Cat In The Dark

11

WALKING ALONG Dolores Street carrying a bowl of potato salad and a six-pack of beer, Charlie glanced up as Wilma nudged her, nodding ahead to where a black Mercedes convertible had slowed to turn the corner. From the driver's seat, Winthrop Jergen raised his hand in greeting. Sitting close beside him, Bernine gave them a tight little smile, cold and patronizing. The tall redhead was elegantly dressed in a sleek black, bare-shouldered frock, her russet hair coiled high and caught with a band of black.

"She doesn't waste any time," Charlie said. "Lunch yesterday and now dinner. Wonder where they're going."

"Somewhere expensive, if I know Bernine." Wilma shifted the bag of French bread to her other hand and reached up to steady Dulcie, who was riding on her shoulder. "Mavity's remarks on Sunday, about Jergen's financial acumen, were like gunfire to the troops."

"It's amazing she didn't already know him, considering he's a well-to-do bachelor."

"A rare oversight. I've known Bernine half my life, and she seldom misses such a plum." Glancing around at Dulcie, Wilma winked. Dulcie narrowed her eyes in answer. But as the convertible turned the corner and disappeared, she turned her attention to the shop windows, dismissing Bernine's little games, enjoying the elevated view from Wilma's shoulder. Her high perch was a liberating change from being level with the bottoms of doorways-from breathing the smell of hot rubber tires and dog pee and having to stand on her hind paws to see a store display. One had, at twelve inches from the sidewalk, a somewhat limited perspective.

Charlie, pausing at a dress shop, stared covetously in at a creamy velvet cocktail suit, where the sleek, dark-haired mannequin posed against a background of city lights. "Wish I could wear that stuff-and could look like that."

"Of course you can wear it, and of course you can look like that, or better. That ivory velvet would be smashing with your red hair."

"Right. And where would I wear it? For four hundred dollars, I'd rather have a Bosch drill, some new sawhorses, and a heavier sander." Charlie laughed and moved on, looking around her with pleasure at the small village. Over the rooftops, the eastern hills were burnished by early-evening light, the windows of the scattered hillside houses reflecting gold and catching images of the sinking sun. Close around them along the narrow streets, the sprawling oaks, the tubs of flowers, the little benches, and the used-brick facades and jutting bay windows caught the light, so brilliant with color and yet so cozy that she felt her heart skip.

"This village-how lucky we are. The first time I ever saw it, I knew that I'd come home."

Wilma nodded. "Some people are born for fast highways, for tall buildings, but you and I, we're happier with the small places, the people-friendly places, with the little, interesting details-and with having everything we need right within walking distance.

"I like sensing the land under me, too. The way the old cypress trees cling to the great rims of rock and the rock ridges drop away into the sea like the spine of some ancient, half-emerged animal.

In the city," Wilma said, "I can't sense the earth. I couldn't wait, when I retired, to move back home.

"I like knowing that these old trees were here before there was a village, when this coastal land was all wild-range cattle and grizzly bear country." Wilma put her hand on Dulcie as they crossed the southbound lane of Ocean, toward the wide, grassy stretch of the tree-shaded median.

"I bet you had enough of big city crime, too."

Wilma nodded. "In Molena Point, I don't have to watch my backside."

Charlie laughed. "People-friendly," she agreed.

And cat-friendly, Dulcie thought. Compared to San Francisco's mean alleys, which Joe had described in frightening detail-the bad-tempered, roving dogs, the speeding cars, the drunks reaching out from doorways to snatch a little cat and hurt it-compared to these, Molena Point really was cat heaven, just as Clyde told Joe.

Clyde said Joe was lucky to have landed here. And despite Joe's smart-mouthed replies, Joe Grey knew he was lucky-he just would never admit it.

Beyond Ocean, as they approached Clyde's white Cape Cod cottage, Dulcie could smell the smokey-meaty scent from Clyde's barbeque and could hear Clyde's CD playing a soft jazz trumpet. Pete Fountain, she thought, purring as she leaped down from Wilma's shoulder and in through Joe's cat door.

