Shirley Murphy: Cat Raise the Dead

Looking out through the dark glass, she saw the cat rise suddenly. He flashed her one intent look his stare so insolent that all of Wenona's lurid stories came back to her. She was, for an instant, almost crippled with fear.

He looked, then moved away into the blackness beneath a neighboring porch, only his white parts still showing, like bits of discarded white paper.

Why was he so persistent? Why did he care about her? Why would a cat-any kind of cat-care what she stole?

So far, the cat seemed the only living presence that had guessed her scam. The Molena Point Gazette didn't have a clue; its little reports of local burglaries hadn't printed one word about a woman looking for her lost cat. And, as far as she could tell, the Molena Point cops were equally ignorant. They seemed to have made no connection with her successes up and down the coast- Santa Barbara, San Jose, Ojai, San Luis Obispo, Ventura. Of course the minute the papers blabbed her cat scam she had moved on, checked into a new town, and the furor in the old town quickly died, at least in the press.

She tried to hit each town quickly, work it for just a few weeks, then get out again. Montecito had given her some really nice hauls. She'd chosen its smallest cottages among the extravagant mansions and had made some rare finds. She was amused at herself that she'd saved all her newspaper clippings, like some two-bit actress saving stage reviews-some of them were a real hoot.

But those towns down the coast had been practice runs. Molena Point was the real gem. This village had never been properly worked, and she was enjoying every minute. Or she had been, until the cat showed up.

As she fingered the heavy gold jewelry and stroked the nice fat roll of bills inside her coat, outdoors the gray cat rose again and came out from beneath the porch. And now he didn't so much as glance at her. He turned away, trotted away purposefully up the side street as if she didn't exist, moved off toward the front of the house, prancing insolently up the center of the sidewalk under the streetlight, his stub tail wiggling back and forth, his tomcat balls making him walk slightly straddle-legged. And he was gone, not a glance backward.

She had no notion what had taken him away so suddenly. She did not feel relieved, only apprehensive. When he didn't appear again she let herself out, slipping open the laundry-room door. Listening to the smallest boy's giggles from the kitchen, she engaged the push-button lock, quietly shut the door behind her, and headed up the street for her car.

But approaching her own car in the black night where she'd parked it beneath a maple tree, the Toyota's pale, hulking shape seemed suddenly possessed, as if the cat watched from beneath it. She could not approach. Fear of the unnatural cat gripped her. She turned away from her own car and headed downhill toward the village-a coward's response.

She'd have to get rid of the Toyota. She couldn't bear that the cat knew this car. Burdened by her heavy coat, she stumped along down toward Ocean Avenue, telling herself she wasn't fleeing from the cat, that she was going down to Binnie's Italian for a nice hot supper and a beer, for a plate of Binnie's good spaghetti, told herself that once she was fortified with spaghetti and a couple of beers she'd enjoy the little climb back up the hill to her waiting car, never mind that the coat weighed a ton. Making her way down toward the village, she fought the urge to look behind her, certain that if she looked, the cat would be there on the dark sidewalk, following her, his white paws and white markings moving like disjointed parts of a puzzle, his yellow eyes intent on her, a beast impossible to believe in-and impossible to escape.

Early-morning sun slanted into the Damen backyard, illuminating the ragged lawn, picking out each bare patch of earth where busy canine paws had been digging. Sunlight sharply defined the ragged weeds pushing up among straggling rosebushes along the back fence. Warm sunshine washed across the chaise lounge, where the tomcat lay scowling with anger. Having been rudely awakened from a deep and happy dream, he stared irritably at his human housemate.

Clyde Damen had only recently awakened himself, had brought his first cup of coffee out to sip while sitting on the back steps. He was unwashed, his dark hair resembling an untidy squirrel's nest, his cheeks black with stubble. He wore ancient, frayed jogging shorts above hairy legs, and a ragged, washed-out T-shirt. In the cat's opinion, he looked like he'd slept in a Dumpster. Joe Grey observed him with disgust. "You want to run that by again?" The cat's look was incredulous. "You woke me up to tell me what? You want me to do what?" Clyde glared at him.

"I can't believe you would even think such a thing," Joe said. "Maybe, because I was awakened so unkindly, I didn't hear correctly. What I thought I heard was an amazingly inane suggestion."

"Come on, Joe. You heard correctly." Clyde sucked at his coffee. "Why the indignation? What's wrong with a little charity? I hadn't thought you'd be so incredibly narrow- minded." He sipped his brew, sucking loudly, and scratched his hairy knee. "I think it's a great idea. If you'd try it, you might find the project interesting."

Joe sighed. He'd had a disappointing night anyway. He didn't need to be awakened from his much-needed sleep to this kind of stupidity. "Why me? Why lay your idiot idea on me? Let one of the other cats do it. They won't know they're being used."

He'd returned home last night dismayed at his own ineptitude, and now he wasn't even allowed to sleep out his sulk. He'd been deeply and sweetly down into delightful feline dreams when Clyde came banging out of the house, picked him up, jerking him cruelly from slumber, and laid this incredibly rude suggestion on him. The next instant, of course, Clyde had yelped and dropped him, blood welling up across the back of his hand.

Joe had immediately curled up again and closed his eyes. Clyde had sat down on the step and stared at his hand, where the blood ran wet and dark. But then, guileless, and with incredible bad manners, Clyde made the suggestion again.

"Bloodied hand serves you right," Joe said now. He gave Clyde a narrow, amused cat smile. "I don't come barging into the bedroom waking you out of a sound sleep to tell you how to live your life-not that you couldn't use a little advice."

"I only suggested…"

He looked Clyde over coldly. "I can't believe you'd lay that kind of rude, thoughtless request on me. I thought we were friends. Buddies."

Joe knew quite well that the idea hadn't originated with Clyde. And that was what made him really mad.

Cat and human stared at each other as, around them, the morning reeked of sun-warmed grass and rang with birdsong, mostly the off-key blather of a house finch. Joe smoothed his shoulder with a pink tongue. Unlike his human housemate, he was beautifully groomed, his short coat as sleek and gleaming as gray velvet, his muscled shoulders heavy and solid, his handsome white paws, white chest and throat, and the white strip down his nose as pristinely clean as new snow, his eyes as deeply golden as slanted twin moons.

He knew he was a handsome cat, he knew what a mirror was for. He knew that look of adulation in his lady's green eyes, too. But, thinking of Dulcie at that moment, of her beautiful tabby face and soft, peach-tinted ears, he was filled with her betrayal. Complete betrayal. It was Dulcie who had put Clyde up to this insanity, it was Dulcie and her human housemate, Wilma Getz, who had hatched this plan.

Irritably he flicked an ear toward the off-key cacophony of the house finch. Didn't those birds know the difference between sharp and flat? He didn't like to think about Dulcie's perfidy. Angry, hurt by her betrayal, he kept his gaze on Clyde.