Shirley Murphy - Cat Pay the Devil

The door opened, spilling light from the kitchen, and Ryan stepped out, the smell of simmering chili filling the night. Dallas came out behind her and crossed the yard to help with the horses. That, too, was a rare treat, that Dallas would rub the horses down, give them a flake of hay and extra grain, see that they, too, were comfortable. Handing her reins to Dallas, she slid gratefully from the saddle, made her way tiredly across the yard beside Max, and went into their bright house. They were home, safe and together.

In the upstairs master suite of Clyde Damen’s house, all the windows were open, the predawn breeze blowing through smelling of the sea, cooling the bedroom and study. Beneath the high rafters, in the king-size bed, Clyde slept sprawled across the sheets, clad only in Jockey shorts, snoring. The gray tomcat slept close against Clyde’s shoulder, on his back, his four paws in the air, much as he had slept when he was a kitten. He snored, twitching in his sleep. He woke at dawn still half worn out from dreaming, irritable and hungry. He nudged Clyde, his cold, insistent nose jerking Clyde from sleep. Clyde rolled over, glaring. Then, turning, he stared incredulously at the bedside clock.

“It’s five o’clock. Five A.M.! Do you realize-”

“It’s Monday. You going to work?”

“Six,” Clyde said, rolling over. “You know what time the alarm rings. Go back to sleep. If you can’t sleep, go up on the roof. Wake up the neighbors. Leave me alone.”

“I’m hungry. Weak with hunger.”

“You are not weak with hunger. You ate half my steak last night and nearly an entire order of fries. I’m surprised you didn’t throw it all up in the middle of the bed. If you-”

“Weak,” Joe repeated. “The excitement…” He looked hard at Clyde. “Stress. That kind of thing is really stressful for a cat, all that shooting. Stress can kill a cat. I feel-”

“You are not going to die of stress. Or of starvation. You might die of strangulation if you don’t shut up. Your problem is, you’re turning into a first-class pig. If you think you’re hungry, go get some kibble. Paw open the cupboard, you’ve done it enough times. And use a little consideration, don’t spill kibble all over the floor.”

Joe didn’t want kibble. He wanted something hot and freshly cooked. He wanted comfort food, something to warm his little cat heart and soothe his frayed nerves. He wanted restorative fat and cholesterol, a real tomcat breakfast, the kind only Clyde could make. Letting himself go limp on the pillow, paws drooping, he looked up at Clyde pitifully.

For an instant Clyde’s dark eyes widened in a flash of concern, but then he caught himself. Glaring, he turned over and pulled the pillow over his head. Joe sighed. Some woman could give Clyde an equally pitiful look and he’d fall all over himself, but when a poor little cat tried it, nothing. Joe lay, sighing his last, until he almost believed that he was fainting away-and finally his perseverance did the trick; Clyde sat up scowling at the clock, glared at Joe, muttered something unnecessarily rude, and swung out of bed. “Who can sleep after that performance? What do you want for breakfast!”

Joe considered several menu options while Clyde retreated to the master bath and turned on the shower. “Damn cat! Damn rotten spoiled tomcat!”

Grinning, Joe padded down the stairs, slipped out through his cat door, and stood looking up and down the street. When he saw no neighbors about, and no one looking out a window, he took the morning paper in his teeth and hauled it through his cat door. Dragged it through to the kitchen and with some difficulty wrestled it up onto the kitchen table. The paper was getting heavier every day. If they didn’t solicit all that unnecessary advertising to bulk it up…Unfolding it as he waited for Clyde, he scanned the front page.

There was nothing about Wilma’s or Charlie’s kidnapping, or about the arrest of Cage Jones. Max and Dallas had been adept, indeed, at keeping things quiet. There were still a lot of loose ends in this case, and it didn’t need to go public yet.

The front page covered the third break-in murder, though, recapping how Peggy Milner had been killed in her kitchen. How a neighbor had seen her in there, but when she went to Peggy’s door, and knocked and called out to her and Peggy didn’t answer, the neighbor had called 911. Peggy had been fixing a late supper for one, as her husband was working late. She had been stabbed. The neighbor said the sight sickened her. There were, so far, no other witnesses. The article followed up with recaps of the Linda Tucker and Elaine Keating killings, pointing out similarities between the three incidents. The byline on the article said “Jim Barker.”

Barker was a tall, neatly groomed, sensible guy with three little girls and a keen sympathy for the problems the police faced when information was aired too soon. He covered the police blotter with common sense and real interest, not with a chip on his shoulder like some egocentric newsmen. Joe remembered some very snide articles by other reporters questioning the conduct of Max’s officers, and, more than once, claiming it would be foolish to spend city money on drug dogs and working police dogs, for whom Joe had the highest respect.

He wondered sometimes if Molena Point would ever get a police dog. That would be a fine addition to the force-except that a canine officer could sure destroy Joe’s rapport with the law, could mess up his investigations and totally destroy his clandestine surveillance. A trained evidence dog would pick up the faintest cat scent at a crime scene, and might single him or Dulcie or Kit out as having been there, might come down really hard on them. And a dog would know the minute a cat entered the PD, would know where they were, under which desk, behind which chair. No, dogs would be a problem in Harper’s department. Anywhere else, they’d be an asset.

Clyde came down the stairs and turned on the coffeepot. “And what is your royal highness’s pleasure this morning?” Rudely, he picked Joe up from atop the front page. “Do you have to hog the entire paper?” Setting Joe on his own side of the table, Clyde laid out a place mat and silverware for himself. “Omelet? What do you want in it? Ham? Bacon? Mushrooms? Cheese?”

“That would be fine.”

“That what would be fine?”

“What you just said. You can hold the mushrooms if you want, if you’re really-”

Clyde sighed and jerked open the refrigerator.

“That door gasket isn’t going to last another six months if you-”

“Can it, Joe. I haven’t had a lot of sleep.”

Joe yawned in Clyde’s face to demonstrate that he had missed just as much sleep.

“You slept all the way home,” Clyde said, cracking eggs into a bowl.

“I merely had my eyes closed. I was thinking.” The tomcat returned to the front page, perusing the article that pointed out the similarities among the three murders. It left out only those sensitive facts that Harper would not have wanted published, such as the identification of fingerprints and the list of suspects-of which, Joe knew, there were few. Jim Barker said that at this point the police were looking at no single burglary suspect who might be involved in all three cases. The paper went on to say, in a sidebar, that the Molena Point police kept a current list of the names and addresses of all calls for domestic disturbance or abuse.

An accompanying human-interest article at the bottom of the page dealt with the plight of abused women. It quoted a psychologist’s assessment of the fears of such women, and their reluctance to make a fresh start. It suggested steps they might take to separate themselves from their abusers if they chose to do so, including agency, shelter, and private foundation names and phone numbers. Jim Barker had done an admirable job for Max in helping to alert other women before it was too late. He had, at the same time, as was surely Harper’s intent, alerted other possible wife killers that the department was aware of their brutal tendencies.