Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

Joe sighed. “A culture of kidnappers, rapists, killers, and druggies.”

“And porn addicts,” Clyde added, “their minds gone. And the meth kids, if the users have kids, born already twisted or half crazy.” He slowed at a light. Joe looked over at him. “You missed the part about the grave digger. It was DeWayne Luther.”

The light changed. Clyde didn’t move, he sat staring at Joe. “ DeWayne Luther? DeWayne beat up Maurita, tried to bury her alive? My God, Joe.”

“Well, the guy is mean as hell, he half killed his own father. I hope Max doesn’t let the hospital discharge the grandfather to Thelma. No telling what more those boys would do to him.”

Car horns started to honk, and Clyde moved on.

“At least Nevin’s locked up in a prison hospital,” Joe said. “Thelma didn’t seem so broken up over her husband being injured so bad and arraigned for murder and attempted murders. Mindy didn’t seem very upset, either. Maybe he’ll end his days right there in prison.”

Clyde turned into their driveway beside Ryan’s truck; they could smell the lasagna, a breath from heaven. He said, “Thelma told Zeb’s doctor she’s taking him to her place, that she’s going to take care of him, not take him back to that dirty farm, as she put it. She takes him back to that apartment, Varney will be all over him.”

Joe scratched his ear and turned to hop out of the Jaguar. “She won’t. She’ll find out differently when Max gets hold of her. He’s not letting Zeb stay there. Even with Nevin gone, Varney has a long record, all small arrests but enough that I don’t trust him, enough he should be off the streets. And Thelma herself is ripe for accessory to murder,” the tomcat said, leaping out of the car between Clyde’s feet and racing for his cat door.

“Accessory,” Clyde said, opening the front door and wiping his feet on the mat. “If it was her car that Nevin used.” He looked down at Joe, shrugged, and headed for the kitchen; he kissed Ryan, her dark, bouncy hair freshly brushed, her flowered apron tied prettily over her black work jeans, which were streaked with caulking, and a clean blue denim shirt. Her bare feet were snug in bunny slippers, her boots stood on the front porch. Joe leaped to the table, onto his place mat, and sat eyeing her impatiently.

“DeWayne Luther,” Clyde told her. “It was DeWayne Luther who tried to do in Maurita, and who dug the grave.”

“Oh my God,” Ryan said, sitting down. “Is there a warrant?”

Clyde nodded. “So far, five stops, heading east. All the wrong guy. Two of the officers swore he looked exactly like DeWayne’s picture, but his driver’s license, name, everything was different, so they let them go—and those could all be fake.”

“What about prints? On the . . . on Maurita, on her throat . . . ?”

“He was wearing gloves.”

Joe said, “Poor Mindy. Her dad in county prison hospital, her grandfather beaten up and mad as hell. And a warrant out on her uncle DeWayne. Varney’s at home, maybe he’ll take pity and decide to be a good uncle.”

Ryan and Clyde looked at him as if he’d lost his reason.

Joe said, “So far, is Mindy all right?”

“From what I’ve seen of her today,” Ryan said, pouring olive oil on the salad. “I don’t think she wastes much love on that family, except for her grandpa. She wants . . .” She looked up at Clyde. “She wants Zeb to come stay with us, she says she can take care of him here. I told her it’s too close. But she knows that—right across the street. Thelma would be all over her, telling her what to do—unless Thelma goes to jail as an accessory to Jon Jaarel’s murder. It was her car that Nevin used to kill him. I talked with Charlie about Mindy and Zeb staying there. She said she’d talk with Max.”

Clyde raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that make Max look bad, his protecting a witness at his home . . . ?”

“He’d be under guard, for his safety. Mindy under police protection, to get her out of that family. That’s just good law enforcement.”

Clyde didn’t look convinced.

She lifted a hand, smeared lasagna sauce smartly on his cheek and turned away before he could smear it back. “The Harpers have the Luthers’ two horses at their place, so why not the child and the old man?”

“Max can’t afford any more men on guard duty twenty-four-seven. And a child living with the chief? No department in the country could operate under such casual rules—except maybe Max Harper’s shop.”

As Ryan put supper on the table, the little white cat came yawning down the stairs, looking for Rock. When Snowball didn’t see the big dog or smell him, didn’t hear him, she rubbed lovingly against Joe Grey . . . but Rock was her real protector, she needed his company. Ryan picked her up, petted and cuddled her, then settled her in the overstuffed chair at the end of the kitchen and set her dish of cat food and pumpkin beside her. They had learned, several years back, that a little pumpkin was good for aging cats, along with a saucer of chicken broth, to keep their tummies clear. Despite her nice supper, Snowball looked up at them forlornly, missing Rock.

Ryan set the salad on the table. “I was in the bank this morning making a deposit. Fay Seaver got home this morning. Ulrich was in there. We talked a little while. That made me feel weird, to be talking to the person who kidnapped Courtney—I wanted to punch him out.

“He said Fay would be back at work tomorrow. You’d think she’d want a day or two off. He said they were taking a vacation together soon. He looked at me with that amused, sarcastic expression and turned away. It was all I could do not to snatch him up, march him home, and make him give Courtney to me; we don’t know half of what goes on in there.”

“So far,” Joe said, “they’re treating her all right, spoiling her. She seems happy, most of the time.”

Clyde’s face was frozen. “I told you, Joe, if we don’t get her out of there soon, it’ll be too late, she’ll be on a plane for New York.”

“She won’t come out,” Joe said. “When we got her out the window, she dove right back in. She’s scared of Seaver one minute and wants to get out. The next minute she’s giddy with vanity at being in such a fine place, filled with big dreams from the stories he tells her. We should have forced her back out that window even if it meant a cat fight.”

Ryan said, “Now that Fay’s home, I’m really afraid for Courtney. That woman gives me the shivers, I can hardly stand her. For one thing, she smiles too much, fake smiles. Doesn’t Courtney notice?”

Clyde said, “You cats got in after they closed, you could have let us in.”

“Those locks on the big doors, you’d need a locksmith and an electrician. And that bathroom window,” he said, looking keenly at Clyde, “you’d have a hard time getting in there, with those bars on the outside.”

Clyde sighed. Ryan thought of the many times one or another of their friends had walked by the open shop and glanced in knowing Courtney was shut in upstairs, wanting to race up and grab her but afraid Ulrich would follow, that he would snatch her away and hurt her. She felt like there was nothing they could do—nothing Clyde said they could do. He said to wait for the right chance and until Courtney really wanted out.

“I still say . . .” Clyde began.

Ryan gave him another small serving of lasagna to shut him up and stop the argument, and opened a second beer for him. Clyde shook his head at the beer, glanced at Joe, and pushed his plate away. Joe demolished the several bites of extra supper thinking that, with Fay home, they had to do something now, despite what Courtney wanted.