Cat Bearing Gifts

7

IT WAS EARLIER in the year, during that unusual February that brought snow to the village, when Joe found Dulcie in the nighttime library sitting on Wilma’s desk, the pale light of Wilma’s work computer glowing around her. When Dulcie turned to look down at him, the expression on her face was incredibly mysterious and embarrassed. How shy she had been, telling him she was composing a poem; only at long last had she allowed him to read it, to see what she’d written.

The poem made him laugh, as it was meant to do, and within the next weeks Dulcie produced a whole sheaf of poems, some happy, some uncomfortably sad, and the occasional funny one that made Joe smile. His tabby lady had discovered a whole new dimension to her life, to her already amazing world. That’s where she would be now, sitting before the computer caught up in that magical realm where Joe could only look on, where he was sure he could never follow. Where he could only be glad for her, and try not to mourn his loss, of that part of his tabby lady.

To Joe Grey, words and language were for gathering information and passing it along—and for making certain your humans knew when to serve up the caviar. But Dulcie used language as a painter used color, and the concept was nearly beyond him, the inner fire of such expression quite beyond his solid tomcat nature. How many speaking cats were there in the world, living their own secret lives? And how many of them had found their souls filled suddenly with the music of words, with a new kind of voice that Joe himself could hardly fathom? Contemplating such wonders of the mind and heart left him feeling strange and unsettled, like trotting along a narrow plank high aboveground and suddenly losing his balance, swaying out over empty space not knowing how to take the next step, a devastating feeling to the likes of any cat.

Joe took a long route home, thinking about Dulcie and trying not to feel left out from this new aspect to her life; but soon again his thoughts returned to the two tramps, to questions that as yet had no answers, and to the paper money they were surely finding, money old and rank with mildew. Who had hidden it there?

How long had it lain within those damp walls? That stone building was more than a hundred years old, it had stood there since the early nineteen hundreds, when it was an outbuilding for the dairy farm that had once occupied that knoll of land. Ryan and Clyde had spent hours in the history section of the Molena Point library perusing old books and photographs of the area, when they bought the little remodel just two blocks down from Emmylou, where Debbie Kraft and her girls were now living. Had the money been secreted there since the place was built, or had a subsequent owner, Sammie or someone before her, stashed it away in those old walls?

Emmylou might not know about that hidden stash, but he didn’t understand how she could fail to know that two freeloaders were camping on her property, not fifty feet from her. Yet she didn’t seem to have a clue. Misto visited her often, he was sure she thought the old place as empty as a clean-licked tuna can.

It was strange, Jesse thought, that when he talked about the missing money, Misto grew silent and withdrawn and a curious look shone in his yellow eyes. As if he knew something, or almost knew but couldn’t quite put a paw on what was needling him. As if some long-lost memory had surfaced but wouldn’t come clear, leaving the old yellow tom puzzled and uncertain. Strange, too, that Misto spent so much time with Emmylou, visiting her and prowling her house, almost as if he felt a tie to the property.

Or maybe a connection to the dead woman who had owned it? If there were memories here, if there was a story here, either Misto wasn’t ready to share it or he didn’t remember enough to share, maybe could recall only tattered fragments. But this, too, unsettled Joe. Fragments of memory from when? Sometimes Misto talked about past lives, and Joe didn’t like that, he didn’t buy into that stuff. Even if they did have nine lives, which no one had ever proven, what made a cat think he could remember them, that he could recall those faraway connections?

As he crossed a high, shingled peak, the scudding wind hit him, thrusting sharp fingers into his short gray fur. Below him, the dark residential streets were black beneath the pine and cypress trees, only a few cottage windows showed lights, the soft glow of a reading lamp, the flicker of a TV. He was crossing a tiled ridge near Kit’s house, just a block over, when he stopped and reared up, looking.

The windows of the Greenlaw house were all dark, with Lucinda and Pedric and Kit still in the city. There should be no one about, certainly there should be no creature prowling Kit’s tree house among the oak branches, but there against the starry sky moved the silhouette of a cat pacing fretfully back and forth across the high platform, an impatient figure, an interloper prowling Kit’s territory where no strange animal was welcome. Joe sniffed the air for scent but the sea wind was to his back, heavy with iodine and the smell of a rotting fish somewhere. Heading across the interceding rooftops, he slipped silently down to the Greenlaws’ garden and then up again, up the oak tree to Kit’s high, roofed platform, his fur prickling with challenge.

LIGHTS WERE ON at the Damens’ house, upstairs in the master suite, lights silhouetting hurrying shadows against the shades, the commotion stirred by Kit’s phone call as Ryan and Clyde hastily pulled on jeans, sweatshirts, and jackets, grabbed up backpacks, stuffing in flashlights, cat food and water, and the first-aid kit. Rock, the big silver Weimaraner, was off the love seat and pacing; he knew they were going on a mission and he couldn’t be still.

The upstairs lights went off again, the stair light came on, then the porch light blazed as the three of them headed out for the king cab, Ryan locking the door behind them. Rock bounded past Clyde into the backseat, lunging from one side window to the other with such enthusiasm he rocked the heavy vehicle like a rowboat, staring out into the night looking hopefully for the first hint of his quarry and then poking his nose in Ryan’s ear or against Clyde’s cheek, urging them to hurry, demanding to be out on the trail tracking the bad guys. The sleek silver dog had no clue that tonight his target would not be an escaped convict armed and dangerous, but one small cat, frightened and alone, a quarry who, if at last he found her, would snuggle up to him purring mightily.

But even to find one small cat, a tracking dog needs a sample of his mark’s scent, a clear and identifiable smell to follow among the millions of odors he’d encounter along the high cliff. “Pillows,” Ryan said. “Stop by the Greenlaws.”

