Cat Fear No Evil

6

Charlie's late supper party was long over, the guests departed and by now sleeping deeply, the predawn village deserted. The time was five A.M. The courthouse clock had just struck, as the black tom left the roof where he had slept.

Pacing the streets through the muted glow from the shop windows, he looked up with interest at interminable arrangements of holiday confection, leather coats displayed among autumn leaves, hand-knit sweaters and bright jewelry framed by golden pumpkins-every window so full of fall excess they made a cat retch. Swaggering as he approached the windows of the Aronson Gallery, he considered with disdain the seven pieces of Charlie's work that hung facing the street, the large drawing of Joe Grey dangling a mouse from his teeth, the color print of Dulcie reclining on a paisley cushion like some 1940s girlie calendar.

These little cats were too high above themselves, they had grown far too vain with all this attention. It was time they were taken down.

At five o'clock on this dark fall morning the streets were still deserted, no lone gardener working along the sidewalk tending the shop-front flowers, not even a seagull careening and diving across the inky sky. The only living creatures in view besides Azrael himself were a couple of homeless men huddled in a doorway trying to keep warm, trying to maintain a low profile in this village where police did not encourage nonpaying overnight guests.

Azrael had slept quite comfortably on the roof of the Patio Cafe tucked between the steeply slanting shingles of a small penthouse and the restaurant's chimney, which had held its warmth until long past midnight. The brick-and-shingle cave, conveniently out of the wind, had been scented pleasantly with aromas from the restaurant, with the heady smell of steak and lobster and fried onions.

He hadn't slept hungry. Before he retired to the roofs he had taken a leisurely supper from the restaurant's garbage bins, probably scrounging the leavings, he thought sourly, of Charlie Harper's dinner party.

From the roof last night he had watched the party break up and emerge from the restaurant in twos and threes, Charlie and Captain Harper pausing to bid good night to Wilma and her houseguest. Very nice. Wilma had invited Charlie to an early breakfast, so that Charlie could then show Kate Osborne the duplex that Kate wanted to rent.

No one but these weird women would invite company for breakfast at six on a winter morning-all this human camaraderie made Azrael retch.

Now, swarming up an old, thick bougainvillea vine, he prowled the rooftops again. They were barely beginning to brighten. To the east, the first light of dawn smeared bloody fingers across the dark hills. Heading across the roofs for Wilma Getz's cottage, he shivered in the cold wind that whipped in off the sea-felt like it came straight out of the Arctic. He never would get used to the damp chill in these northern regions, he could never shake the longing to sidle up to a sunny wall or to a rooftop heat vent. This part of the continent was fine for a short visit, for a brief session of snatch-and-grab with one human partner or another, but he would never want to live here.

He had tolerated the chill when he knew that he and Greeley would soon be taking off again for warmer climes, but this trip without Greeley was another matter. Having severed relations with the old drunk, he now had no sure promise of a return to that comfortable latitude; he didn't in fact know just where he was headed.

But something would turn up, something always did. The longing for a place of one's own, that senseless yearning that beset most cats and most people, had never troubled him. Meanwhile, his present situation was more than tolerable. Excellent food, excellent sleeping arrangements when he chose to take advantage, and some most interesting ventures.

Staring over the gutter where the two homeless men had left their lair to check out the trash cans, Azrael understood perfectly their wanderlust: those two might be scruffy and smelly but they had the right idea. Adventure was far more important than walls and a roof. The lure of what was out there around the next bend, the challenge of whatever lay beyond the shadows, of thrills yet untasted, that was the true quality of life.

He had parted from Greeley in Panama City to look for just such fresh vistas after a bellyful of Greeley's newly wedded bliss, a sickening surfeit of Greeley's prissy bride and her attempts to domesticate Greeley's sweet little cat. Expecting him to drape himself around the house and purr on cue-he'd had enough of that in a hurry. Walking out for the last time, he'd taken up with that blond floozie in Panama City, had found her in a local bar, spent the evening winding around her ankles and had gone right on home with her to her poky little hotel room. By the time she headed stateside again, he'd not only revealed to her his conversational talents, he'd convinced her that he was the partner of a lifetime, that she couldn't take full advantage of her light-fingered skills without him. Oh, Gail had had a lust to steal. He'd greatly admired her talents. He'd picked her out of the crowd at the bar, as sure of her nature as if he'd caught her in the act.

