Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

He didn’t count it; maybe he could guess about how much. Closing the envelope, leaning deep into the safe, he concealed the money beneath a stack of envelopes and papers far at the back, and locked the safe again.

Nevin said, “I’ll pick this up in a few days, once I have some accounts set up; maybe leave some of it here. What about that cat, what are you going to do with it now? They’ve put out a reward for it, there’re signs all over the village, a thousand dollars. No cat is worth . . .”

Seaver said, “I’m getting it up to the city pronto. I have a fellow up there building a nice big cage, three stories, little beds so she can change around, a scratching post, everything fancy for the looks of it, and everything a cat would want. She’ll be happy there. You can’t train a cat that isn’t happy. It’s a nice enough cat—but its color and markings, that’s what we’ve been searching for, you’ve seen the antique pictures, the old tapestries. The training, the tricks, that’ll be the icing on the cake.”

Courtney, pretending to sleep, thought she was going to throw up. A three-story cage—everything a cat would want. A cage, and he said she’d be happy there.

The hell she would. And you, Seaver , you don’t know the half of what we found, and saw, tonight.

She and Dulcie had not only enjoyed the wonders of the gallery, they had searched behind furniture, searched the shop’s hidden crevices, pried and prowled not knowing exactly what they were looking for—until they found a prize that had them both smiling; and Courtney meant to find more.

In an elegantly carved rolltop desk with dozens of little drawers inside, they had found one drawer which, when they pulled it all the way out, revealed an opening behind, a cherrywood cubicle filled with something furry and dark that made them draw back, claws raised.

But then they relaxed. Dulcie reached a paw in, and smiled. Courtney took a good sniff, and laughed softly.

The shelf held a man’s neatly trimmed beard and mustache, all in one piece, with some sort of sticky stuff on the back. That didn’t taste good when they licked it off their paws. Beneath this, neatly folded, was a navy blue cap and, when they pulled it out, long, dark hair hung down, shaggy hair the same color as the mustache. This was the library prowler’s disguise.

This was a find they could take to Harper. But, “No, don’t take it,” Dulcie said, “to move it is to contaminate evidence. But we can tell him where it is. The disguise of the man in the library.”

“And tomorrow,” Courtney said, lashing her calico tail, “tomorrow I really start to search. First, her side of the bedroom, the missing woman. Tomorrow, while I’m alone upstairs, I’ll find more clues for Max Harper, and then we’ll call him. Tomorrow maybe I’ll find out who this woman is who was almost buried alive.”

“If it’s the same woman,” Dulcie said. “And pray to the great cat god you don’t get yourself into big trouble.” She licked her child’s calico ear, reminding herself that Courtney was nearly grown and that she was strong and clever. They finished the shrimp and kibble that Seaver had put down for Courtney, and curled up for another little nap.

Lucinda and Pedric had finished supper, Lucinda setting aside an ample helping of hot beef stew for Kit and Pan. Its scent embraced the neighbors’ yards and drifted across the rooftops as the two cats raced along the oak branch and in through the cat door in the dining room window, Kit already telling their housemates about finding Courtney; she was halfway through her story as she flew to the table so she had to start over again. “Slowly,” said Pan and Lucinda and Pedric together. She tried, she told the whole tale of Joe Grey finding Courtney, of their secret entry into the antiques store to get her out, jimmying the powder room window; but she forgot to tell it slowly, her monologue raced faster and faster . . . “and Courtney was so willful and stubborn she wouldn’t leave. After we all got out the window safely, she leaped back in and sassed Joe but refused to come out, she means to stay there until she finds out who that woman is, if she’s his wife and if he tried to kill her and bury her alive and . . .”

Lucinda and Pan both hushed her. Lucinda rose, turned on the phone’s speaker, and began making calls to tell their closest friends that Courtney had been found—while Kit stuck her face in the phone’s speaker, adding her own long comments. They called Wilma first, because Wilma had fretted so about the lost kitten. When they called the Damens, Ryan answered. “The victim—Joe thinks her name is Maurita, he heard it in the tearoom—she walked out of the care home. We’re in the car, looking. And looking for Mindy Luther, she ran away, too. She—”

“Oh, my!” Kit didn’t wait for the end of the call, she spun around crowding Pan as they bolted out the cat door to look for Maurita. Lucinda watched them vanish.

Ryan said, “Joe’s with us. He told us about finding Courtney. Thank God for that—but how strange that Maurita disappears on the same night that Courtney is found, and then Mindy runs away.”

“Where do you want us to look?” Lucinda said. “Who shall we search for? If you’ll tell us where to start . . .”

“Why don’t you wait, Lucinda. Wilma and half the department—patrol cars and foot officers—are out searching . . .”

Lucinda didn’t want to wait at home feeling helpless. But for the moment she and Pedric settled back, building up the fire. While on the roofs, the cats ran, the bright night pulling at them, the moon making Kit so giddy she wanted to dance across the shingles except they were on more serious business. They peered down into every courtyard and alley, every garden, looking for the child who might still be nearby hiding—but always they moved toward Ocean Avenue. Maurita had a whole crew searching for her, while Mindy was alone and, most likely, was headed for the freeway, for Zeb’s farm, for her own true home.

As Kit searched and scented out in the moonlit night, part of her was still filled with Courtney’s ancient myths—until her dreams were jerked back. When, as they galloped up the roofs beside Ocean, they saw on the light-struck street below a little girl running. Red sweater, brown backpack. They scrambled down a camellia tree and ran silently behind her as she raced up the sidewalk’s steep hill heading for the highway alone, in the middle of the night.

“Damn kid,” Pan breathed. “Some no-good will have her. We need to turn her back before she hits the freeway.”

“Or before her family finds her,” Kit said. “Her father and uncles are as mean as hornets and her mother not much better.”

He turned to look at her. “I’ll catch up, I’m stronger, maybe I can stop her. The vet clinic is right over there, go ask for help.”

And Kit was off, across Ocean Avenue among a tangle of cottages, past the automotive shop, through Mary Firetti’s garden heading for the cat door when she stopped.

Neither car was in the drive. No porch light shining. She slipped into the house through the little door they had installed for Misto before he died.

The house was totally dark, only a few shrinking coals left in the fireplace, enclosed by its glass door. Only silence, no soft breathing from the bedroom. Where had they gone? They were not party people, Dr. Firetti got up early, and so did Mary. Were they out searching, too? Kit leaped to the living room desk and called Ryan’s cell phone.

Ryan answered: “Mary? John?”

“It’s Kit. The house is empty, both cars gone. Where are they? Where are you? Looking for Maurita? Mindy’s run away, too, Pan’s following her toward the highway, I came here for help but no one’s home and . . .”