Shirley Murphy - Cat Pay the Devil

Dropping the brush where Garza couldn’t miss it, he fled again, unseen through the bushes and, behind Garza’s back, up a pepper tree.

He watched Garza pause before the gate, looking down at the paintbrush. Frowning, Dallas took a tissue from his pocket and carefully picked it up. Then he scanned the yard all around, looking up and down the street. At last he crossed the dog yard, unlocked the garage door, and disappeared inside. Joe’s nerves were doing flip-flops.

He knew he should get out of there, but he was unwilling to miss the crucial moment. Skinning over the fence, he crouched beside the doggy door and, lifting a paw, cautiously pushed the flap in a quarter inch and peered through.

Dallas had placed the paintbrush in an evidence bag, which he still held. He stood looking carefully around, then knelt to examine the lower shelf of the workbench and the gallon cans of paint, much as Joe had done. He ran a finger around the lip of the can that had been opened, then held the paintbrush to the can.

Apparently, from the look on the detective’s face, the paint matched. Dropping it back in the evidence bag, he circled the garage studying the walls and rafters-and sniffing the air as intently as had Joe himself, and that made the tomcat smile.

It didn’t take the detective long to find the source of the scent, to locate the patched and repainted portion of the oversize baseboard. Running a finger lightly over the floor, he examined a tiny spill of white dust on the concrete that Joe himself had missed. When Dallas rose quickly to leave, Joe backed out into the dog yard, squeezing beneath a dog-scented bush as Dallas raced past him-after this caper, he was going to stink of dog pee.

He heard the car door open and slam and thought Dallas would take off, but almost at once the detective was back, carrying a camera. The minute he was inside the garage again, Joe peered in, watching as he photographed the repaired wall and the white dust on the floor. He watched as Dallas, wearing thin gloves and using a penknife, carefully lifted the minute particles of dust and dropped them in a small plastic sandwich bag, which he sealed in an evidence bag. Then with his knife, Dallas pried away a six-by-six-inch section of drywall board. It came out easily, the new caulking sticking to the edges. Shining the light into the end of the small utility tunnel, presumably picking out cable and electrical and phone wires, Dallas smiled.

Again he photographed, this time directly into the hole. Half a dozen shots, then he reached in, nearly to the elbow. He drew out two leather gloves, handling them by the corners of the cuffs, and dropped each into an evidence bag. He retrieved a small, folding hatchet of the kind that a hiker might take camping.

With the hatchet secured in an evidence bag, he examined the hole again and, finding nothing more, he rose. He bagged the paint can and, with a last look around, he headed for the door. This time Joe was quicker. As Dallas locked the door behind him, Joe Grey was on the roof above him. But when Joe glanced up the street, he saw the nosy kid poking around in the spilled garbage.

Below him, Dallas was heading for his car when he paused in the Milner drive, looking back up the street, watching as the boy happily rummaged.

Frowning, the detective headed there. Joe remained frozen as Dallas found a stick and began to rummage, too. The kid stared at him. “What you think you’re doing?” When Dallas opened his coat and thrust his badge at him, the kid took off for home. Methodically, Dallas sorted through garbage. After maybe ten minutes, he reached deeper in with the stick and eased out a small, crumpled tube.

Studying the tube and then bagging it, Dallas looked again at the garbage, then looked up and down the street as if wondering how this particular can had gotten tipped over, when all the rest stood undisturbed. Watching him, Joe could only pray that that little kid was royally scared of cops, too intimidated to venture forth with some story about stray tomcats.

You say a word about cats , kid , I’ll skin you. You think those blackberry stickers hurt! You haven’t a clue, what a tomcat’s claws can do.

Well, Dallas had hard evidence now. The gloves and hatchet, the paint can and tube and portion of drywall would go to the lab. Considering that Peggy’s husband had had access to the garage, Dallas would surely bring him in on suspicion, maybe would have enough to hold him. In the meantime, there was other unfinished business-the arraignment hearings in the other two murders; Greeley’s unexplained search, and learning what was missing from Cage Jones’s house-what Cage had stolen, and lost. If Joe was right, that theft had been, indeed, an audacious piece of work on Cage’s part. And, with a wry smile and a flick of his ears, Joe Grey left the scene of the Milner murder, his hunting instincts keening for action.

W ilma and Charlie worked all morning in the gath ering heat, straightening up Wilma’s trashed cottage; at noon, Charlie’s cleaning-and-repair van pulled up, and Mavity and two other members of Charlie’s team emerged carrying their cleaning equipment, ready to give the house a good polishing.

“I’m sure glad you went into this business,” Wilma said, hugging her niece. “I would never have sprung for having someone come in to clean, I’d be doing it all. But it’s so hot-should we take Mavity to lunch with us? She’s already done half a day’s work on their first appointment.”

Charlie considered, and shook her head. “Let her work, she wants to make the house nice again for you. We’ll bring back dessert for all of us, that will be a treat.” She stepped into the kitchen as little, gray-haired Mavity Flowers, in her ubiquitous and oft-washed white uniform, came in through the back door, loaded down with brooms, mops, and buckets; her two tall, younger crew members entered close behind her carrying bins of cleaners and polishes; both were strong young women dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Mavity hugged Wilma, then looked at her, frowning. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Wilma said. “We’re both just fine, now. They can’t put down the Getz women. We’re just going to run out for a bit of lunch, Mavity. If you’ll put on a pot of coffee, we’ll bring back some desserts. Crème brulée?” she said. “Key lime pie?”

Mavity grinned. “You know I love them both.” She put down her equipment, hugged Wilma again, then turned to get to work.

Stepping into Charlie’s SUV, Wilma carrying her dry cleaning to drop off, they headed toward the shore. “It’s Monday,” Wilma said, “the Bakery will have flan.”

Charlie glanced at her, laughing.

“I can’t get filled up. I know it’s all in my mind. I only missed lunch-and dinner by a few hours. You’d think…”

“Stress,” Charlie said. “I feel the same. I ate three bowls of chili last night, pancakes and bacon and eggs this morning. Panic hunger, or some fancier name. I only know I want one of the Bakery’s famous crab sandwiches.”

“I could eat two, and dessert.”

Moving up the steps of the old gray dwelling that now housed the Bakery, Charlie asked for a table on the wide, covered porch where they could cool off in the sea breeze and watch the surf a block away. Ordering iced tea, they settled back, looking at each other like two wanderers who had been lost, and had only just found each other again. It took a little while to ease back into the normal world. There was a strong family resemblance, two tall, slim women, one gray haired, one redheaded; the same lean features and steady eyes.

This morning while they’d cleaned, they had avoided talking about their ordeal. Now Wilma said, “You’re doing all right? About the shooting?”