Traveling with Gail to the States, he'd endured the kitty carrier and the nine-hour plane ride only because of the challenges that lay ahead. In San Francisco, where Gail had a boyfriend, they'd burgled a few shops and pulled off some amusing shoplifting gigs. And he had discovered a colony of cats that deeply interested him-he'd learned a lot in the city before they hit the road again traveling south, to enjoy a few easy heists along the coast. The weather had been warm for that part of California. Settling for a while here in the village while Gail entered a contest for would-be starlets, they had hit the jewelry stores and the upscale shops smooth as butter-until the dumb broad killed a guy and got herself sent to prison.

Then he'd split again, making himself scarce. But he hadn't gone far; this wealthy part of the coast was full of prospects. He'd remained on his own until he took up with his present associate, a partner far smoother than Gail or Greeley. Though both the blonde and the old man had been good for laughs.

His present colleague was much more talented than either of those two, a thief as cold as an Amazon boa. This partnership could, in fact, be the most interesting venture yet in his varied career. And now, concentrating his attention on Kate Osborne, he might really be onto something.

Leaping from a cafe balcony to the slanted roof of a bay window, he dropped down to a patio table, one of a dozen that the restaurant kept filled even in winter months. Tourists would freeze their figurative tails off to be seen eating al fresco in a sidewalk cafe as if they were in Europe. Thumping heavily to the brick paving, he headed up past the crowded shops, where cozy, close-set cottages took over.

Approaching Wilma Getz's small stone house, he slipped in among the masses of flowers that forested the woman's front yard beneath the oak trees. The old girl got up early; already the kitchen window was brightly lit, its glow reflecting blood-red from the bougainvillea flowers that framed the glass. The gaudy blooms stirred within the tomcat a painful longing for the hot streets of Panama.

Charlie Harper's van was not yet in sight; but Kate's car of course stood in the drive, the cream-colored Riviera silvered with dew. He found it interesting that she drove a seven-year-old vehicle. Maybe Clyde Damen kept it in running order for her. Azrael had learned a good deal last night about Kate Osborne.

Before the gallery opening, wandering in that direction to have a look, he'd been sidetracked by an appealing white Angora. She had insisted on leading him on a circuitous route of hide-and-seek, sickeningly coy. Why couldn't females simply accept what was offered and forget the foreplay? When he followed her under the deck of the Bakery Cafe, he had recognized Kate and Wilma's voices above him and caught a snatch of their conversation.

Promptly abandoning the Angora, driving her away when she returned to him coyly rolling over, he had listened with rising interest to the conversation above him. Kate was saying something about a cat museum, then mentioned some unusual pieces of jewelry carved with cats. That had brought his ears up.

The two women were apparently enjoying a light, early dinner on their way to the gallery opening. Lashing his tail with interest, he had settled under the deck just beneath their table.

The dining deck was crowded, all the tables were full, the tangle of conversations assaulting his ears like the dissonant caws of a flock of unruly crows. As he sought to isolate Kate and Wilma's discussion, he was nearly overcome by the aroma of broiled salmon-one didn't get fresh salmon in Panama, the waters were too warm, although the local fish and fresh prawns were quite superior. Pushing up between the supporting timbers of the deck, peering up through the cracks between the slats, he had studied Kate. The slim, blond young woman had an air about her that deeply interested him, that set her apart from other humans, that made him want to observe her closely. She was leaning across the table speaking softly, "Of course it's foolish. Why do I relate the jewelry to such an idea? Why do I keep imagining the jewelry linked to some impossible lost world? Except," she said uncertainly, "McCabe's journals-the man I think was my grandfather-speak of such a world as if he believed in it. Strange remarks, Wilma. Why do I keep returning to those entries? Surely I misread them. What is it in my nature, that wants to believe such things?"

What, indeed? Azrael had thought, observing Kate and smiling.

