Unknown - Cat_shining_bright_Merfi_630007

Coming down Ocean Avenue into the village, Kate started to turn onto the side street that led to the beauty salon but she halted abruptly.

The street was blocked with police cars. Charlie’s red Blazer was parked just beyond where officers were stringing crime scene tape across the wide entry to the courtyard. Her stomach turned when she saw the coroner’s van, Dr. Bern’s van, parked inside the courtyard at the bottom of the steps that led up to the beauty salon. Two cops stood at the top of the stairs. She caught a glimpse of Dr. Bern inside. She sat in her car shaky and chilled. Charlie had had the only early appointment. Charlie, and Barbara Conley, their hairdresser, would have been in there alone.

Speeding on two blocks to the first parking place she could find, she skidded in at an angle, jumped out, and ran, she was ice-cold deep down inside. As she reached the patio, the coroner was coming down the tiled stairs. Behind him, four stern-faced young medics came carrying two stretchers, one behind the other. Each stretcher sagged with a wrapped body.

Sick and shaken, Kate spun around searching for Charlie, for her wild red hair and vibrant smile. Looking and not finding her she felt more and more hollow. She didn’t dare go to Dr. Bern, didn’t dare go to his van, didn’t want to see what was there. When she couldn’t find Charlie, she sought among the officers for Max Harper.

There: his back to her, Levi’s, boots, western shirt. He was talking with someone. He was so tall and the way he was standing blocked her view, she couldn’t see … she ran …

She stopped, and started to breathe again.

Charlie stood close to Max, the two deep in serious discussion. Max held a clipboard, taking notes. Charlie was all right, she wasn’t one of the bodies on a stretcher. Kate broke in between them, threw her arms around Charlie trying not to cry.

Charlie held her, both of them shivering. “It’s … Barbara,” Charlie said. “Barbara’s dead. And Langston Prince. They were … I found them shot.” Charlie tried to sound steady, to stay steady in front of Max. “I just walked in and—” She stopped, pressed her fist to her mouth. Behind them, the medics were sliding the stretchers into the coroner’s van. “I just …” Charlie was saying when a yowl like a cat cry came from the roof above, loud enough to draw the attention of every officer present.

Staring up, Kate and Charlie could see no animal, no shadow among the cluster of metal air intakes and protruding vents. But they knew that voice. Charlie looked at Max. “Are we done, can I … ?”

“Go,” Max said, frowning, watching the roof. He got edgy whenever he saw or heard a cat around a crime scene. Charlie and Kate ran up the stairs, swung over the rail, and along the one-story roof to the metal pipes—but now there was only silence. They called softly, “Kitty? Kitty? Come, kitty,” in deference to the men below.

They found Joe and the two kittens crouched among the tangle of air ducts, Striker holding his paw up, blood flowing from his pad, the buff youngster looking frightened, and ashamed because he had cried out. The cats were silent now, staring up at Charlie and Kate wanting help, Joe Grey’s eyes fierce with the need to hurry.

Kate, pulling off her scarf, wrapped the cut paw. Charlie picked Striker up, cradling him as Kate picked up Buffin and Joe Grey, father and son draping themselves across her shoulders. She knew Joe wouldn’t stay here, and they couldn’t leave Buffin alone, she didn’t want to think of the trouble he could cause.

Coming back over the roof and down the stairs, every officer watching them with their passel of cats, they ran for Charlie’s Blazer to head for the veterinary hospital, and to hell with what the cops thought. Passing Max, he looked at the blood-soaked scarf. “How bad is it? You need help?” And he gave Charlie a deeply puzzled look. Why were Joe Grey and his kittens there, what were they doing there? One was hurt, but why take all three to the vet?

“Not too bad,” Charlie said coolly. “Just a lot of blood.”

Max studied Charlie again, an unsettling gaze. “Call me on my cell if you need anything, we’ll be securing the two victims’ houses,” and he turned away, frowning.

9

Dulcie paced the living room trying to ignore Wilma’s glances. Joe had said Striker and Buffin were fine, but that didn’t keep her from worrying nor did it ease her anger that they had sneaked off and that he hadn’t brought them straight home. She thought of hawks, of stray dogs, of skidding cars.

“They’re growing up quickly,” Wilma said. “Wanting adventure just as you did at that age—just as you still do,” she said softly. Having encouraged Dulcie to wait, not go chasing after the boy kittens, Wilma sat in a chair before the fire, Courtney in her lap, a book open before them, reading aloud one of James Herriot’s stories, about a lone little cat who had no home.

The house was dim, her electricity still off, the only brightness this morning was where the fire’s blaze lit the pages of the book and warmed the living room. Wilma had gotten to a part of the story that brought tears to Dulcie’s eyes and that made Courtney shiver when suddenly the lights came on. In a moment they heard the soft rumble of the furnace. At the same time, the phone rang. Dulcie leaped to the desk and pressed a paw to the speaker, making sure the volume was turned up. It was Lucinda.

“Is your power on yet? Did you weather the storm all right?”

“Power just came on,” Wilma said. “Yours is still out? Is Kit there, is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Lucinda said, “but I worried all night. Yes, our power’s still out.”

“The neighbors have two pines down across the street,” Wilma said. “A real tangle. Lucky they hit the garage and not the house. The young couple was out looking at it, I expect they’ve called a tree service—if they can get one in this mess. Do you want to come down to breakfast? I’ll make pancakes … There’s no one else here,” she added, for Kit’s benefit.

“We’d love it,” Kit and Lucinda said together, Kit’s cry almost drowning Lucinda.

Wilma rose as Dulcie clicked off the phone. She put aside the book, tucked Courtney down again in the warm chair, and headed for the kitchen. In moments the two cats could hear the sound of cracking eggs and then the beater going, then soon the sound of Wilma setting the table—but suddenly Courtney was no longer in the chair. She was on Wilma’s desk looking out the window. She was not waiting for Kit and the Greenlaws, but peering across the street where the two pines had fallen.

“That man,” she said as Dulcie leaped up. “That same man again, watching our house.” She crouched lower, just her eyes and ears visible above the window frame. “Why is he watching? What is he watching?” The cloud-dulled sun rising behind Wilma’s house put the cats in shadow. Across the street, the fallen trees and broken branches made their own shadows among the damaged walls of the garage so little of the darkly dressed figure was visible. Dulcie was about to trot out to the kitchen and tell Wilma he was there when, again, the phone rang.

Wilma picked up the kitchen extension. On the desk, Dulcie hit the speaker. What she heard made her hiss and lift a paw as if to strike the tomcat at the other end of the line. “Oh, Joe! How could you take them there and not keep them safe?”

“I didn’t mean to bring them! If you’ll remember, I left them with you,” he said sharply. “The little brats followed me. I didn’t see them slip into the station. When a call came in for the medics and coroner, then I did see them. But what was I going to do? It was Charlie on the line, she’d walked into a murder. What else could we do but … ?”