, pecking at the shingles. But she knew better. Those were human footsteps, walking softly across the second floor of what she had thought was a one-story shack. Her fear of whoever was there and might come down while she was tied up and helpless sent panic through her that was hard to control, filled her with a shock of terror that dwarfed the fear she’d felt when she’d glimpsed, out the window, that dark, small shape careen away. Though surely that had been only a squirrel or a cat, nothing big enough to threaten her. She wished it had been Dulcie, or Joe, or Kit.

But no one knew where she was. In the moving car, she had left no scent trail, nothing for a cat to follow. Even those three clever feline friends had no way to find her.

Cage had told her he’d searched her house, and that filled her with terror for Dulcie; thinking he might have hurt Dulcie.

But Dulcie wouldn’t have gone near him, wouldn’t have let him approach her, if she had come home and found him there. And he’d have driven away, leaving no trail for a cat to follow.

Driven away in her car, or in the other one? For a moment, she banked all hope on the quick reactions of one small cat, praying Dulcie had seen the car, that she had reported her car stolen or seen the license number of the other car and called the station.

But that was too bizarre, a far too timely solution to a messy situation. Too much wishful thinking. Still, if Dulcie had made the car, there were police patrols all over the village, and the station was just blocks away. One of Harper’s units might have been able to find and follow Cage.

Awash in panic because, very likely, no one knew where she was, and no one was going to know, she ceased her awkward search for a knife and uselessly fought her bonds again, jerking and struggling as she listened to the footsteps overhead, soft shoes or slippers padding around on a hard floor. She looked for a place to hide, certain that every time she moved the chair, whoever was there would hear the awkward thumping.

The windows were growing dark; when night fell, the woods and yard and inside the cabin would be black as sin; there would be no moonlight to seep in among the masses of tall, dense pines. If whoever was there came downstairs in the pitch-black dark, when she couldn’t see them…

Bending awkwardly to fight open the lowest drawer behind her, conscious of every small scrape and thump as she tilted and rummaged trying not to lose her balance, she searched with increased panic for a weapon to free herself.

Indeed, in the low attic room above Wilma someone heard her struggles and visualized what she might be doing down there, someone who moved softly about the dim room, someone filled with questions, with fear, and perhaps with a cold, hidden rage.

And from outside the house, others, too, watched Wilma, observing her through the window as she fought for her freedom: Three small, wild beings looked down from the stickery branches of a pine tree and in through the dusty window, watching the captive woman struggle.