Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Bearing_Gifts_BookFi

Dedication

For the cats who remember

their previous lives

in centuries passed and gone

Epigraph

There is a Celtic belief that cats’ eyes are windows through which human beings may explore an inner world. In examining the power that the cat has to raise our feelings and to stimulate our imagination we can hardly fail to learn more about human nature in the process . . . The cat has not only been thought of as wholly good or evil, but has also been recognized as forming a bridge between the two. [Cat] has the power deeply to enrich our lives if, instead of obsessively loving or hating [him], we adopt a realistic attitude towards its paradoxical nature, and allow it to communicate its wisdom.

—PATRICIA DALE-GREEN, Cult of the Cat

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

About the Author

Also by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

THE CONFUSING EVENTS that early fall in Molena Point began perhaps with the return of Kate Osborne, the beguiling blond divorcée arriving back in California richer than sin and with a story as strange as the melodies spun by a modern Pied Piper to mesmerize the unwary. Or maybe the strangeness started with the old, faded photograph of a child from a half century past and the memories she awakened in the yellow tomcat; maybe that was the beginning of the odd occurrences that stirred through the coastal village, setting the five cats off on new paths, propelling them into two forgotten worlds as exotic as the nightmares that jerk us awake in the small hours, frightened and amazed.

The village of Molena Point hugs the California coast a hundred and fifty miles below San Francisco harbor, its own smaller bay cutting into the land in a deep underwater abyss, its shore rising abruptly in a ragged cliff along which Highway One cuts as frail as a spider’s thread. Maybe the tale commences here on the narrow two-lane that wanders twisting and uncertain high above the pounding waves.

It was growing dark when Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw and their tortoiseshell cat left their favorite seafood restaurant north of Santa Cruz. Lucinda had carried Kit to their table hidden in her canvas tote, the smug and purring tortie curled up inside anticipating lobster and scallops slipped to her during their leisurely meal. Now the threesome, replete with a good dinner and comfortable in their new, only slightly used, Lincoln Town Car, continued on south where they had reservations at a motel that welcomed cats—an establishment that even accommodated dogs if they didn’t chase the cats or pee on someone’s sandals.

They’d departed San Francisco in late afternoon, Pedric driving, the setting sun in their eyes as it sank into the sea, its reflections glancing off the dark stone cliff that soon rose on their left, towering black above them. The Lincoln took the precipitous curves with a calm and steady assurance that eased Lucinda’s thoughts of the hundred-foot drop below them into a cold and churning sea. In the seat behind the thin, older couple, tortoiseshell Kit sprawled atop a mountain of packages, her fluffy tail twitching as she looked far down at the boiling waves, and then looked up at the dark, wooded hills rising above the cliff against the orange-streaked sky. The trip home, for Kit, was bittersweet. She loved the city, she had loved going around to all the exclusive designer’s shops, riding in Lucinda’s big carryall like a spoiled lapdog, reaching out a curious paw to feel the rich upholstery fabrics and the sleekly finished furniture that Lucinda and Pedric had considered. She loved the city restaurants, the exotic foods, she had rumbled with purrs when they dined grandly at the beautiful old Mark Hopkins Hotel, had peered out from her canvas lair secretly amusing herself watching her fellow diners. Part of her little cat self hadn’t wanted to leave San Francisco, yet part of her longed to be home, to be back in her own village with her feline pals and her human friends, to sleep at night high in her own tree house among her soft cushions with the stars bright around her and the sea wind riffling the branches of her oak tree. Most of all, she longed to be home with her true love.

It had been a stormy romance since the big red tomcat showed up in Molena Point nearly seven months earlier, when he and Kit had first discovered one another, on the cold, windy shore. Pan appeared in the village just two months after Christmas, right at the time of the amazing snowstorm, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in Molena Point for forty years—but the likes of that handsome tomcat, Kit had never seen. Almost at once, she was smitten.

Oh, my, how Pan did purr for her, and how nicely he hunted with her, letting her take the lead, often easing back and letting her make the kill—but yet how bold he was when they argued, decisive and macho and completely enchanting. Even as much as she’d loved San Francisco, she felt lost and small when she was parted from him. Why can’t I be in two places at once, why can’t I be at home with Pan and Joe Grey and Dulcie and Misto and our human friends, and have all the pleasures of San Francisco, too, all together in the same place? Why do you have to choose one instead of the other?

In the city, the Greenlaws had hit every decorators’ showroom of any consequence, thanks to their friend, interior designer Kate Osborne, who had unlimited access to those exclusive venues. How fetching Kate had looked, ushering them into the showrooms, her short, flyaway blond hair catching the light, her green eyes laughing as if life were a delicious joke, and always dressed in something creamy and silky, casual and elegant. Kate’s scent of sandalwood blended deliciously, too, with the showrooms’ aromas of teak and imported woods and fine fabrics.

Lucinda and Pedric had made wonderful purchases toward refurbishing their Molena Point house. Ten new dining chairs and five small, hand-carved tables were being shipped down to the village, along with a carved Brazilian coffee table, three hand-embossed chests of drawers, and six lengths of upholstery fabric that were far too beautiful for Kit to ever spoil with a careless rake of her claws. The bundles of fabrics and boxes of small accessories filled the Lincoln’s ample trunk and wide backseat, along with the Greenlaws’ early Christmas shopping, with gifts for all their friends; Kit rode along atop a veritable treasure of purchases—to say nothing of even greater riches hidden all around her, inside the doors of the Lincoln where no one would ever find them.