Cat Striking Back

37

LEAVING THE COUNTY morgue beside Max, Charlie slipped into the passenger seat of her Blazer, happy to let him drive. As soon as he turned the key she rolled down her window, turning her face to the wind, hoping to blow away the smell of formaldehyde and death that clung to her. The stink seemed to have seeped into her every pore, and every fiber of her clothes. Were they depositing the smell in her Blazer, too, so it would never again be the same? Would her nice SUV, which had been a gift from Max on her last birthday, forevermore smell like a grave?

How did John Bern stand it? She’d wondered more than once what made a person like Bern embrace that particular profession. He was young, strong and intelligent, and nice looking, his premature baldness seeming only to add to his attractiveness. He’d told her once that it was the challenge, that he was fascinated by the precise procedure, of unraveling the mystery of how someone died. He said that if it was a murder, he got completely caught up in helping to discover the killer.

She looked back at the cream-colored, four-story stucco building, its roof fluted with red tile, thinking about the chill and antiseptic morgue in its basement, about the physically cold, visually cold viewing room with its unadorned walls, chill gray terrazzo floor that could be easily scrubbed, and its hard metal chairs. A room that hadn’t offered much in the way of emotional comfort as Bern rolled out the cold metal gurney bearing Frances ’s covered body.

“We’ve done preliminary testing for drugs,” he’d told them. “My guess is she died from an intracerebral bleed. I don’t want to make a final judgment yet as to whether she was struck, or if this occurred naturally, from a fall. Looks like she fell at least several feet, from the contusion and the specks of grit and cement embedded in the skin.”

They had discussed the autopsy for the following morning, which Detective Davis would attend, and before they’d left, Max had called Mabel to put out an APB on Frances Becker’s white Honda Accord, which was the car missing from the Becker garage. Now, pulling out of the parking lot, Max said, “You okay? You’re pale as hell.”

“Fine,” Charlie lied. “I’m fine.”

“The smell will go away,” he said, wondering if she was going to be sick. “If it was her husband who killed her, then is there no one to notify? She had no family?”

“Not that she ever mentioned.”

“ Davis will go over the house again, maybe she’ll find an address in her files, some relative.”

“One thing about Frances,” she said, “she was a neat- nick, everything in order. It shouldn’t take Davis long to find an address, if there were any relatives.”

As Max turned onto the freeway, Charlie said, “John Bern says Frances has been dead at least thirty-six hours. When Ryan talked with Ed Becker this morning, he told her that her call woke Frances.”

“What is he going to do, tell her Frances can’t come to the phone right now because she’s dead?” He flicked on his emergency flashers to get a car off their tail, watched the guy pass on their left. The driver wouldn’t take such a liberty if they were in a patrol car. “If Becker turns out to be the burglar as well, then he apparently changed cars, switched to the dark RV. He could have put the jewelry and paintings in Frances ’s Accord, but not the furniture and boxes of books.” He looked over at Charlie. “Switched cars, hid the Accord somewhere, maybe in a storage unit or rented garage.”

Charlie tried to remember if Frances had ever mentioned a locker or a rented garage. But if Ed was stealing, surely she didn’t know about it. Did they own a rental house somewhere, and he’d stashed the car there? That didn’t seem likely when they’d lived in Molena Point only about two years. “Maybe there was a storage unit, maybe they still have unpacked boxes, maybe part of Frances ’s furniture collection. But if Ed was the burglar…” She looked at him, frowning. “He loaded up all that furniture from his own house to throw you off the track?”

Max shrugged. “Again, what else could he do?” They were turning off the freeway toward home when her phone buzzed. It was Ryan.

“We’re just getting back from the morgue,” Charlie told her. “I won’t turn the speaker on, there’s too much traffic noise. The dead woman is Frances Becker. You want to tell… Clyde?” Meaning, Will you tell Joe Grey? She knew the cats would be grieving for Theresa.

Ryan said, “They just walked in, all three of them, grinning like Cheshire cats.” And, more softly, “They were there when Max called the station.”

Charlie hid her smile.

Ryan said, “You want to run down here for supper? Beans and corn bread, and we’ll show you pictures of the house we’ve decided on.”

Charlie covered the phone, looking at Max. “Go down for a quick supper?” In truth, she didn’t feel like eating, she wasn’t sure she’d ever eat again, not sure her mouth would ever stop tasting like something dead.

But maybe a comforting meal of beans and corn bread would stay down. When Max nodded, she said, “We’ll just run by home and take care of the horses, we won’t be long.” Part of her would like to stay home, but she wanted, even more, to reassure the cats that indeed Theresa was just fine. Approaching the village, Max turned up the hills toward the ranch; the minute they turned into their long private road, the two big dogs saw them from the pasture and came barking, racing along inside the fence. The four horses galloped beside them, all of them wanting supper.

While Max fed the livestock, Charlie hurried to brush her teeth and lay out clean clothes. She took a quick shower and washed her hair, pinning it back wet. Max showered and changed, they threw their clothes in the washer and were out again in half an hour, headed for the village in the truck, leaving the Blazer in the stable yard with all the windows rolled down, hoping the sea wind would sweeten that clinging smell.

The village streets at dinnertime were busy with tourists crossing back and forth looking in shop windows or pausing before the small restaurants, reading the posted menus. Turning down the Damens’ street and parking, they caught the comforting scent of Clyde ’s favorite bean recipe. Wilma’s car was parked in the drive beside the Greenlaws’ gray sedan. “What’s this?” Max said. “I thought we were just running down for a quick bite.”

“I don’t know,” she said innocently. Because Dulcie and Kit were here, it would have been only natural for the Damens to invite the cats’ housemates. Rock barked at the door to greet them, and Clyde handed them each a beer. Everyone was gathered around the fire, the three cats sprawled on the mantel, warming themselves safely above the cozy blaze. Charlie paused to stroke them. They smiled up at her, their eyes filled with delight that Theresa was alive. They might feel sad for Frances, but not as sad as if they were grieving over their real friend. In front of Max, Charlie could say nothing, she stood petting them, trapped in one of those maddening moments when she and the cats longed to talk, but could say not a word. Of everyone present, it was only Max-the most keenly attuned to the subtleties of body language and behavior-who didn’t know the truth.