Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

Charlie’s first book had been about Kit herself, about an orphaned tortoiseshell kitten trying to survive in the wild on her own. It had been a great success with readers, and in Kit’s view it was the best book in the whole world. Now, here was Charlie with another book that was not about her, and the editor liked it better. Kit was hot with jealousy. The editor’s enthusiasm, and Charlie’s joy, seemed a terrible betrayal.

“Editors always like the newest book best,” Charlie said, chagrined. “Or they say they do. They think that prods a writer to work harder. But,” she said, picking Kit up and cuddling her, “there’ll never be another book like Tattercoat. I’ll never, ever be able to write another story like that one. Everyone who reads it loves it, I get hundreds and hundreds of letters and emails telling me how much they love it.” Mavity and Cora Lee had read many of the letters; and of course Kit had read them all, each with a terrible thrill and with a deep and purring satisfaction.

Their friends all knew, of course, that Kit had been the model for Tattercoat, for both the story and Charlie’s many drawings. But only a few people knew that Tattercoat was, in fact, Kit’s own true story, much of it told in Kit’s own words. So now of course Kit was jealous. Charlie held her close until at last Kit relaxed in her arms, her ears came up again, and she began to purr.

“Still,” Charlie said, stroking Kit, “that doesn’t mean I should stop writing. It doesn’t mean I should stop trying, even though I know there will never, ever be another adventure as compelling, for me, as Tattercoat.” With Kit at last purring happily, Charlie sat down at the table, settling the tortoiseshell in her lap.

“Well, your editor’s happy,” Cora Lee said, and Mavity smiled, as Charlie’s two friends, oblivious to the little cat’s anger, celebrated Charlie’s success.

But Kit wasn’t the only one who had bristled. Across the table, Lori watched the three women with her fists clenched on her lap. Charlie and Mavity weren’t a bit interested that Pa was in the hospital and might die; neither one seemed to care at all. Charlie was so excited about an old book, so centered on herself. Didn’t grown-ups care about anything outside themselves? Didn’t they ever feel frightened? How come grown-ups were so smug and certain all the time, when it was all Lori could do just to hold herself together?

She didn’t realize she was tearing her sandwich into little pieces until she looked up and saw Charlie watching her, saw the eyes of all three women on her. Cora Lee looked at Lori, then turned to Charlie. “I called Wilma this morning, I thought she’d call you. I guess you were riding. And when you called here …”

“What?” Charlie said. “What is it? I didn’t check my messages, I just put the mare up and jumped in the car.” She looked at Lori, at her sullen expression. “What?” she said softly.

“Lori’s pa was stabbed this morning,” Cora Lee said, “in the prison yard. They flew him to Salinas Valley Hospital, we just got back. He’s …” She glanced at Lori. “He’s not out of danger, but he’s stable.”

Charlie reached across, took Lori’s hand in hers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. You were with him this morning?”

Lori nodded.

“Were you able to talk with the doctor?”

Again, a nod. But it was Cora Lee who answered. “The doctor says he’s strong, that he’s doing as well as he can.”

Lori said, “I think they’re taking good care of him. He can’t …” Her voice caught. “He can’t die.” She turned away from the table, standing with her back to them, petting the three cats with one hand, stroking the two dogs with the other, where they’d come to lean against her, clutching the animals in her need, not bothering to wipe the tears from her face.

Cora Lee watched her, but let her be. “The doctor said if he continues doing well he’ll soon be out of danger. He hopes he’ll improve enough by the end of the week so they can take him back to Soledad. He thought Jack should heal quickly; he’s young and strong, and he has Lori to get well for.” She looked up at Charlie, frowning. “It was the Colletto boy, Victor. I’ve already talked with Max. Until this gets sorted out, he doesn’t want Lori to go anywhere alone, not even in the yard, not even outside with the dogs.”

Charlie rose and came around the table, putting her arm around Lori. “We can ride together, I’d like that, I’d like the company. Would you feel safe with me?” Lori nodded. Charlie didn’t ask about Lori working for Ryan; she knew Ryan wouldn’t let anything happen, knew that everyone would rally around the child. She only wished they could defend the village as handily against these home invaders.

But Max would take care of them, Charlie thought—with a little assist from the feline contingent to hurry things along, hopefully to put these guys behind bars before Christmas.

15

BY NOON, THE day after she shot Martin and Caroline, after the cops had come and gone at the small house she’d rented, to tell her Martin was dead, the shooter knew the old woman hadn’t seen her. If Maudie had fingered her, the cops would have arrested her on the spot or, at the very least, have labeled her a person of interest and taken her in for questioning. What a laugh, those cops trying to break the news gently, that her ex-husband had been shot and killed, asking if there was someone, a relative or neighbor, who could come in and stay with her. And then at last, asking ever so respectfully where she’d been that night, saying they hadn’t been able to reach her.

She had the stubs of her plane ticket, the Visa charge slip, and room receipt from Vegas. Arriving early the day before, she’d seen friends and gambled. If she’d flown out again under another name and ID, no one needed to know that. You could gamble all weekend wherever you chose, at any hour you chose, and very likely no one would remember you. If you lost money and didn’t take a big winning, there was no record. A Southwest flight into Ontario International, pick up a rental car, drive back to Vegas and no one the wiser. The cops had nothing to tie her to the shooting or they’d have been all over her—the same way they’d been all over the wrecked car after the shooting, the same way they’d have searched the road and surrounding ranches and fields the next morning looking for tire marks, footprints, shell casings. The news said there were still no leads to the shooter. It didn’t mention a second person in the truck, and by now her driver was far away. Though holdbacks by the cops were common, this time she was inclined to believe what the sheriff’s department had told the press.

Even if they’d found a casing, which they wouldn’t, they wouldn’t find a match to this gun on their fancy AFIS network. They might get a warrant to search the nearby houses and farms, but she’d left no trace in the “borrowed” truck; and she’d stayed on the gravel where there wouldn’t likely be tire marks. Any gravel in the tire tread would be natural enough, with the truck going in and out across the graveled drives and roads. The truck’s owner, Harley Owens, was the brother of a woman who worked where she’d worked. Vera Owens was so talkative that Pearl knew not only Vera’s personal habits but Harley’s as well—he wouldn’t be back there for another three weeks. The Owenses’ ranch was a weekend place, the few cattle that were pastured there belonged to a neighbor who cared for them. It had been blind luck that the ranch was located so near to Maudie’s cabin, an opportunity too good to let pass. It hadn’t taken long, watching the place for a few weekends, driving up in the morning and back at night, cruising the area, to know Vera had described Harley’s habits accurately.