Cat Laughing Last

28

Harper raked in the largest pot of the night, stacking his chips in neat rows. "That would have been tight," he said, "keeping a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the Traynors, pulling men off patrol."

Garza nodded. "Better off in custody. New York is sending Vivi's case file?"

Clyde stared at his cards and said nothing. And from the bunk in the laundry, Joe and Dulcie watched with slitted eyes, pretending to be asleep.

Harper said, "Homicide put it in the mail this morning. No wonder Traynor's agent was upset."

"All right," Clyde said, "that's enough. Let's hear it."

"If not for Traynor's agent," Garza said, ignoring Clyde, "hassling NYPD, they might never have identified the body."

Joe had sat up, staring at the two cops so intently that Dulcie nudged him. He lay down again, tense with interest. At the poker table, Charlie and Ryan were quiet, watching Harper feed the story to Clyde piece by puzzling piece, the captain loving every excruciating minute.

And Joe and Dulcie looked at each other, buzzing with questions. Had the case come down like Joe thought? Was that what Garza and Harper were saying? Had Adele McElroy and NYPD found the missing piece? Did Harper and Garza have to be so damned oblique? They were not only teasing Clyde, they were driving two poor innocent cats nearly crazy.

"You're not saying," Clyde snapped, "that Elliott Traynor is wanted in New York? For homicide? You're saying he killed someone? This guy is famous. You're saying he-"

"He didn't kill anyone," Harper said mildly.

"Vivi?" Clyde said. "Vivi killed someone?"

Harper shrugged.

Clyde laid down his cards. "No more poker. No more beer. Nothing more to eat until you guys lay out the story."

The officers began to laugh.

Ryan said, "… he and Vivi were married three years? Were married…?"

Charlie repeated what Harper had said earlier. "Did Elliott know that she would be last? That she would be Elliott's last wife, Max?"

Clyde said softly, "Elliott Traynor is dead. When did this happen?"

"Before we ever met him," Garza told Clyde.

Joe Grey felt his heart pounding, and felt Dulcie's heart pounding against him. He'd been right. A wild guess, a shot in the dark, and he'd pounced on the big one. Had nailed his quarry right in the jugular.

Clyde looked hard at Harper. "This is not Elliott Traynor, this guy in the Traynor cottage who's the spitting image of Traynor, who looks like Traynor's picture on his book jackets, who is supposed to be suffering from terminal cancer? Who is overseeing the production of Traynor's play and finishing up Traynor's novel?"

"Fry cook from Jersey," Garza said. "Dead ringer for Traynor."

Clyde shook his head. "And Traynor's agent was worried because his work was so bad? A fry cook is writing Traynor's book? And is Vivi a fake as well?"

"That's Mrs. Traynor," Harper said. "They came close to pulling it off."

"They killed him?"

"Not sure yet," Harper said. "New York's working on that."

"How did you…?

"Someone knew," Garza said. "Or suspected. Someone blew the whistle. Called the agent, told her it was time to take her problem to NYPD, to talk to the detectives."

Clyde shuffled the deck. "I'm getting lost here. It would be nice if you guys would start at the beginning."

"Talk about chutzpah," Harper said. "Fry cook with no literary talent, impersonating one of the country's top writers."

"And you have them in jail."

"Brought them in late this morning," Garza said. "They were packing up, getting ready to skip. We're holding them on illegal disposal of a body, until New York decides if it was homicide."

Garza counted his chips, then looked up at Clyde. "Elliott Traynor died six weeks before they were to fly out here. No one knew, there was no report made of his death. For all intents and purposes, Elliott boarded the plane with Vivi."

"No one might have known," Harper said, "except that Traynor's book wasn't finished when they left New York. When they got out here, the writing suddenly turned inept. Apparently this fry cook can't write worth a damn."

"What did they do with the body?" Clyde asked. "You can't just-"

"Seems Vivi dressed him in old ragged clothes, old shoes. Elliott had lost weight, didn't look well, and that fit right in. She left him in an alley-a dead John Doe, one of New York's homeless."

