Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

“You want to tell me about the scams?”

“I . . . would really rather talk about it later,” she said, glancing at Vinnie. “That can’t have anything to do with my mother.”

“Did Erik get along well with your mother? Did he ever visit her?”

“I don’t know why he would. They’d get along all right, I guess, if he ever saw her. But why would he bother with her?”

“Could Hesmerra have known about his real estate deals?”

“How could she possibly know something like that? Why would she care?”

“How did you know about the deals?” Max said. “Did you see contracts, sales agreements?”

“That would take a while to explain. Ryan’s waiting for me,” she said, “to take me up to her cottage.”

Max rose. “We can talk about this another time,” he said easily. “Meanwhile, we’d like you to stop by the station, get your fingerprints on file.”

“What for? I’m not being investigated. Why would you need my fingerprints?”

“We need family prints to eliminate from others we might find at the scene.”

“It’s years since I went there, before Greta’s child was born. Whatever prints I might have left wouldn’t still be there.”

“You’re family,” Max said. “It’s customary. We’ll need Billy’s prints, of course, and Esther’s, as well as yours.”

When Debbie rose, Vinnie leaped up and grabbed her around the legs. Max looked at the child a moment, then let himself out the front door. Debbie stared after him, then turned away toward the guest room, dragging Vinnie. The child acted as if Debbie was private property, to push and pull as she chose. Just as, Joe thought, Debbie seemed to view those people around her, who might be useful.

Alone in the living room, except for little Tessa, behind the couch, a number of questions nudged Joe. The more he saw of Debbie Kraft, the less he liked her. He wondered what had happened to the family cat. Had Pan, the night of the fire, tried to return to the Krafts’ rented house? If he’d shown up there, maybe injured from the fire, would Debbie have chased him away? Run him off, even if he needed help? She’d already dismissed the young tom as no more than a discarded toy: a cat her little girl loved, a cat who was quite possibly smarter, and surely more decent, than the woman he had come to for shelter.

12

From the back of his well-clawed easy chair, Joe watched through the front window as the chief drove off in the direction of the station. He watched Clyde carry out a load of plastic bags and duffels, kiddie blankets and stuffed toys, and push everything into the back of Debbie’s station wagon. Debbie followed him, scowling, bearing a tangle of clothes and stray shoes, none too happy to be shuffled off so quickly. Joe sat enjoying the drama until he heard Ryan’s footsteps in the studio above him, then, leaping from his chair, he hightailed it up the stairs, where they could talk in private, hopefully without Vinnie charging in to catch her hostess and the house cat in a private discussion.

Ryan stood beside the tall studio windows looking down to the drive, the sun teasing a shine across her short hair. There was a more relaxed look on her face as she watched Clyde and Debbie pack up the car. Leaping onto the mantel beside her, Joe gave her a wicked smile.

“What?” she said, turning from the window, her green eyes looking into his. When he’d left the kitchen earlier, she knew he was taking advantage of the moment to toss Debbie’s room. “What did you find?” she said softly.

“She’s not so broke, ” Joe said with sly satisfaction.

“How much?”

“Two thousand, in cash. I didn’t find a bankbook, so maybe that’s all she has, but that’s hardly the same as broke. That should hold her until she gets a job—if she plans to get a job. I wonder,” Joe said, “how much money she had when she left Eugene. Aren’t there some pretty nice resorts in southern Oregon and on down in Mendocino?”

“You do have a suspicious mind, tomcat.”

“And you don’t?”

“Cop’s kid,” she said. “Comes with the territory. That’s why we survive, suspicion breeds safety. Two thousand bucks! Poor thing. Talk about destitute.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on top his head. “You did good, tomcat.” If a cat could blush, he’d look like a pink plush kiddy toy. Licking a paw to hide his embarrassment, he watched her make her way back downstairs, heard her in the living room hurrying Debbie along. When he peered down again through the window, the two kids were in the car, enthroned among the blankets and duffels, and Clyde was stuffing the last load in around them. Dropping down from the mantel, he pawed open the sliding glass door and slipped out onto the deck. Looking over, he watched Ryan hand Debbie the want ads, listened to her suggest job venues, including a contact with their friend Chichi Barbi, who had recently bought Charlie Harper’s cleaning service. Chichi was expanding the business, taking on a long waiting list of homeowners who wanted their houses cleaned and maintained on a regular basis. She was interested in any possible new employee who could pass the background check and was a good worker. He wondered if Debbie could pass on either count?

But maybe he was being too hard on her, maybe with encouragement she’d knuckle down and get a job—or maybe, he thought, she’d run quickly through the two thousand, and then start whining again.

Debbie was saying, “I need to stop for groceries.” She sighed, looking toward the car. “Something to feed the kids.” Joe imagined them pulling up before the little village grocery, imagined Debbie asking Clyde to come inside, to show her where things were, so it wouldn’t take her so long. And then at the checkout, giving Clyde that helpless, big-eyed look when she discovered she was short of cash. Right, Joe thought . And Clyde’s going to sucker up to that?

As Ryan and Clyde headed for Ryan’s pickup to lead Debbie up to the cottage, Joe thought to scorch on down and ride with them, see how this played out. Except, he’d had more than enough of Debbie Kraft and Vinnie for a while. Instead he raced away across the roofs for Molena Point PD, where he could relax among easy cop talk, away from Debbie Kraft’s lies and fake smiles; he pitied Rock, who had already scrambled up into the backseat of the truck.

If Max was back at the station, maybe he’d already called Eugene to check on Debbie’s movements, see when she had left Oregon for California. He wondered if he should call Eugene himself, to try to get a line on the red tomcat. The nursing home must have set up a temporary office, maybe even with the original phone number. Running across the roofs, with an icy wind at his back, he hurried for the station, thinking that winter had turned serious and bold. Dark clouds hung low over the village, the damp air smelled of rain and of a deeper cold yet to come. Well, but February weather on the central coast was never to be relied on. Racing beneath the wind, sailing across the occasional narrow alley, he hit the cold tile roof of the courthouse, ran its length, and dropped down to the roof of MPPD.

He was just backing down the oak, headed for the front door, when a black-and-white pulled to the curb below. Hidden within the prickly oak leaves, he watched two uniformed officers step out, force their handcuffed prisoner out of the backseat and through the glass door, into the little foyer: a young, skinny fellow, long face, long greasy hair. Even from the tree Joe could smell the oily stink of his old leather jacket. As they marched him inside, Joe hit the ground behind them and slid in, too. The arrestee looked startled to see a cat race in past his feet, but the officers paid no attention. They stood at the dispatcher’s counter, portly Officer Brennan booking the guy in, printing him, listing his personal effects that Brennan had laid out on the desk; a dirty handkerchief, a little greasy coin purse, a squashed candy bar.