Shirley Murphy - Murphy_Shirley_Rousseau_Cat_Coming_Home_BookFi

“The paper was sold recently. No one I know likes this new approach—though I haven’t heard of anyone canceling their subscription,” Ryan said wryly. Glancing around the big kitchen with its glass door into the studio, she was acutely aware of how open the house was, kitchen, living room, and entry open to one another with no way to shut any room off, open stairway leading to the bedrooms, no way to secure the second floor. “You haven’t considered an alarm system?”

“I thought about it, but they’re such a bother, always having to remember to arm and disarm them, and then sometimes they go off for no reason, throwing everyone into a panic. I keep the doors locked, the windows locked except when I’m right in the room. Unfortunately,” she said, “I’ve misplaced my second set of keys, and that’s worrisome, but they’ll show up.”

Ryan remained quiet. She couldn’t understand, as vulnerable as Maudie was here alone, and with the shooting so recent and raw in her emotions, how she could be so unconcerned. She had started to speak, to ask more about the missing keys, when she caught Joe Grey’s eye, the tomcat’s look so intense that she had to look away.

What was he telling her? But then almost as if he’d spoken, Ryan knew. It was the one question Joe had asked her about the shooting, the one element of that double murder that Maudie had never made clear, that she seemed to have carefully skirted, the few times the subject was mentioned.

On that black night, on that dark mountain road, with only the thin flicker of moonlight Maudie had described, had she seen the face of the killer?

If she’d seen the shooter and had told the police, wouldn’t she have been encouraged to stay in L.A., maybe with a guard, until the shooter was arrested and she could identify him? If she was the only witness, surely the LAPD wouldn’t have wanted her to move away. Ryan could conclude only that, most likely, Maudie hadn’t seen the shooter. And yet the woman’s unease when she talked about the shooting, something apart from the horror and pain of the murder, made both Ryan and Joe Grey wonder.

“That night,” Ryan said, “the night of the shooting— did you see the killer? See anything you could tell the police?”

“Nothing,” Maudie said quickly. “The sheriff questioned me while I was in the hospital. Later when I got out, when David took me home, the L.A. police questioned me. I guess they were doing some kind of …” Maudie paused, searching for the word.

“Collateral investigation?” Ryan asked.

Maudie nodded. “But no, that night—so black … Hardly any moon at all. It had been a hot day, was still hot and we had the top down. Suddenly the pickup loomed beside us, seemed to come out of nowhere, racing along next to us, and the next instant the gunshots, the noise, and those three explosions of light blinding me, the car spinning out of control and going over …” Maudie said, telling more than she’d been asked, more than was needed.

Ryan said no more. She glanced at Joe Grey, feeling the same uncertainty that gleamed in the tomcat’s eyes. At that moment, woman and cat were caught in the same sure sense that Maudie wanted only to divert Ryan, that she was surely holding something back.

Had she lied to the L.A. detectives? Maybe lied so she’d be free to leave L.A., so the police wouldn’t press her to stay in the city, under their protection? Or if Maudie was the only one who could identify the killer, would she lie to protect herself, so the killer wouldn’t come after her?

But this was all conjecture. Probably in the dark night, Ryan thought, Maudie had seen nothing more than the flashes of the gun, she was most likely telling the truth, had told L.A. everything she knew. After all, who more than Maudie would want to see the killer pay for those brutal murders?

35

IT WAS HARDLY light when the first good smells of party food filtered up to Joe’s tower from the kitchen below. The tomcat woke, yawning, drinking in the scents of frying meat and onions. Ryan and Clyde would be putting together the tamale pie, and probably the taco fillings, for the Christmas party. Out across the roofs, long streaks of sunrise bloomed beneath a cover of heavy gray clouds. But it wouldn’t rain, he couldn’t smell rain in the offing. No matter what the weather gurus might think, Joe knew better; he knew the sky would clear before the day’s festivities. Rising from among his pillows, his mind on the feast to come, he headed in through his cat door onto the heavy rafter. Dropping down to Clyde’s desk, he hit the floor and galloped down the stairs.

Clyde was just setting the last of five huge casseroles on the counter, to be baked later. Joe reared up, looking. “You leave any for my breakfast? I’d be happy to lick the pot.”

“It isn’t fully cooked yet,” Clyde said, glancing at the casseroles.

“It’s cooked enough for me.” He leaped up to the counter as Clyde, having indeed saved some back, set down a small plate of the half-cooked delicacy for him. Besides the tamale pie and tacos, there would be all manner of food for the buffet, a ham, chicken pies from Jolly’s Deli, and a variety of salads and casseroles that their friends would bring, all carefully packed in Styrofoam coolers. Dinner would go on all afternoon in a marathon buffet as officers came and went, taking their hasty breaks. Every available officer would be on duty. With all the events scheduled, this could be a perfect time for an invasion—not a pleasant end to a happy holiday celebration, to return home in a happy mood and find unwelcome visitors offering a dark side to the usual Christmas greetings.

As soon as Ryan and Clyde had opened up the big round table in the kitchen and laid out the napkins and plates and silverware, Ryan disappeared into the guest room. Joe followed her, leaping up onto the wicker desk among boxes of Christmas cards and unwrapped gifts. Though their tree was up, filling a corner of the living room, and Clyde had mailed his cards to favorite clients, Ryan hadn’t started her own cards or wrapped her gifts. “Why the hurry?” Joe said. “Christmas is a whole week away.”

“I don’t need the sarcasm,” she said, scratching his ear. The bed was covered with boxes and bags from her favorite village shops, and with rolls of red and green Christmas paper. Beneath the wide windows, the wicker game table held boxes of Christmas cards, stamps, and sheets of computer-printed address labels. She had set up a folding table nearby, where her scissors and tape and fancy tags were lined up awaiting a frenzy of gift wrapping. A box of tall red Christmas candles stood on the nightstand, scenting the room with bayberry. “I was supposed to start the new house up on Third next week,” she said. “I put them off until after New Year’s. Between it and our own remodels, I’m lucky to have even a start on Christmas. I hate being stressed during the holidays.”

Joe looked at the organized start she’d already made, and thought about the nine houses she’d remodeled just this last year, and could only admire Ryan’s efficiency. If she’d been a cat, she’d be a skilled mouser, every move keenly planned—the little beasts wouldn’t have a prayer. Rubbing against her hand, he said, “Thanks for loaning us the phone. And for not asking questions.”

“What’s the point in asking? You’ll tell me only what you want me to hear.”

What he’d told her was that he needed to borrow a cell phone, just for today. She’d looked at him for a long time. He’d be around the house today, so why would he need a phone? He could use the house phone, could find privacy upstairs if he needed to make a call. And who would he call? Dulcie and Kit would be right there, as well as half the department, the chief, the detectives. But now, too curious to remain polite, she did ask.