Cat Telling Tales

8

Where the pasture fell away to the delta below, Joe crouched under the fence among the tall weeds, looking down on the burned shack. Detective Garza was moving slowly through, sorting among the debris, his jeans and blue sweatshirt smeared with ashes, the pockets of his dark windbreaker bulging with what were surely small items of possible evidence, each secured in a paper or plastic bag. Garza’s tan Blazer stood parked near Hesmerra’s rusty old Volvo with its thick coat of smoky ash. Directly below, Max and Billy were clearing the cave entrance, moving the rotting doors and cobwebby boards away from the opening.

As Max ducked down into the cave, shining the electric torch across dry earth, Joe slipped down the cliff between the two cars and under them, where he could see into the cave. Inside, the light of Max’s torch swung slowly back and forth across the earthen ceiling and walls, across the heavy posts, the rough crossbeams and hard dirt floor. On an earthen shelf stood a cardboard carton with five screw-top whiskey bottles sticking up. Max pulled on a pair of cotton gloves and examined the circular strips of black plastic that sealed the lids, then picked up the carton and backed out. “Erik Kraft brought her whiskey, but he didn’t know about the cave?”

“Not that I know of,” Billy said. “She’d put them in here after he left. I don’t know why all the secrecy, but Gran was like that.” Billy peered at the bottles. “Are you thinking he poisoned them? Why would he do that? He liked Gran, he was kind to her, he gave her money, brought pizza, things to eat. He bought medicine once, when she had the flu.” But then the boy went quiet, very still, as if perhaps letting his thoughts touch something new and unwelcome.

Max studied his face then moved away, carrying the carton. As he set it down on the open tailgate of Dallas Garza’s Blazer, beyond him Emmylou Warren appeared, coming down the lane from the highway. Joe could see a glimpse of her car, of its back bumper and a patch of green sticking out past the bushes that grew along the edge of the two-lane. Max and Billy saw her at the same moment.

Billy moved as if to go to her, but then seemed to change his mind, to think better of it, and turned his attention back to the whiskey, studying the seals more closely. “If none of those was poisoned, poison could still have been in the open one.”

Max nodded, his attention on Emmylou. She had stopped beyond the cars, stood watching Dallas sifting through the rubble. When Dallas saw her he came to join them, looking back at Emmylou. “I sent her away once. When I got here she was parked right down at the yellow tape, sitting in her car, crying.” He looked down at Billy. “She was worried about you. I told her you’re all right.”

“Go on,” Max said to Billy, “go talk to her.”

Billy ran. When Emmylou saw him she let out a whoop and ran, too, flinging her arms around him and nearly toppling them both. Joe was crouched beneath Hesmerra’s car, not six feet from them. Emmylou’s sun-browned face was as wrinkled as crushed leather, her jeans worn and soft, her colorless T-shirt thin, with two holes in one sleeve. “You’re all right!” She held Billy away, looking deeply at him. “I was in the market when I heard about the fire, about your gran. No one knew where you were, what happened to you. Where are your cats, are they all right? Where will you go, do you have—”

Billy nodded up toward the Harpers’ place. “They’re in Captain Harper’s barn. I’ll be staying there, too, for now. Did you find a place to live?”

Emmylou gestured toward her car. “That’s my home, for now,” she said, grinning. Behind them, Max watched Emmylou, his expression thoughtful. Was he, like Joe himself, curious about why she’d come up there? Wondering if she’d only been worried about Billy, or if she’d had some other reason?

As broke as she was, would she come nosing around looking for Hesmerra’s hidden money, however little it might be? Had she meant to make off with it before the fire inspectors and detectives appeared on the scene? She had arrived before Garza. Had she already rooted through the burn and, knowing where Hesmerra hid the tin box, already stolen the money that was rightfully Billy’s?

Max stepped over to join them. “We’ll want you to come down to the station, Emmylou. For routine fingerprinting.”

Emmylou just looked at him, the expression in her faded brown eyes wary.

“A matter of elimination,” Max said. “If you were in the house, your prints could come up on broken dishes, glasses. With a set on file, we can eliminate you as someone who shouldn’t have been there. I’d like you to come in today, if you could,” he said gently, “so we can move on with the investigation. Any of the officers can take your prints.”

Emmylou frowned. “You’re saying someone started the fire? On purpose?”

“It’s possible,” Max said. “Both the fire and Hesmerra’s death are under investigation.”