In Clyde's weedy backyard, a thick London broil sizzled on the grill. Clyde and Max Harper sat comfortably in folding chairs sipping beer. Harper, lean and leathery, looked even thinner out of uniform, dressed in soft jeans and Western shirt. Above the two men, in the maple tree, Joe Grey sprawled along a branch, watching sleepy-eyed as Dulcie threaded out the back door between Wilma's and Charlie's ankles. The little tabby headed across the yard, slowed by the inspection of the household cats sniffing and rubbing against her and by Rube's wet licks across her face. The old Labrador loved Dulcie, and she was always patient with him; she never scratched him for his blundering clumsiness and sloppy greetings. Trotting quickly across the grass, escaping the menagerie, she swarmed up the tree to settle on the branch beside Joe, her weight dropping them a bit lower among the leaf cover.

Below them the picnic table was set for four and loaded with jars of condiments, paper napkins, plastic plates, bowls of chips and dip, and now Wilma's covered bowl of potato salad. Wilma laid the foil-wrapped garlic bread at the back of the grill and put her beer in the Styrofoam cooler, tossing one to Charlie and opening one for herself. As she sat down, Clyde handed her a sheaf of papers.

Looking them over, she smiled. "What did you do, Max, threaten your men with desk duty if they didn't sign a petition? Looks like you got signatures from the jail regulars, too."

"Of course," Harper said. "Drug dealers, pimps, they're all there."

She looked up at Clyde. "Two of these petitions are yours. You've been intimidating your automotive customers."

Clyde tossed a roll of paper towels on the table. "They don't sign the petition, they don't get their car-though most of them were pleased to sign it." He tipped up his beer, took a long swallow. "All this damn fuss. If the village wants a library cat, what's the harm? This Brackett woman is a piece of work."

"Next thing," Harper said, "she'll be complaining because my men circulated petitions on their own time."

"She'll try to get an ordinance against that, too," Charlie said.

"She'd have a hard time," Harper said. "Those petitions aren't for financial or political gain, they're for a cat. A poor, simple cat."

Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe. A poor, simple cat? But she had to smile. For someone so wary of certain felines, Max Harper had responded to the library cat battle like a real gentleman-though if he knew the petitions were to help one of his telephone informants, he might go into shock.

Clyde adjusted the height of the grill to keep the meat from burning. The aroma of the London broil made the cats lick their whiskers.

Harper looked at Charlie. "So your landlord tossed you out."

"I'm back freeloading on Wilma."

"And you've joined Sicily Aronson's group," he said. "I stopped in the gallery to have a look." He nodded his approval. "Your animals are very fine." Charlie's cheeks reddened. Harper glanced up at Dulcie and Joe as if inspecting them for a likeness. "You make those cats look…"

He paused, frowning, seemed to revise what he'd started to say. "It's fine work, Charlie. And the Aronson is a good gallery- Sicily's people sell very well. I think your work will be very much in demand."

Charlie smiled. "That would be nice-it would be great to fatten up my bank account, stop feeling shaky about money."

"It'll come," Harper said. "And Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It appears to be doing well-except," he said, glancing at Clyde, "you need to be careful about questionable clients."

"If you hit it big," Clyde said, "if you sell a lot of drawings, you could put some money with Jergen, go for the high earnings. A bank doesn't pay much interest."

"I don't like the uncertainty," Charlie told him. "Call me chicken, but I'd rather depend on a small and steady interest."

Clyde tested the meat, slicing into one end, a tiny cut that ran bloody. In the tree above, the cats watched, mesmerized.

Harper passed Charlie a beer. "Have you found a new apartment?"

"Haven't had time to look. Or maybe I haven't had the incentive," Charlie said. "I get pretty comfortable with Wilma."

"There are a couple of cottages empty down near Mavity's place. We cleared one last week-busted the tenant for grass."

"Just what I want. Handy to my friendly neighborhood drug dealer."

"In fact, it's pretty clean down there. We manage to keep them at bay."

