Shirley Murphy: Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Telling_Tales_BookFi

Billy was the last to take up a handful of earth and scatter it. He stood a moment, his back to Joe, his head bent, then turned away, perhaps as much from the gaze of his aunts as from this last and final contact with his grandmother. What Billy was feeling had to be as mixed and confused as had been his young life. A child doing a grown-up’s work, taking care of an old woman who preferred to remain as helpless as a child herself, a child held captive by his grandmother’s weaknesses and by her twisted life. Watching the boy filled Joe with a heavy sadness, and when he looked at Dulcie, his dismay was reflected in her green eyes. Kit’s ears were down, too, her yellow eyes sad, hurt that a young boy’s life could be so without joy. For all three cats, the mysterious balance between joy and pain was the deepest mystery they knew, the real meaning of that conflict was too confusing to sort out, in this life.

Billy and Charlie didn’t linger over the grave, the cats could see he wanted to get away. Within minutes, he and Charlie got into her SUV and pulled on around the curve behind one of the black-and-whites, making the circle through the cemetery to the main road, heading away toward the ranch. Nearly everyone seemed glad to escape, moving toward their cars, including Wilma and the Greenlaws. Kit looked back toward Dulcie and Joe, but then she went on, wanting to be with her old couple, caught perhaps in the sadness of the funeral and the fragility of life.

Quickly Debbie turned to leave, too, she was dragging the children away when Max caught up with her. “Debbie?” She turned to look at him, frowning.

“Would you want to come on down to the station? We have some papers we’d like you to look over, they were among your mother’s things. Do you have someone to watch the children for a while?” Joe glanced across at Ryan and Clyde, they were just about the only people remaining. If Max was going to press them into babysitting, he was out of there.

“No,” she said, “I don’t have anyone to watch the children. We just buried my mother, this is not a good time. What is it, that can’t wait?”

“The papers were just brought to our attention, and could be important. You can bring the children, it won’t take long. One of the officers will watch them.”

“This really isn’t an appropriate time.”

“It’s a good time for me,” Max said. “I don’t see the need to arrest you, just for questioning, if you’re willing to cooperate. I’ll follow you down to the station.”

Debbie gave a dramatic sigh, and headed for her car. Opening the back door, she pushed the girls in the backseat.

“Well,” Dulcie said, smiling.

“Come on,” Joe said, racing for Clyde’s roadster just ahead of his housemates. As the cats leaped in, the little cemetery tractor came lumbering along the lane. It stopped at the open grave, uncovered the mound of earth, and began to scoop it over the casket, patting it down with the tractor’s toothy bucket. Soon the two gardeners would lay squares of sod over the raw earth; in a few weeks the grass would fill in, and the velvet lawn would look as if no hole had ever been dug there. Deer would graze on Hesmerra’s grave, leaving cloven hoof prints in the damp grass. Joe wondered if Debbie or Esther, or Billy, would bring flowers to put in a little vase. Off in the woods, two deer had stopped grazing and stood watching the tractor at work, and for some reason, their interest made the fur along Joe’s back prickle. Then Ryan and Clyde were there at the car and, at Joe’s direction, Clyde headed obligingly for MPPD.

The two cats beat Max to the station by minutes, as the chief dawdled along behind Debbie, who in his presence seemed compelled to obey every village speed limit. By the time the two little girls had been settled in the conference room with Officer Brennan, Vinnie complaining all the while, Dulcie and Joe were under Max’s credenza. They watched Debbie flounce in, into one of the leather chairs as if she owned the place. Behind her, Max was saying, “I can’t give you any guarantees. We’ll do what we can. If he’s put away for a while, you won’t have to hide from him.” He sat down at his desk, leaning back. “Were the transactions all on Molena Point property?”

“Some were here,” Debbie said. “Most of them, they couldn’t have pulled off here, in their own territory. They had deals going in five states, sales I’m sure can’t be legal.” She looked at him pleadingly. “If he finds out I was here, that I told—”

Max said, “You have no choice. You were ordered to come in.” That seemed to ease her, she looked uncertain, but relaxed a little. He said, “How did you get your hands on the papers without him knowing?”

“Late at night, when I was sure Erik was asleep. I photographed whatever papers were in his briefcase that day. I didn’t dare use his copier, I was afraid he’d check that little counter thing that keeps track. I took digital photos, put them on my computer, printed them out, put them on a disc, then erased the hard drive.” She looked intently at Harper, a more intelligent look than the cats had seen, a look not just of anger now, at being hauled into the station, but of a canny malice. “They’d sell one house several times. Sell it over and over again.”

“You mean buy it back, and sell it again?”

“No, they didn’t buy it back. They just kept selling it. Out-of-state buyers, people who never even flew out to see what they’d bought. They looked at the pictures and maps he sent, took his word for everything. People who wanted investment property. Erik invented fake titles, drew up fake escrow papers, fake deeds. He and Alain made the sales just after the yearly property taxes were paid, so no one would inquire about a tax bill, find it was in the wrong name.” She went quiet, looking down at her hands. Max waited, relying on that void in a conversation that will prompt an interviewee, uncomfortable in the silence, to frantically fill up the empty space, revealing perhaps more than he intended.

Debbie fidgeted, and sighed. “They’d buy old, rundown foreclosures, too. Take pictures, doctor the pictures on the computer to make them look like a nice renovation, nice landscaping. Advertise them on the Web, for sale by owner. They’d double the price, again sell to some out-of-state buyer who didn’t have time to come out and look at the place, who wanted coastal real estate for investment. I know of one buyer, bought five houses. Erik’s agreement was, he’d rent the houses out for them until the market went up and they could make a profit, he’d keep ten percent of the rent, send the buyer the balance. That part was legitimate, and why not? He’d already made a hundred percent profit on the deal. It was easy to find tenants, people scrambling for low rent. They did all this under fictitious Realtor’s names, so if the buyer wanted to sell, or came out here and got a look at the house, he couldn’t track them down.”

“Did you plan to bring this to the attention of the police or the real estate board, either here or in Eugene?”

She looked down again. “I . . . Eventually, I meant to. I made the copies so I’d have some power over him. So he’d give me a decent support settlement and child support.” She looked up at him pleadingly. “If I went to the cops right away, I’d lose what power I had. I thought . . . I meant to wait until I could bargain for a cash settlement. Then give him the papers I had, and that Mama had, and promise to leave it alone. Maybe, then, I’d bring you copies. It . . . It was for the children,” she added lamely.

Max didn’t look like he was buying all this. Nor were Joe and Dulcie. What made her think Erik would believe her when she promised to back off? What made her think he wouldn’t get really angry and turn more violent? Joe guessed that now, with Hesmerra dead, and Sammie dead, Debbie was feeling a little less cocky in her expectations.