Shirley Murphy: Cat Pay the Devil

It seemed a cut-and-dried case of break-and-enter; perhaps when Linda woke up she had made some move that caused the thief to think she was reaching for a gun, perhaps she had slipped her hand under the pillow or toward a drawer, and in panic he had shot her.

And yet, the murder bothered Joe Grey. As, he thought, it seemed to bother Detective Garza and Captain Harper. Now, sixteen hours after the killing, the tomcat paced the shingled roof, his mind totally on the dead woman.

“Something isn’t right,” he muttered, turning a narrow yellow gaze on Dulcie. “Garza missed something at the scene, and we missed it, too.”

Dulcie knew Joe hated to muff a case, but it was all she could do to pay attention, her own mind on Mandell’s brutal shooting and worry over Wilma. Joe looked at her intently.

“Why would a real estate agent go to a training conference?”

“I don’t know, Joe! To learn something new. Or maybe to train others. How would I know? I just saw the afternoon paper, and-”

“Garza’s report said Tucker was certain nothing else had been taken. Very certain. Garza watched Tucker go through the house, through all the junk dumped out of the dressers and her jewelry box and the desk. He-”

“Joe, I-”

Joe’s short gray fur gleamed like silver in the falling light of evening. “Garza said Tucker was very certain nothing else was taken, and that’s what bothers me-just like it bothers Garza. No hesitation, just a steady reassurance that nothing else was missing.”

He looked intently at Dulcie, his yellow eyes blazing. “Is that normal human behavior? How many people can tell right away that nothing is missing, no little bauble, a forgotten necklace-his wife shot to death and the house a mess, he should have been all at loose ends, confused and uncertain, unsure of anything.” He was so wound up that Dulcie gave up trying to tell him that Mandell had been shot.

“After the death of a loved one,” Joe said, “most folks are totally befuddled, all rage and grief, and their senses go bonkers. Their perceptions are all unhinged, they can’t remember anything clearly. But not Clarence Tucker,” the tomcat said, hissing. “He seems to have a total grip on reality.”

“He’s a real estate agent,” Dulcie said softly. “And a very deliberate kind of man. Precise. I’ve watched him, in restaurants. Hardly ever looks at a menu. Knows what they have and exactly what he wants.”

Molena Point’s patio restaurants welcomed well-behaved village cats just as they welcomed leashed dogs; and it was amazing how much information a cat could pick up along with the bits of lobster and steak that might be proffered by cat-friendly diners. “Such a man might act logical and have his wits about him, Joe, but still be hurting bad inside.”

Joe just looked at her. He wasn’t buying that. “Garza’s report…Garza thought there was something off about Tucker.” The tomcat reared up, staring away over the rooftops in the direction of Molena Point PD. “Maybe something more has come in, a fax or an e-mail. Maybe Dallas has something more. Come on, Kit, get a move on.” He looked hard at Dulcie. “You coming?”

Dulcie turned her back on him. “You go,” she said shortly.

“Wilma’s fine!” he said, frowning so hard the white strip down his forehead was a narrow line. “She’ll be home soon, tired, will probably stop at Jolly’s Deli to pick up supper for the two of you. Come on, we’ll only be a few minutes.”

Dulcie sighed. She wanted badly to tell him about Mandell; she longed for Joe’s help, but he was too preoccupied. And the fact was, how could a cat stop Cage Jones? If Jones was set on…“Oh!” she said suddenly. “Oh! The sheriff’s office!” And she fled for home, chagrined that she hadn’t thought, sooner, of the Santa Clara County sheriff.

Watching her race away, Joe shook his head. Cage Jones, if he had a lick of sense, would be miles from the Bay Area by now, probably on a plane, under an assumed name. Why would he hang around where every cop in the state was looking for him? And dismissing the escaped prisoner, his mind fixed on the Tucker murder, Joe headed for Molena Point PD and its electronic world of fast information. He assumed Kit was behind him-but Kit followed neither Joe Grey nor Dulcie.

No one seemed to care where she went. Looking from one fleeing cat to the other, both deep in their own concerns, she felt hurt and abandoned-and disappointed in Joe. She knew Joe’s mind was on the murder-burglary, but Dulcie was so upset, and Joe Grey didn’t see the dark tabby’s distress-or did he just not care? Frightened and unsettled, her heart filled with Dulcie’s fear for Wilma and with Joe Grey’s disregard, Kit leaped after Dulcie, racing to catch up, her mottled paws flying over the shingles, her yellow eyes huge and anxious.

T he old man had been home in the village two weeks, staying with his sister-home in the sense that it was where he grew up, not where he chose to live. Mavity didn’t welcome him real warm, but that didn’t bother him none. It was where he needed to be at the moment, and a sight cheaper than these rip-off California motels. And he had to say, the food was tasty. Those four women sure could cook. They refused to do his laundry, though, and that ticked him off big-time.

In Panama he’d had a black woman to do his laundry and make his meals. Everyone down there had a maid. Several if you were rich. All these years he’d had a woman come in to shop and clean, wash and iron and cook supper. There was plenty of cheap labor, black people descended from the Barbadian families that’d been brought in to build the canal during the early years of the last century.

The last century. Christ that made him feel old. Ever since he’d hit Central America as a young man-and that was some years back, he had to say-ever since he was twenty and stepped off that ship in Cristobal the first time, there’d been blacks in the streets, blacks cutting the lush green lawns, cleaning the houses, driving the cabs while talking to you over the back of the seat in Barbadian accents that he’d had trouble understanding back then. Barbadian descendants picking bananas in the interior, too, working alongside lighter-skinned Panamanians.

That Creole woman who lived here with Mavity, though, she was something else. Nothing servantlike about her. Good-looking woman, even if she didn’t seem to have much use for him. None of the four women did. Well, hell, it was free rent, and he wouldn’t be there long.

Just long enough to figure out where Cage’d hid his half of the stash. And figure out why Cage’d been so closemouthed with him all the way back from L.A. to San Francisco. Then silent and sour when Cage took him to the fence in the city, not easy like they used to be. Too long ago, maybe, when they ran together. Or maybe prison’d changed him.

Well, Cage’d got him to a fence, like he’d promised, and he’d got a fair price. Could have waited, but who knew how long till the market went higher, right along with inflation?

The day was nice and hot, and he’d walked down into the village to look at cars, that high-class Beckwith dealership. He thought he better be careful about paying cash in there, though. That friend of Wilma Getz, the one who owned that gray tomcat with the smart mouth, he had the mechanic’s shop there. Didn’t need to be flinging cash around in front of no friend of Wilma Getz, it’d get back to her. Get straight to Mavity, too, the two of them thick as thieves. And all of them thick with the cops. Well, the hell with it. He’d set up a loan, then next month, pay it off. The dealer wouldn’t check on that, and he hated paying interest.

He was just crossing Fourth, looking for a place to have a cup of coffee, when he stopped, staring up at the roofs across the street, and then he stepped back quick, into the shadows of a doorway.