Unknown - Cat_shining_bright_Merfi_630007

“Oh,” Dulcie said more meekly.

Wilma said tensely, “Is Charlie all right?” Charlie Harper was Wilma’s niece, she was Wilma’s only family.

“Fine, Charlie’s fine,” Joe said.

“But,” Wilma said, “I thought she was going to the hairdresser …”

“It was the hairdresser,” Joe said. “Barbara Conley was shot, and the owner of the salon. Just the two of them in the shop.”

Wilma was silent. There was talk around the village about Barbara, and Langston Prince—but then, there was talk about Barbara and any number of men, some who lived in Molena Point and others whom no one seemed to know.

“She … Barbara had been giving Langston a haircut,” Joe said. “But right now we’re …” Joe’s voice went low, as if he saw another scolding coming. “Striker cut his paw. It isn’t bad but Charlie and Kate brought him to Dr. Firetti, he’s putting a little bandage on it. I’m in Charlie’s Blazer, on her cell phone … Dulcie, don’t be mad. He’s fine, he’s enjoying the attention.”

Dulcie was silent. Joe, at the other end of the line, heard only a hollow emptiness. She said, finally, “How did he hurt himself? He wasn’t in the middle of the murder scene? What was he doing? How bad is he? What does Dr. Firetti say?” She knew she sounded tightly wound. And all the while that she was trying not to scold, she and Wilma and Courtney watched the man across the street. She said, “I hope Buffin wasn’t hurt, too?”

“Buffin’s fine,” he said stiffly. She needn’t be so judgmental. “He’s having the time of his life looking in at all the other cats. Kate’s giving him a tour.”

Dulcie sighed. “Bring them straight home when you’re done.” She knew how bossy she sounded. And what good was it to scold? She could hear in Joe’s voice his dismay that this had happened. She’d get the details later. The man across the street hadn’t moved, blending into the shadows of the fallen trees. As the clouds thinned and the sun lifted higher they could see more of his face: wide cheekbones, straight, thin nose, and narrow chin. He wore a cap, with pale hair sticking out. When the Greenlaws’ car pulled up, he slipped back among the branches, there was a ripple of shadow around the side of the shattered garage and he was gone.

Dulcie and Courtney watched the street in both directions but he did not reappear. Dulcie started for the cat door, wanting to follow from the roofs. Wilma picked her up and held her firmly. “Not this time. Let him go, Dulcie.”

Dulcie obeyed, startled at the unease in Wilma’s voice. They heard the back door open. Kit bolted into the kitchen ahead of Lucinda and Pedric; it seemed strange to see her without Pan, but the Firettis did need him just now, since Misto died. Wilma went to put the bacon in the microwave and pour pancake batter on the grill. Soon the smell of both filled the house, joining the scent of coffee.

But Dulcie’s mind wasn’t on breakfast. It was partly on the vanished man and, most of all, on her injured kitten. How soon would they be home? Kate and Charlie were with them, and Dr. Firetti would take good care of Striker, yet still she wanted to race over the roofs to her child.

Joe is there, she thought. And so is Pan. Striker doesn’t need his mama racing to comfort him after every little mishap. Yet even as she lapped up her pancakes, her mind was at the veterinary hospital, imagining needles and blood and the big metal examining table. She watched Wilma, who was nervous, too. About Striker? Or about the man casing their house? Did Wilma know more about him than she had yet told them?

Shortly after breakfast, while Lucinda cleared the table and did the dishes, Wilma turned on the phone’s speaker and called the clinic. An aide switched the line to John Firetti.

“Striker’s fine,” John said. “He had a local sedative so I could put three stitches in his paw. They’ll pick him up in a few hours, when that wears off so he can walk steadier.”

“Can he walk, on the wound?” Wilma said, glancing at Pedric who sat before the fire, intently listening.

“If he’s careful,” John said. “It isn’t bad, but it will take a few weeks to heal fully.” When they’d hung up, Wilma and Dulcie looked at each other.

“He’s a youngster,” Wilma said, “he’s going to get a scratch now and then.”

“It’s more than a scratch!” Dulcie snapped. “Three stitches!” But then she jumped to the desk beside Wilma and rubbed her face against her housemate, apologizing, loving her. Wilma picked her up, cuddling her. Dulcie knew she shouldn’t be mad. Striker would be all right, she was just edgy. And now, before the fire, Pedric began a tale—to comfort Dulcie and Courtney, to keep them all from worrying. But the tale was for his own Kit in a very special way. Kit loved Pedric’s stories, the tortoiseshell was all about stories, she had been ever since she was a tiny orphan following the wild band of talking cats, trying to cadge enough to eat from their leavings and shyly listening to the ancient tales they told. None of the big, wild cats had wanted Kit, but traveling at the edge of their clowder, she felt protected from larger predators. When they gathered at night, she crouched close in the shadows, hidden but safe, listening to their tales and memorizing every one.

Now, Pedric’s story of long-ago Ireland brought a keen brightness to Courtney’s eyes, too. There was a band of wild speaking cats in that legend, living among the Irish downs. It was a long tale, and two others about speaking cats followed. When Pedric finished with the classic “they lived happy forevermore,” Courtney put a paw on his hand. “Now tell about our wild feral band, about the speaking cats that live up in the ruins.” She looked at Kit. “Were those the ones you lived with when you were a kitten? Can we go to see them?”

“Who told you about the Pamillon cats?” Dulcie asked gently.

“Striker did. He heard you and Pa talking.”

Dulcie wished the kittens didn’t catch every casual remark, every whisper. She’d hoped they wouldn’t want to make that journey to the wild, feral band until they were older; she had started to explain about the clowder cats when a car pulled up the drive.

In a moment the plastic cat door banged open and Buffin came bounding through, then Joe Grey. The kitchen door opened behind them and Charlie came in carrying Striker tucked against her shoulder, his bandaged paw tangled in her red hair. Kate was last, carrying a little box of bandages, medicine, and instructions. Dulcie leaped up on the table to greet her child. When she sniffed at Striker’s bandage and the strange medicine smells, and then nuzzled him, Striker looked happier. But it was the expression on Joe Grey’s face that startled her.

Joe did not look guilty for letting Striker get hurt. He looked keenly excited.

“What?” she said.

“Coming back down Ocean,” he told her, “we turned on my street to see how Ryan and Scotty were doing with the tree removal. The tree’s all down, and cut up. They were loading it in the truck. Ryan has plastic sheeting over the broken roof. The side street is still blocked, officers still going over the broken-in cars and talking to the residents. But the house on the corner?” Joe said, looking at Kit. “The house where you and Pan saw the BMW hidden? They’ve got crime tape around it, too. Harper’s truck is there and two squad cars. The swinging doors to the garage are open and the car is gone.”

“Oh my!” Kit said. “Did the officers break the lock and find the garage empty? Did the thief come back and drive it off before they ever got there? Or have the cops already returned the car to its owner or had it towed to the compound?”

“Maybe,” Wilma said, “the car thefts aren’t why Harper and Dallas are there.”