Molena Point depended for much of its income on tourism, and Harper did his best to keep the village straight, to stay on top of any drug activity. But even Molena Point had occasional problems. Several months ago, Joe remembered, there'd been an influx of PCP and crack. Harper had made three cases and got three convictions. In this town, the dealers went to jail. Harper had said that some of the drugs coming into the village were designer stuff, experimental pills.

Clyde said, "I could turn one of the new apartments into two studios. You could rent one of those."

"Your permit doesn't allow for more than five residences," Charlie said.

"Or you could move in here, with me."

Charlie blushed. "If I move in with you, Clyde Damen, I'll sleep in the laundry with the cats and Rube."

At the sound of his name, Rube lifted his head, staring bleerily at Charlie. The old dog's cataracts made his eyes dull and milky. His black muzzle was salted with white hairs. When Charlie reached to pet him, Rube leaned his head against her leg. The three household cats wound around Clyde's ankles as he removed the steak from the grill. But when the foursome was seated, it was Charlie who took up a knife and cut off bits of her steak for the animals.

The CDs played softly a string of Preservation Hall jazz numbers, the beer was ice cold, the steak pink and tender, the conversation comfortable, and as evening drew down, the fog gathered, fuzzing the outdoor lights and enclosing the backyard until it seemed untouched by the outside world. It was not until the four had finished dinner, the animals had had their fill, and Charlie was pouring coffee, that Harper mentioned the burglaries.

There had been a third break-in, at Waverly's Leather Goods. "They got over four thousand in small bills. Didn't take anything else, just the cash." Waverly's was the most exclusive leather shop in the village. "We have one partial print-we're hoping it's his. The guy's real careful.

"The print doesn't match any of the employees, but it will take a few days to get a make. He may have taken off his gloves for a minute while he was working on the safe."

"Are you still going on the theory the burglar's getting hold of the store keys?" Wilma asked.

Harper shrugged. "We're checking the locksmiths. Or he could simply be skilled with locks." He started to say something more, then hesitated, seemed to change his mind.

In the tree above him, the cats stared up at the sky, following the antics of the diving bats that wheeled among the treetops, but taking in Harper's every word.

Wilma, glancing up at them, exchanged a look with Clyde and turned away torn between a scowl and a laugh. The cats aggravated them both-but they were so wonderful and amazing that Wilma wished, sometimes, that she could follow them unseen and miss nothing.

It was not until the company had left, around midnight, that Clyde vented his own reaction. As Joe settled down, pawing at the bed covers, Clyde pulled off his shirt and emptied his pockets onto the dresser. "So what gives?"

"What gives about what?"

"You're very closemouthed about these burglaries." He turned to look at Joe. "Why the silence? There is no crime in Molena that you and Dulcie don't get involved with."

Joe looked up at him dully.

"Come on, Joe."

Joe yawned.

"What? Suddenly I'm the enemy? You think I can't be trusted?"

"We're not interested in these petty thefts."

"Of course you're interested. And isn't it nice, once in a while, to share your thoughts, to have some human feedback?"

"We're not investigating anything. Three amateurish little burglaries-Harper can handle that stuff."

"You have, in the past, not only confided in me, but picked up some rather useful information, thanks to yours truly."

Joe only looked at him.

"Clues you would surely have missed if Max and I didn't play poker, if you didn't scrounge around on the poker table, eavesdropping. But now you're too good to talk to me?"

Joe yawned again. "I am eternally grateful for your help on previous occasions. But at the moment I am not in need of information. We're not interested." Turning over on the pillow, with his back to Clyde, he began to work on his claws, pulling off the old sheaths.

He and Dulcie already knew who the perp was. As soon as they checked out Mavity's brother, Greeley, and found where he'd stashed the money, they'd tip Harper. And that would wrap it up. If the prints on the stolen bills matched the print from the leather shop, Harper would have Greeley cold.

Biting at his claws to release the sharp new lances and listening to Clyde noisily brushing his teeth in the bathroom, he quickly laid his plan.

Dulcie wasn't going to like the drill.

But she'd asked for it. If she wanted to play cute with the black tomcat, wanted to cut her eyes at Azrael, then she could make herself useful.