Having been raised in Latin America where unusual tales were believed, where wild stories had substance, where myth was a powerful part of life, the tomcat was a strong believer in matters supernatural. And why not, given his own surreal nature.

"The gold work," Kate was saying, "is so unlike anything else I've ever seen, like nothing I've found in any book on jewelry." But she laughed. "I take one class in the history of jewelry, ten years ago, and I know it all."

"But you did research it," Wilma said. "You spent hours in the city libraries."

Kate had leaned back, sipping her tea. "I'm being so silly. Those twelve pieces, even if they're a couple of centuries old, were very likely made right here in California. And even if the jewels are paste, the appraiser was interested in them-as curiosities, he said."

"Who was he? You had them appraised in San Francisco?"

"Yes. Emerson Bristol. He came highly recommended."

The tomcat stiffened and remained still, watching Kate through the cracks. Emerson Bristol. Well doesn't that win the gold cat dish. And as he considered this unlikely happenstance, some interesting pieces began to fall into place.

"I know who he is," Wilma said. "Yes, he has an excellent reputation."

"Bristol showed me some pictures from different periods. That, with what I remember from art school and then what I found on my own, made me see clearly what he meant. The style of my pieces is almost Art Deco, yet very different from that, much more primitive. Yet not medieval. Or baroque or Spanish, but a little of all of them. Not anything like nineteenth-century European work."

She looked intently at Wilma. "Whoever made that jewelry had his own ideas. Maybe some lone jeweler emigrating from Europe, wanting to work alone, to do his art his way. I can understand that, that he did not want to follow tradition."

She broke a French roll, dropping a few crumbs down onto Azrael's nose. "Maybe he produced a small body of work that found its way into private collections but never into any big collections or museums. And then it got scattered again when people died off, and was all but lost."

"Did Bristol think that might be the case?"

"We didn't discuss that. He simply said he found the work different and interesting." Kate had leaned forward again, as if looking intently at Wilma, her face hidden above the table. "Could that lone jeweler have been my ancestor? And those twelve pieces stayed within his family? Then through their attorney, they found their way to me."

"I'm no authority," Wilma said, "but if others found it interesting, as your appraiser did, why was it ignored and forgotten? When the jewelry is so unique, why didn't some collector search it out? You said Bristol wanted to buy it?"

"He said he has a small collection of oddities. He didn't offer me much. After all, the jewels are paste." Kate paused. "Well the gold, of course, is worth something. It's lovely, but…"

"You have the other pieces safe, not lying around your apartment?"

"They're in my bank box, because of the gold and the workmanship. Until I know what they're all about."

"You said five other pieces, besides the barrette you gave Charlie, are designed with the images of cats?"

"Yes. But lots of designers use cats, have done, all through history." Kate sat very still at the table. The setting sun piercing down through the slats had warmed Azrael. Kate said, "Perhaps the pieces are older, from some European village that was very fond of its cats. Or maybe the jewelry was made in some isolated community here, by talented immigrants who settled back in the mountains, a little enclave where cats were valued."

She was, Azrael thought, denying the very world he sought, denying the very world from which she surely had descended.

"Folk who stayed together," she said, "a little pocket of civilization that preferred to remain off by itself."

"But why," Wilma said, "when the pieces are so beautifully made, weren't they set with real stones?"

"A common practice in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and even today, I guess. It didn't seem to make much difference whether the jeweler was working with real stones or imitation, the craftsmanship was equally fine." Kate set down her teacup. "The most amazing part, to me, was to finally track down the legal firm that gave them to me. The firm that served my grandfather-if McCabe was my grandfather. It's changed its name twice, and it looks to me like it won't be around much longer. The one remaining attorney is ancient. I can't imagine hiring him. I understand he does mostly grunt work now.

"But for him to simply give me the jewels, to haul out those old photographs of me as a child, and the names of the foster homes, and to feel that he had adequately identified me-" Kate shook her head. "Poor old thing. He must have been well over eighty, and had palsy, and…well I have to admit, when he gave me the box of jewels and said they were mine, I signed a release for them and got out of there as gracefully fast as I could manage. Before he changed his mind.

