Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

It hadn’t.

Where the snow was exposed to the full morning sun, it had begun to soften, but then the heavy drifts slicked over again as the temperature dropped, the morning sun gone again behind a pale mist. Black ice glittered in the gutters, icicles hung from the trees. Dallas paused on the porch as Ryan came around the corner of the house, her frown stern and uncomfortable.

“What?” he said, looking down at her.

“There are two bodies, just as Kathleen thought. Two bodies, Dallas, crammed into that terrible, dark place.”

He came down the steps, put his arm around her. “You okay?”

“Yes. Just—maybe the smell gets to me. Two graves, the earth packed down with the back of the shovel, shovel marks where the footprints were smoothed away.”

Joe hoped Dulcie’s prints were all smoothed away.

“They are,” Dulcie whispered, cutting him a look. “I brushed them away, I hope I got them all.”

26

Warmed from his breakfast of pancakes and bacon, Billy was coasting his bike down the steep two-lane, down the hill from the Harpers’, headed over to the Harmann ranch to feed their horses when, passing the narrow lane to his burned house, he saw Gran’s landlord standing at the edge of the burn, his silver-colored pickup nosed nearly out of sight against the hill. Billy stopped, softly dragging his foot, silently braking his bike. The stink of burned wood still hung in the air, souring the clean cold smell of the snow. The old man stood just at the edge of the fire-chewed timbers, his back to him, and as Billy watched, he stepped in over the crime-scene tape, carrying a sharp-nosed shovel.

He stood a moment, looking, then began to poke the shovel in among the wet, burned walls and debris; the shovel made an ugly, grating sound as it sliced through ashes and charcoal. The crusty old man had every right to be on his own property, but the burn was still off limits, Max Harper had told Billy that. Maybe not even Zandler should be disturbing the scene until the cops released it. Zandler always looked like an ancient crow in his dusty black suit with its old-fashioned vest. Stained white shirt open at the collar, grizzled gray hair combed sideways over his balding head, hanging down around his collar. Short gray beard as stiff as a scrub brush. He was a tall old man, long angled face under the bristle, and small angry eyes that could fix on you like the eyes of a mean-spirited old crow wanting to peck and strike. Didn’t he know he shouldn’t be in there? But there was no cop around, so what did he care?

Zandler’s footprints led from his truck across the snowy yard to Emmylou’s shack and then to the collapsed one. Had he gone to see if Emmylou had moved back in, on the sly? Or if Billy himself meant to stay on there hoping he wouldn’t be caught? The old man was always sure someone was taking advantage of him. He was nosy, too, asking Gran, when he came to get the rent, if she had enough money set aside for the next month’s payment, saying he hoped she had it in a safe place. Gran always said the same, What I have is none of your damn business. If I can’t pay you, we’ll get out. But she always had the money, and Zandler always remarked slyly on her frugal ways. Every time, the minute he’d gone, Gran would say, Nosy old goat.

The burn was still warm enough so no snow clung to the black rubble, and Zandler was just poking and prodding with his shovel, bending down to look sometimes, or to pick something up. What was he looking for? And why was his pickup parked right beside the old lumber and doors that hid Gran’s cave?

He had to know about the cave, but Billy didn’t think he’d ever shown any interest or snooped around there. The land and buildings belonged to Zandler, but Billy wasn’t sure the cave did. It might even be on the Harper property, cut back into the hill the way it was, only a few feet from their pasture fence. Gran had always been secretive about it, didn’t want anyone snooping in there, sure not Zandler. She might have been drunk a lot of the time, but she knew if even one board in that pile had been moved. If Billy went out there to count the bottles, to see how much she was drinking, he’d better be sure she was asleep, and be sure to replace the boards exactly right. Now, easing his bike down into the gulley that ran alongside, he laid it down in the weeds that grew at the bottom. Climbing back up the bank, he stayed close to the hill where Zandler might not notice him, walked silently and tried to melt into the hill.

The old man still hadn’t seen him. He was scraping around the remains of their burned table, and then scraping at Gran’s burned bed, pushing aside what was left of it. Billy thought to try to stop him, but common sense held him still. Zandler might be old but he was strong and he had a mean temper, he handled the big shovel as if it weighed nothing, shoving aside melted pots and pans, melted dishes and burned rags, then gouging at the floor beneath Gran’s bed, squinting and poking at whatever might lie beneath. If someone had started the fire on purpose, Zandler’s rummaging could destroy important evidence, and . . .

Was that what the old man had in mind?

But why would Zandler hurt Gran and burn his own house? Surely not just for her whiskey money. Billy watched him scrape aside the remains of their cupboard and the two chairs with their legs burned off. He wished Max Harper was there to see what he was doing and to stop him. He watched Zandler kneel, examine the burned wooden floor under where the cupboard had stood, and then begin to dig. When the old man rose, Billy melted into the hill among the grayed lumber and bushes.

But the old man found nothing, his hands were empty except for the shovel. Idly swinging it, he headed for his truck, started it, and spun a turn kicking up snow and gravel, sped up the lane, and a right turn onto the highway heading for the village. When he’d gone Billy hauled his bike out of the ditch and took off fast for work, thinking he’d call Captain Harper from the Harmann place, tell him Zandler sure was looking for something.

Misto was lame with the cold, but despite his paining shoulder, father and son raced across the snowy rooftops wild and laughing, amused by this sudden surprising touch of displaced Oregon winter. Eugene hadn’t had snow every year, but when it did they’d found it highly entertaining, the whole family, even when the kittens were small, plunging through the drifts like demented hound dogs. There was never much snow on the valley floor, in the business section of Eugene. But up in the residential hills snow formed drifts high enough to bring cars to a halt, people clueless how to drive in it, cars skidding, drivers honking or stalling or both—while Pan and his sisters, watching from the snowy rooftops, could barely contain their laughter.

Now, below the two cats, the same drama was at work, cars sliding sideways, drivers going super slowly hanging their heads out of ice-blind windows; and Misto and Pan, as they headed for Kit’s house, delighted by this familiar circus of winter confusion.

The morning was so cold that twice, when a car pulled to the curb to park, they waited for the occupants to hurry away then bellied down a tree, leaped to the car’s hood, and sat warming their paws and backsides before they raced on again. When they reached Kit’s house, the smell of waffles and syrup drew them like bees to honey, despite their own ample breakfast. Licking his whiskers in anticipation, Misto led Pan up the fat trunk of Kit’s oak tree and into her tree house—where Pan halted, staring around with amazement.

“This is Kit’s? All hers?” He looked up at the timbered roof and out at the surround of twisted oak branches that formed an extended bower. “All hers ?” he repeated.