Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

Each evening before the store closed, one of the cats, taking turns, would slip inside. Would watch the young clerk leave, watch Seaver lock the glass doors securing his valuable wares. They would watch Seaver go back upstairs, watch him let Courtney out of his apartment, watch her race down—and once the clerk left, the rest of the night would be theirs.

If the chosen cat couldn’t slip in through the open front doors unseen, he or she would wait until pale, thin Bert had locked up, scuffling footsteps, heavy coat pulled tight around him as he headed home. When all was quiet, the chosen guard, eyes aglow and tail switching, would crawl in through the powder room window between the bars, under the loose screen and through the barely open glass, to spend the softly lit night with Courtney among gold-decorated and priceless antiques. With a phone on the desk and one in the back room, if something happened they could call the Damens or Wilma or the cops—why would he hurt her if he wanted to make a show cat of her?

But still, Joe was all atremble. The time would come, he knew, when the next step in Seaver’s plan would take shape, a plan that might carry Seaver’s calico prize miles away, first to the gallery in the city and then clear across the country, and how would they find her, then?

11

Joe Grey went on with the others, leaving Courtney and Dulcie in the antiques store but worrying about them both. On the rooftops he parted from Kit and Pan, their two tails, one golden, the other fluffy dark, flipping away under the risen moon as they headed home to their tree house—to Lucinda and Pedric, and to call Wilma.

And Joe raced home over the shingles, his claws scritching as he balanced across heavy oak branches. He heard music playing from the cottages below and smelled late suppers cooking. Then, close to home, the loud and familiar rancor of angry voices. Another Luther Domestic.

Did they have to be so loud? Couldn’t they fight quietly? Did all that shouting help release their anger? Thelma’s and Nevin’s voices came from the house, they were in their bedroom but they might as well have been outside in the yard putting on a two-person play for the neighbors who stood, now, staring in through the window. What were they fighting about this time? What had happened now?

Mindy crouched outside in the bushes beneath the kitchen window, wiping her nose on the arm of the sweater she’d pulled around her. Her silent shaking wasn’t from the cold. From where she huddled, the way the windows were open, she could hear her parents’ every word clearly, something about bank statements, and about “Too loose around the cops,” at which Nevin gave a snorting laugh. Joe climbed into the cypress tree outside their window, its furry branches dense as a jungle—that was when he saw Zeb Luther parked around the corner in an old, faded car, not his own truck, his window down as he listened. Peering through the branches, Joe could just pick out the old man, his ragged gray hair, faded flannel shirt, and worn leather jacket. Mindy’s grandfather. Ryan had said he hadn’t come to visit since the family moved in, she had heard Mindy shouting at her mother and crying about that. What was he doing here this time of night? Spying, listening instead of coming right on in?

This was the man Joe had seen in the village peering across the street into the tearoom at Thelma and Mindy and the freckled auburn-haired man. Joe had seen him standing outside the PD, too, looking uncertain, as if he was trying to decide whether to go in, his frown reflecting some painful decision that had interested Joe even then. The old man who had at last turned away shaking his head, looking so sad. If he hadn’t been such an old man, Joe would have thought he was crying.

Now, the tomcat didn’t think Nevin and Thelma could see Nevin’s father from the bedroom, the way he was parked and with the tree in the way. They faced each other hissing and snarling like fighting cats themselves, they sure didn’t care who heard them. Not a speck of dignity, Joe thought, nor did they have much feeling for their frightened little girl crouched under their window listening.

But then the subject grew more explicit, Thelma hissed something so quietly that Joe missed it and Nevin snarled angrily, “The hell I won’t and what right do you have to tell me what to do?” Thelma stared down at the neighbors in the street and told him to lower his voice. Joe Grey, in his tree, drew closer.

“You’ll go now !” Thelma snapped. “Right now! And you’ll stay away, the farther the better. You think them cops won’t have figured it out? You think they won’t come . . . ?”

“I’m not leaving until I find that envelope. You think the old bastard won’t go digging into it? What the hell do you . . .” His voice was like daggers. “It’s over a week since I called the bank and they said they’d mailed it and I’m not leaving without it. And the rest of the statements, as well. Just like him to go prying around among my papers. I don’t need him poking into my stuff and I don’t need you poking into my business! And what were you doing with my checkbook? You had to dig deep to find it in my dresser. Give it to me now.” There was a sound as if he’d slapped her. Joe saw her draw back looking shocked.

“Bastard!” she snarled and slapped him in return. “Why the hell did you leave it lying around if you didn’t want me to see it! And that stack of statements. I told you, bring everything with you. Why didn’t . . . ?”

When Joe looked up, Zebulon and his battered car were gone.

So, Joe thought, Nevin moves out of the family house, leaves some of his records and papers. Changes their mail from the rural address to a village PO box. There’s a mix-up at the post office, his bank statement is delivered to the old address. Zebulon gets curious and opens it. And—what? What’s so important? What’s in the bank that Nevin doesn’t want the old man to know about? Or maybe that Thelma doesn’t know everything about? Who does the couple’s banking? Does Nevin do it all? Maybe more money in that account than she thinks they have? Maybe lots more?

“And then you move that money up the coast,” she said. “Why did you put it way up there in the first place, that was really stupid.”

“I’m moving it farther than that, first thing in the morning. And to more than one bank, more places than you’ll ever know. Hell, Thelma. You know where a good part of the money you stole is at, and some of mine and Varney’s, too. The rest of it’s none of your business, you needn’t bother yourself about it.”

“If the cops find last night’s money, maybe with blood on it, you’re in big trouble, Nevin. And where does that put me! You were using my car when that went down! If you go to jail on that kind of charge, they collar me as an accessory even when I didn’t do anything. I land in jail, and where does that leave the kid? Your father can’t take care of her . ”

“I’m out of here before they find me. If they put you in jail, if they ID your car—or maybe find evidence that you and Varney have been into the robbing, too—they’ll lock you both up, put the kid in child care and you won’t have to worry about her.”

In the shadows of the yard Mindy left the bushes and slipped in the back door. In a minute Joe could see her in her own bedroom standing nearly out of sight within the thin curtains and he could hear a muffled sniffle. He wanted to leap up and snuggle her; as cranky as Mindy could be, or as sweet, she was, after all, only a confused and needful little girl, hurt and afraid. He was sickened by this family’s lack of love for her, and for each other. He wondered what would happen to her. A child whose only real family, in her own mind, was her grandfather. Whose only other solace was the companionship of her pony.