"And when I saw Bristol," Kate said, "I didn't give him my real name or phone number. I know that's bizarre. I- This whole thing, that doddering attorney, the jewels hidden away like that, all of it has me edgy, but strangely excited."

"It would have me edgy, too. And very interested. I think you were wise, keeping your identity to yourself until you know more."

The Getz woman would say that. She didn't trust anyone, Azrael had thought, scowling. Now he knew why Bristol hadn't been able to find his mysterious client after she left his office. The tomcat had licked his whiskers-his partner would be pleased to hear the answer to that little puzzle.

If, he had thought, if I choose to share what I know.

"Why," Wilma was saying, "hadn't the lawyer ever been in touch? Why had he never contacted you, when apparently the firm, in its better days, kept track of you as a child?"

"The instructions he read to me said I was not to be given the jewelry until I was eighteen. By that time there was only the one partner; he didn't explain but I'm guessing he was already letting things slide, forgetting things. That walk-in safe-anything could be stashed in there, from the year one.

"When he opened its door and we went in, there were boxes of files in the back that looked like they'd been there since the place was built, in the eighteen hundreds."

"Were there no papers for you, nothing besides the jewelry?"

"There were two yellowed newspaper clippings. Something about Marin County, about a large number of cats disappearing and a tide of cats racing away in the night through a garden. The other clipping was the same kind of thing, in the city. Both from the same year, half a century ago." She was silent a moment, looking at Wilma. "Cats disappearing where? It gives me the shivers. And the strange thing is, ever since I saw the appraiser, I have this idea I've been followed."

Beneath the table, Azrael was riven with interest. Cats racing away to where? To what mysterious place? To the netherworld that he felt certain lay deep beneath northern California? And could Bristol know of such a world? Was this why he wanted the jewels? Or did he want the jewelry for its value? Had Bristol hired someone to follow Kate? But how could he, when he didn't know who she was? And that wasn't Bristol's style. The man was an upscale appraiser, he was well accepted in the city, very proper and circumspect. His under-the-table ventures were always accomplished at arm's length, by a man who knew far more intimately how to circumvent the law.

"The first time," Kate said, "I was coming out of Macy's, juggling some packages and trying to find my car keys. When I looked up, a man in the park was watching me. A thin, shabbily dressed man, very ordinary looking. Dull-colored hair, brown I guess. And a prominent nose, I remember that. I looked away and hurried the three blocks to my car. When I glanced back he had left the park and was half a block behind me. I was more curious than afraid. I stopped for a coffee so I could watch him; I wanted to see what he would do.

"He stood in a doorway looking away in the other direction, but when I left the coffee shop he followed me again. He was half a block away when I unlocked my car. By that time I was scared, I wanted to get away. Of course he would have seen the make and color of my car, the license. I was foolish to lead him to it, but I really didn't think…"

"When you pulled away, did any car follow you?"

"No, no one followed. I did watch for that."

"And the next time it happened?"

"Three days later. I was going into a fabric house, returning an armload of samples. When I turned into the door and glanced back, there he was half a block behind me.

"I dumped the samples inside, went back to approach him. But he slipped into a store and was gone. Just gone. I went all through the store. Apparently he went out the back through the stockroom. The three clerks were busy, and I was late so I went on.

"Maybe I'd have been foolish to confront him. Now, since I've glimpsed him twice more, the idea frightens me."

Azrael didn't know who this was. He didn't know if the stalker was, indeed, connected to Bristol. When the two women left the Bakery, heading for the gallery, he had followed above them, trotting across the rooftops.

From the roofs he had observed the gathering at the gallery, the fancy clothes, the expensive cars pulling up. Then much later he had looked down through the skylight on the Harper party's cozy little supper, and heard Kate and Charlie make their date for breakfast.

Turning away to pace the midnight rooftops, his black tail lashing, his nerves rippling under his skin like electrical shocks, the black tom had devised a plan so audacious, so perfect in its concept, that even when at last he settled down beside the brick chimney, mightily purring, he was so wired he found it hard to sleep. Stretched out against the warm bricks he lay for a long time perfecting the details, the tip of his tail flicking with challenge.