"Agent got concerned," Garza said, "because Traynor's last chapters were so bad. She started poking around, then called Max.

"Agent was waiting for us to check on Traynor, when someone from Molena Point called her. Suggested she get over to NYPD and talk to the detectives, take them a picture of Traynor."

Clyde didn't ask who called the agent. Under the table, his foot was tapping. He eased back his chair as if he found it hard to sit still.

"The agent's visit paid off," Garza said. "One of the detectives remembered a John Doe that looked like Traynor. Body was tucked away in the morgue waiting to be ID'd. The detective took the photo and ran with it. Got the agent to bring him some manuscript pages-some that Traynor sent before they left New York, and some later chapters that were sent from here."

Harper said, "Prints on the chapters Traynor wrote before they left the city matched the John Doe. The other set, on the chapters sent from Molena Point, are Vivi's, most of them. One or two that match up with the fry cook. And," he glanced at Charlie, "some prints where the housekeeper had moved the manuscript, when she dusted the desk."

"You had Vivi's and this guy's prints?" Clyde asked.

"We were able to lift them from the house," Harper told him, "sent them overnight to New York."

"Another few weeks," Garza said, "and Elliot might have been buried in a pauper's grave to make room for new bodies."

"But why would Vivi… How did Traynor die?"

Harper shook his head. "The body was found by a garbage collector behind a row of trash cans. Unshaven, dirty, shaggy hair. Nothing visible to indicate the cause of death. Usually, whether the coroner suspects murder or not, on a John Doe they'll take blood and tissue samples for later investigation.

"Even though he was really too clean, no thick calluses on his feet, no sores or signs of prolonged ill health, New York thought Traynor was homeless. They're a busy department. Overworked, backed up on investigations, as is the medical department. They didn't take samples. Tucked him away hoping they'd get an inquiry, someone looking for him."

"But why didn't they run his prints?"

"They ran his prints," Harper said. "No record. Even if he'd had a driver's license, New York DMV doesn't take prints. Only a picture. Could be, they would never have made the connection except for Traynor's agent and whoever tipped her. I talked with her this afternoon. She's not taking this too well-they were close friends. She's convinced it was murder.

"She said Traynor had plotted a smashing ending to the book, a finale that fit the story yet would blow the reader away. Said Traynor plotted carefully before he began to write, and that he always adhered to his outline. She said the plot was followed in the last chapters, but the writing was not like Traynor's work. She thought for a while that it was the medication.

"She said that for several weeks after he sent the first chapters, while he was still in New York-when the writing first turned bad-Vivi wouldn't let her talk with Traynor when she called. Vivi claimed he had a bad cold, on top of the cancer and his treatments, that his condition was pretty serious, so McElroy didn't push it. Said she was leaving town for a week's conference. When she got back, Traynor did finally return her calls but he was forgetful and his voice muted, like the cold was hanging on. What upset her was that he didn't want to talk about the book, didn't seem able to talk intelligently about it. She wondered if he'd had a stroke, but Vivi denied that.

"Then," Harper said, "Traynor decided to come to California to oversee the play and finish the book, despite his illness. McElroy said she was worried about him doing that."

"But," Clyde said, "if Traynor died naturally, from the cancer, if Vivi didn't kill him, why wouldn't she have a bang-up funeral and collect his estate?"

"If the book wasn't finished," Harper said, "she might have to give back his advance. And the guy had four previous wives. Maybe he didn't leave much to Vivi."

"Then you're saying she had no motive to kill him? That he died a natural death, but she didn't want anyone to find out?"

"That remains to be seen," Harper said.

Joe and Dulcie exchanged a glance of smug satisfaction. But they lowered their eyes when they saw Clyde watching them, and began diligently to wash-the age-old ritual of pulling a little curtain of disinterested preoccupation around themselves.

