Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Bearing_Gifts_BookFi

LIGHTS WERE ON at the Damens’ house, upstairs in the master suite, lights silhouetting hurrying shadows against the shades, the commotion stirred by Kit’s phone call as Ryan and Clyde hastily pulled on jeans, sweatshirts, and jackets, grabbed up backpacks, stuffing in flashlights, cat food and water, and the first-aid kit. Rock, the big silver Weimaraner, was off the love seat and pacing; he knew they were going on a mission and he couldn’t be still.

The upstairs lights went off again, the stair light came on, then the porch light blazed as the three of them headed out for the king cab, Ryan locking the door behind them. Rock bounded past Clyde into the backseat, lunging from one side window to the other with such enthusiasm he rocked the heavy vehicle like a rowboat, staring out into the night looking hopefully for the first hint of his quarry and then poking his nose in Ryan’s ear or against Clyde’s cheek, urging them to hurry, demanding to be out on the trail tracking the bad guys. The sleek silver dog had no clue that tonight his target would not be an escaped convict armed and dangerous, but one small cat, frightened and alone, a quarry who, if at last he found her, would snuggle up to him purring mightily.

But even to find one small cat, a tracking dog needs a sample of his mark’s scent, a clear and identifiable smell to follow among the millions of odors he’d encounter along the high cliff. “Pillows,” Ryan said. “Stop by the Greenlaws.”

“Pillows?” Clyde looked over at her, frowning.

“Kit’s tree house. Her pillows. I brought a clean plastic bag.”

“You’re going to climb the oak tree?”

“Ladder,” she said, glancing up at the cab roof where, above it, her long construction ladder rode securely tethered on the overhead rack. “Just take a minute, we’ll have a nice, fur-matted pillow for Rock to sniff.”

“If we had Joe, he’d put Rock on the trail. Where the hell—”

“Even with Joe,” she said, “I’d want a scent article, as you’re supposed to have, so as not to spoil Rock’s training.”

“The one time Joe might be of help,” Clyde said, ignoring her logic, “he’s off hunting. Or off with Pan whispering in that little kid’s ear. Talk about an exercise in futility.”

“If Pan can help that little girl, we ought to cheer him on. Scared of her mother, bullied by her sister. Besides, Joe might not even be with Pan. He and Dulcie have been hanging around Emmylou Warren’s all week, around that stone building up behind, whatever that’s about.”

“I don’t want to know what that’s about. More trouble, one way or another.”

Ryan just looked at him.

“Name one time Joe went off on some crazy round of surveillance that he didn’t stir a carload of trouble.”

“Name one time Joe wasn’t leaps ahead of the cops,” she said. “That he didn’t drop valuable information in Max Harper’s lap, a lead that Max was grateful for, even if he didn’t know where it came from.” She sat scowling at him. “Don’t be so hard on Joe, we’re blessed to know him, and all you do is rag him.”

Clyde grinned. “He loves it. Rags me right back.”

“You don’t realize how lucky you are just to share bed and supper with Joe, just to know those five cats. But,” she said, “there is something strange going on at Emmylou’s that Joe doesn’t want to talk about. I guess, in time, he’ll tell us,” she said. “In his own good time.”

JOE SLIPPED UP the oak tree and onto Kit’s tree house ready to fight the intruder, his ears and whiskers flat. Only when the pacing cat turned, startled, and approached him stiff-legged, did Joe laugh and relax. Pan paused, too, tail twitching, his ears going back and up, edgy and questioning.

“What?” Joe said. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” The big tom lowered his ears uncertainly. “Kit’s in trouble, I can feel her fear, she’s scared and alone somewhere out in the night.”

Joe took a step back. “She’s miles away, up the coast. You can’t know what she’s feeling, what she’s doing.” This kind of talk made his paws sweat.

Pan drew his lips back. “She’s in some kind of trouble.”

“Nightmare,” Joe said. “You fell asleep and dreamed of trouble.” Generally the red tom was a steady fellow, macho and straightforward—until he got off on this perception nonsense beyond all logic and reason.

But Pan’s amber eyes blazed, he growled deep in his throat and spun around and was gone along an oak branch and in through the dining room window, through the cat door. “The Greenlaws, their cell phone . . .” he said over his shoulder. “Help me find the number.”

Joe sighed. He was crouched to follow, knowing they’d sound like fools to the Greenlaws with such a call, when car lights came down the street below. They slowed, and Ryan’s red king cab turned into the drive, headlights sweeping the front of the house and up through the oak branches, blazing in Joe’s face. Squinting, he peered over, breathing exhaust as the engine died.

Ryan emerged from the passenger side, stepped around to the rear bumper and up onto it, reaching up to the overhead rack where the extension ladder was secured. He watched Clyde swing out the driver’s door and move to help her. Why did they need a ladder? They had a key to the house, all the Greenlaws’ close friends had keys. From the dining room, Pan shouted, “ You picked up! Say something. Pedric? Is this Pedric?” Silence, then, “ Pedric, are you all right? Where’s Lucinda?” Another silence, then, “ Who is this? If this isn’t Pedric, who are you? Why do you have Pedric’s phone? Where’s Lucinda? Speak up or I call the cops, they’ll put a trace on you!”

Joe smiled. He didn’t think MPPD was set up to trace the immediate location of a cell phone but it sounded good. He watched Ryan open the extension ladder, lean it against the edge of the tree house, and climb nimbly up. Joe waited until his housemate had swung up onto the platform and switched on her flashlight, then stepped out into its beam. The eerie nightglow of his eyes made her catch her breath.

“Did you have to do that, sneak up like that?” she asked shakily.

“I’m sneaking? What are you doing climbing up here in the middle of the night like some—”

“Like some cat burglar?” she said, laughing. She knelt and grabbed him up and hugged him. Her hugs always embarrassed him, but they made him purr, too.

Putting him down again, she fished a plastic bag from her pocket and reached across him to snag one of Kit’s well-used pillows from the untidy pile. He watched her drop it into the plastic bag and seal it up with a twisty. He looked over the edge at the king cab where Rock was hanging out the open window, whining softly. He looked toward the house where Pan was on the phone, and looked again at Ryan. Now there was silence from the house. Joe watched Pan emerge through the cat door, ears back, tail lashing, his tabby forehead creased with worry, unsettled by that distraught phone conversation.

“Come on, Pan,” Ryan said, swinging onto the ladder and down, frowning up at Pan there above her. “Come on, we’re headed up the coast.” She looked worriedly at the red tom. “It’s Kit,” she said softly. “She . . . We’re going to look for Kit.”

Pan leaped from the oak to the ground, sinking deep in the leafy mulch, fled to the king cab and up through the window past Rock. Joe followed, as Ryan descended the ladder clutching Kit’s pillow. Inside the pickup, Pan was crouched on the back of the driver’s seat, tail lashing. Joe, unsettled by the red tom’s unnatural perception, hopped sedately up into the front seat beside Clyde, and snuggled close. Pan might indulge in these wild flights of fancy, but he could count on Clyde for a soothing dose of hardheaded commonsense.