Ширли Мерфи - Cat Chase The Moon

“We’ll put it off until the crowd eases up. Hit San Francisco for the rest of the week, until these tourists thin out and the cops pull back, and pull back their part-time crew.” He was speaking softly. He glanced several times at Ryan and Charlie but there was no way they could hear him; it would take a cat, a cat sitting alert and close to him, to hear the auburn-haired man’s whisper.

Max had brought in extra forces, because of the trouble they’d had at last year’s car show: robberies, three small riots that filled up the jail, and despite the tight surveillance at the show itself, two thefts of antique cars that had been parked on the village street, each worth over a million.

The driver rose. “Got to get to work. We’ll be in touch. Our little company, getting this gig with ALS, we don’t want to blow that.” American Limo, which served Molena Point and up the coast, was a big corporation, but even they hired smaller companies to fill in during the busiest times. The man paid his check, picked up the wrapped sweet bun, and left.

Little Mindy was still in the kitchen, waitresses stepping around her as she restrained and petted the old cat, some of the women frowning because she was in the way, some just smiling; the shaggy old cat looked somewhat happier now that he was being petted, until one of the waitresses reached to pick him up and toss him out and he started snarling again and striking at her. Joe abandoned the scene, turning back to the window as the limo pulled away. He got the license number and just caught the little sticker with the name of the company, Maitre D’ Limo.

Whatever that’s about, he thought, it’s sure as hell dicey. It can’t hurt to give the chief a call. I wish Thelma had mentioned the guy’s name. They seemed casual enough, almost like family. Or does Thelma have something going, on the side?

3

As Joe leaped into Ryan’s red king cab she pulled her notebook from the center console and wrote down the license number he gave her: the make of the limo, the logo that said ALS.

Driving home, they caught a glimpse of Charlie’s red hair in her SUV, headed toward the gallery that handled her work, and Joe told Ryan about the man who’d been casing the library. Ryan and Charlie had already heard the rough details in Max’s office before the chief left for lunch, and she knew that Jimmie McFarland was tailing the stalker or whatever he was. She looked over at Joe, frowning. “It could be nothing. Some guy doing research for a college class or a private project, that’s the way Max seemed to take it—except,” she said, “he does have McFarland keeping an eye on him.”

“And what has Jimmie found out?”

“Not much so far,” Ryan said. “He’s checked for prints—but in a library? Fingerprints all over the place. And when the guy took the books from the shelf he was wearing pigskin gloves. That’s what set Max off. Do you know how clumsy it is to flip through books and try to write down notes while wearing gloves?”

Joe snorted. “Try that with cat paws, see what you get.”

She couldn’t help grinning. But then, looking over at him, she turned solemn. “What’s happening to the village, Joe? We always have some crime, a murder or two, a few burglaries, just like every town—a few really bad ones, that you’ve helped solve, that might never have been sorted out without our phantom snitch, without the evidence you’ve tipped to Max and the department.”

She turned a corner, stopping for a half dozen giggling young tourists, and turned to look at Joe. “That poor beaten woman, half buried alive, that gives me the sick shudders. It was you who tipped Max off?”

“Yes, and scared the killer off,” he said, “when I stepped on a dry twig. I couldn’t see much of him in the fog, just his shadow, heavyset or heavy coat; hard to tell much, except he was tall. Did anyone find the shovel? Did they find anything after I belted out of there?”

“Max didn’t say. Except there was dirt on the curb where the snitch . . .”—she grinned—“where you said her attacker had parked.”

“Did anyone report the torn screen across the street,” Joe said, “where I made the call?”

She shook her head. “Max didn’t mention it. With that old house, who would notice? In that house, all the screens could be rotted. Now, with the fog cleared, Kathleen and Davis are working the area.” She glanced at him. “You don’t think they’ll find pawprints around the phone?”

“That house has cats, I could smell them.”

As she pulled into their drive, across the street in front of Varney Luther’s rental, he and Nevin were standing in the scruffy yard close together arguing in each other’s faces—not loud, not mad, just arguing. Maybe that was natural behavior, Joe thought. Maybe they grew up that way. At least they weren’t pounding each other in the middle of the street again, where someone would call the station. Neither one wanted to go to jail, Joe knew enough about them to know that. One more loud fistfight, Max had told them, and they’d be in the lockup.

When Thelma pulled up, parking her old green Volvo in front, the two brothers scowled at her and at Mindy and went in the house. Getting out hastily, Thelma followed them, dragging Mindy by the hand—and looking back at the squad car that had been easing along some distance behind her.

The patrol unit pulled on up, Chief Harper sat a few minutes, double-parked, looking at the Luthers’ rental. The old, plastered building was set back from the street farther than the larger houses on either side. It had once been a cramped duplex. Now, with the removal of several interior walls, it afforded room for Varney, for Nevin and Thelma, and a tiny room for the child. Joe and Dulcie had prowled it months ago among timbers and Sheetrock during the reconstruction before Varney ever moved in. Ryan’s firm hadn’t done the work. The landlord had gotten someone cheap. Cheap and shoddy, Joe thought, not anywhere near Ryan’s high professional standards.

Max’s squad car sat a few more moments, the chief looking at the now-empty yard, then he moved ahead and turned into the Damens’ drive, parking beside Ryan’s king cab.

“I wish,” Joe said, “those two had been pounding each other so bad that Max would have to lock them up.”

As Max got out of the squad car, Clyde’s Jaguar came up the street and slid into the remaining space. Stepping out he raised a hand to Max, leaned in through Ryan’s window to kiss her, but looked suspiciously at Joe Grey. Why did Clyde always suspect he was up to some kind of trouble?

“Anything for lunch?” Clyde said as he and Max headed for the front door. “Max hasn’t eaten.”

“Those impromptu meetings take forever,” Max said, “and accomplish nothing.”

Ryan moved on inside to the big kitchen, where she started coffee and began to make sandwiches. “What happened at the hospital, Max? Oh, the woman isn’t dead?”

“She’s still with us, and doing better than anyone thought. Still in a lot of pain. A cracked jaw, they’ve wired that up. She can’t talk much. Amazing that there’s nothing worse broken. Two ribs, a number of small bones, a lot of deep bruises.”

Ryan opened a fresh loaf of rye, spread on cream cheese, layered on salami, buttered the outsides and laid them on the grill, two for Max, two for Clyde, and despite the fact that Joe had just eaten, one for the tomcat.

Max sat down in his usual place, pushing aside the neatly opened morning paper which, Joe noticed, did not mention the open grave and attempted murder. It featured instead the winners of the state’s high school spelling bee, a big spread above the fold. And, below the fold, a young black bear that had wandered into the village from a nearby canyon. The bear had escaped two foot-patrol officers by climbing a pine tree near the village church. Now, this morning, he was drawing quite a crowd.