“Pillows?” Clyde looked over at her, frowning.

“Kit’s tree house. Her pillows. I brought a clean plastic bag.”

“You’re going to climb the oak tree?”

“Ladder,” she said, glancing up at the cab roof where, above it, her long construction ladder rode securely tethered on the overhead rack. “Just take a minute, we’ll have a nice, fur-matted pillow for Rock to sniff.”

“If we had Joe, he’d put Rock on the trail. Where the hell—”

“Even with Joe,” she said, “I’d want a scent article, as you’re supposed to have, so as not to spoil Rock’s training.”

“The one time Joe might be of help,” Clyde said, ignoring her logic, “he’s off hunting. Or off with Pan whispering in that little kid’s ear. Talk about an exercise in futility.”

“If Pan can help that little girl, we ought to cheer him on. Scared of her mother, bullied by her sister. Besides, Joe might not even be with Pan. He and Dulcie have been hanging around Emmylou Warren’s all week, around that stone building up behind, whatever that’s about.”

“I don’t want to know what that’s about. More trouble, one way or another.”

Ryan just looked at him.

“Name one time Joe went off on some crazy round of surveillance that he didn’t stir a carload of trouble.”

“Name one time Joe wasn’t leaps ahead of the cops,” she said. “That he didn’t drop valuable information in Max Harper’s lap, a lead that Max was grateful for, even if he didn’t know where it came from.” She sat scowling at him. “Don’t be so hard on Joe, we’re blessed to know him, and all you do is rag him.”

Clyde grinned. “He loves it. Rags me right back.”

“You don’t realize how lucky you are just to share bed and supper with Joe, just to know those five cats. But,” she said, “there is something strange going on at Emmylou’s that Joe doesn’t want to talk about. I guess, in time, he’ll tell us,” she said. “In his own good time.”

JOE SLIPPED UP the oak tree and onto Kit’s tree house ready to fight the intruder, his ears and whiskers flat. Only when the pacing cat turned, startled, and approached him stiff-legged, did Joe laugh and relax. Pan paused, too, tail twitching, his ears going back and up, edgy and questioning.

“What?” Joe said. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” The big tom lowered his ears uncertainly. “Kit’s in trouble, I can feel her fear, she’s scared and alone somewhere out in the night.”

Joe took a step back. “She’s miles away, up the coast. You can’t know what she’s feeling, what she’s doing.” This kind of talk made his paws sweat.

Pan drew his lips back. “She’s in some kind of trouble.”

“Nightmare,” Joe said. “You fell asleep and dreamed of trouble.” Generally the red tom was a steady fellow, macho and straightforward—until he got off on this perception nonsense beyond all logic and reason.

But Pan’s amber eyes blazed, he growled deep in his throat and spun around and was gone along an oak branch and in through the dining room window, through the cat door. “The Greenlaws, their cell phone . . .” he said over his shoulder. “Help me find the number.”

Joe sighed. He was crouched to follow, knowing they’d sound like fools to the Greenlaws with such a call, when car lights came down the street below. They slowed, and Ryan’s red king cab turned into the drive, headlights sweeping the front of the house and up through the oak branches, blazing in Joe’s face. Squinting, he peered over, breathing exhaust as the engine died.

Ryan emerged from the passenger side, stepped around to the rear bumper and up onto it, reaching up to the overhead rack where the extension ladder was secured. He watched Clyde swing out the driver’s door and move to help her. Why did they need a ladder? They had a key to the house, all the Greenlaws’ close friends had keys. From the dining room, Pan shouted, “You picked up! Say something. Pedric? Is this Pedric?” Silence, then, “Pedric, are you all right? Where’s Lucinda?” Another silence, then, “Who is this? If this isn’t Pedric, who are you? Why do you have Pedric’s phone? Where’s Lucinda? Speak up or I call the cops, they’ll put a trace on you!”

Joe smiled. He didn’t think MPPD was set up to trace the immediate location of a cell phone but it sounded good. He watched Ryan open the extension ladder, lean it against the edge of the tree house, and climb nimbly up. Joe waited until his housemate had swung up onto the platform and switched on her flashlight, then stepped out into its beam. The eerie nightglow of his eyes made her catch her breath.

“Did you have to do that, sneak up like that?” she asked shakily.

“I’m sneaking? What are you doing climbing up here in the middle of the night like some—”

“Like some cat burglar?” she said, laughing. She knelt and grabbed him up and hugged him. Her hugs always embarrassed him, but they made him purr, too.

Putting him down again, she fished a plastic bag from her pocket and reached across him to snag one of Kit’s well-used pillows from the untidy pile. He watched her drop it into the plastic bag and seal it up with a twisty. He looked over the edge at the king cab where Rock was hanging out the open window, whining softly. He looked toward the house where Pan was on the phone, and looked again at Ryan. Now there was silence from the house. Joe watched Pan emerge through the cat door, ears back, tail lashing, his tabby forehead creased with worry, unsettled by that distraught phone conversation.

“Come on, Pan,” Ryan said, swinging onto the ladder and down, frowning up at Pan there above her. “Come on, we’re headed up the coast.” She looked worriedly at the red tom. “It’s Kit,” she said softly. “She . . . We’re going to look for Kit.”

Pan leaped from the oak to the ground, sinking deep in the leafy mulch, fled to the king cab and up through the window past Rock. Joe followed, as Ryan descended the ladder clutching Kit’s pillow. Inside the pickup, Pan was crouched on the back of the driver’s seat, tail lashing. Joe, unsettled by the red tom’s unnatural perception, hopped sedately up into the front seat beside Clyde, and snuggled close. Pan might indulge in these wild flights of fancy, but he could count on Clyde for a soothing dose of hardheaded commonsense.