Garza said, "Apparently she met this fry cook some six months ago. Willy Gasper, working in a little hole-in-the-wall in Queens." That made Joe swallow back a laugh. This tall, well-dressed, elegant-looking man that everyone thought was an author of international fame-this guy's name was Willie Gasper?

"Think about it," Garza said. "She discovers a dead ringer for Elliott. Elliott's ill, she assumes he's terminal somewhere down the line. She knows that when he dies, the writing income is reduced, and that very likely four ex-wives could have some claim on his assets. Willie presents a ready-made way to keep Elliott in the picture, convince everyone that he's still alive. Not hard, she thinks, if she offers Willie the right deal.

"She'll have to take over Elliott's writing, but she has his research, and this book's three-fourths finished. She figures she can do that."

Garza smiled. "Apparently it didn't occur to Vivi that she might not be able handle the literary side of the matter. The opportunity was too good. How could she pass it up?"

Harper said, "The New York medical examiner should have an answer in a day or two as to whether she killed him or he died of natural causes. Meantime, the two of them are in jail raising all kinds of hell.

"When we get this sorted out," Harper continued, "we may find a link between these two and Augor Prey. We picked Prey up last night. Prey and Casselrod."

"On a tip," Garza said quietly. "From this phantom snitch of Max's, that no one has identified.

"Last night," Garza said, "I'd pulled off the officer I had watching Prey. We had a party to break up south of the village, a free-for-all fight-kids-and someone fired a few shots from a twenty-two. We had everyone down there. Maybe Prey knew the officer had been pulled back. Maybe not. But whoever called in was close enough to Prey to see him packing up-and to see Richard Casselrod follow him."

Garza frowned, aligning the cards into a neat stack. "I'd like to find this informer. See what other information he might have- see what his interest is in all this."

Harper was quiet. Clyde was quiet. Charlie rose to refill the plate of cold cuts. And in the laundry, crouched on the lower bunk, Joe Grey smiled. Don't waste your time, he thought, glancing at Dulcie, and he put his head down on Rube's leg, feeling pretty good about life.

If he hadn't called Adele McElroy, she might not have gone to the New York police until it was too late, until the body had been disposed of-if he hadn't had that niggling little itch that wouldn't let him rest. Cop sense, Harper called it.

And apparently Harper, too, had felt that a big piece of the puzzle was right there, looking him in the face.

Though Harper, constrained by certain ethics and codes, might not have been able to take the freewheeling approach that a cat could employ.

Joe knew it wasn't smart to get smug about a case until there was an arraignment, a court date, and the wheels of the law were grinding, but he couldn't help it. Dropping off the bunk to accept a plate of snacks from Clyde, he found himself rumbling with purrs. And when he looked up into Clyde's eyes, the two shared a rare moment of perfect understanding. Clyde was proud of him, and that made Joe want to yowl.

All he and Dulcie had to do now, he thought, giving Clyde a purr and a head rub, was wait to see whether Vivi, maybe with Willie Gasper's help, had indeed killed Elliott. Or whether she simply took advantage of the situation at hand.

Or, Joe thought suddenly, had Elliott himself done the deed? Had Elliott Traynor, following the philosophy of some other terminally ill folks, unwilling to deal with increasing pain and weakness, taken his own life? Had he stepped out of the sickness, perhaps with the expedient use of some powerful and legally prescribed pain medication? Joe was thinking so hard about this possibility that he didn't wonder until later about Willie Gasper's "target pistol," about the.38 with which Willie had killed the raccoons. He didn't wonder until late that night if Garza had searched the Traynor cottage and found the weapon.

As he curled down on the pillow beside Clyde, he knew there must be more to the story that Harper and Garza hadn't yet told, and he began to wonder, anew, what the two officers were holding back.

Maybe there was something they were feeling edgy about, not yet certain how the facts were unfolding? Well, if Harper and Garza wanted to play that hand close to the chest, that was their call. Maybe they knew where the gun was, and weren't spilling that part just yet.