She was quiet, studying his closed face. “I’ll come,” she said, subdued. As she put her arm around Billy, Max turned away, stepping over to the burn to talk with Dallas. Billy said, “You can’t live in your car for long, the street patrol will arrest you, or the sheriff will.”

“Remember my friend, Sammie Miller? She worked with Hesmerra for a while, cleaning? She came here a couple of times?”

Billy nodded. “You feed her cats when she’s gone. Can’t you stay with her?”

“She’s away now, but this time she didn’t leave her key. When she gets back, maybe I can stay there.” She smiled down at Billy. “I’ll be fine, I’ll come to see you. Maybe pick you up at school, give you a ride home. We can tie your bike on the back.” Before she turned away, to head for her old Chevy, Joe shot through the grass along the top of the cliff and dropped down to the car, where the driver’s window was open; he shot through and into the backseat before she was halfway up the lane.

Pawing through the rubble, he scented among the clothes and blankets for the faintest smell of ashes, looking for Hesmerra’s lost money, burrowing among cartons of canned goods and paperback books. How did she sleep in here? Actually, though, the plan was pretty neat: everything tucked on the floor up to the level of the backseat. A thin foam pad was folded up against the door; he imagined her laying it across the seat and her stacked belongings, to make a wide bed. She’d have to pull her knees up, though, as tall as she was. He was peering between the pad and the door when he heard her outside brushing off her jeans. As he turned, his hind paw slipped, sliding against cold metal—and he smelled burned wood and wet ashes.

Digging aside the blankets and some newspapers, he uncovered a tin box, tall and narrow, made to hold office files. His exploring paw came away liberally dusted with dirt and ashes. He froze when she passed the window. But she went on to the back of the car, and he heard the trunk pop open.

The latch of the box was of a kind hard for a cat to snap open, one of those affairs where a lever is pulled down, securing a metal bar into a hook. He fought it, shifting position until he had his claws under it, took a deep breath, pulled with all his might, praying he wouldn’t tear his claws right out of their sockets.

Snap, the latch popped open with a scrape so loud she heard it, the trunk slammed and there she was at the side window. Quickly flipping the box open, he got one glimpse of the contents: not money, but letters and business papers. He clawed through sheets of figures. The name on the letterheads was Kraft Realty.

Behind him, the door jerked open. He spun around staring up at Emmylou with all the forlorn fear he could muster; choking out a shaky “Meow,” he backed away.

She laughed and reached to pet him. “You poor thing. What are you doing in here? You’re not one of Billy’s cats. Where did you come from?”

Joe looked at her helplessly. He was crouched to bolt past her when Max Harper appeared behind her, looking in.

“What the hell? Get out of there, Joe. What are you doing in there?” With no ceremony he reached in, lifted Joe gently by the back of his neck and one hand under his belly, and deposited him outside on the ground. “Why the hell are you so nosy?” he said with a dry little grin. “Get your tail up to the ranch, Clyde will be looking for you!”

Joe vanished. Scorched up the cliff into the tall grass, pretending to race away. Max Harper seldom touched him, and never unkindly, only sometimes to scratch his ears if Joe was lounging on his desk. Below him, Max and Emmylou stood talking, Harper making clear to her again that she was expected to come in and be fingerprinted, Emmylou still looking reluctant. As her car headed away up the narrow, rutted road, and Harper and Billy started back to the cave, Joe hightailed it for the ranch, his thoughts on the metal box and the documents it contained. Some were emblazoned with the letterhead of Kraft Realty, but there were half a dozen other real estate firms, as well, names that meant nothing to Joe. All the letters and documents he could see, in that quick glimpse, presented neatly typed accountings of funds ranging up into the high seven digits—ten million, twelve million. A financial smorgasbord that Joe found singularly interesting, considering that, from the burned smell, and the ashes and dirt coating the container, the collection had come from the burned house, had perhaps been buried in the earth, beneath the floor. Many of the dates were recent. Where had Hesmerra gotten these and why? Why would Erik Kraft give his business papers to Hesmerra Young?

Could she somehow have stolen them? But why? What good would his legal papers do her? If Kraft was her friend, why would she steal from him at all? Even if he was only a convenient source of whiskey and cash, why would she jeopardize that? Or had the old woman, when she died, been quietly pursuing some other agenda involving Erik Kraft, driven by some motive of her own?