Cat Telling Tales

9

Debbie Kraft arrived two days after the fire; she showed up just after midnight at the Damens’ front door repeatedly ringing the bell, dragging Ryan and Clyde from sleep, sending the big Weimaraner into a fit of barking, ripping Joe Grey straight out of deep and pleasant dreams. Grumbling, he slipped out from his cushions, left his tower, and padded across the roof to the edge to look over.

They were crowded on the little porch around the front door, a young woman, two kids, three threadbare suitcases, a pile of ragtag carryalls and cloth bags with the contents oozing over the tops. The skinny woman, clutching her arms around herself against the night’s chill, was dressed in black tights, a puffy black jacket, high-heeled black boots. The two little girls clung to her, the little one silent and still, the older kid whining and pulling on her. Above them at Ryan’s studio window, Ryan appeared like a ghost in her white gauzy robe, looking down just as Joe was looking at the little group, at the dusty brown station wagon parked in the drive behind the king cab, the back so full of jumbled belongings the windows might as well have been boarded over.

The porch light went on. The front door opened. Clyde stood there bare-chested, in his sweatpants. Debbie’s voice was shrill and animated, a gushing greeting from a woman Clyde had never met and, from the look on his face, didn’t want to meet. There was a short exchange, then Debbie and the two girls swarmed in around him, dragging what baggage they could carry. Clyde, turning away resigned, left the door open so Debbie could haul in the rest.

Joe watched for only a minute, torn between the fear he’d miss something, and his sure knowledge that the rest of the night would be chaos, the woman’s high, emotion-driven voice reaching up even into his tower. He wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. If he had any sense he’d get the hell out of there. Whatever drama the night might hold, as the Damens got Debbie settled, he’d hear about in the morning.

He went. Heading across the rooftops toward the center of the village, beneath the bright full moon, he leaped over rivers of moonlight and over shadows as black as hell itself. If Dulcie was prowling the library, exploring among the books, maybe she’d give him a little sympathy for this midnight eviction that was, after all, the next thing to a full-blown home invasion.

From the roof of a shop behind the handsome Spanish-style library building, with its tan stucco and heavy timbers, he peered down at its back door that opened on the narrow alley. Yes, the faintest light shone out through Wilma’s little office window, the ambient green glow of the computer. He caught Dulcie’s fresh scent, too, on the tile roof and among the leaves of the bougainvillea vine as he descended. Nosing up the flap of Dulcie’s cat door, he pushed on inside.

Wilma Getz’s office was small, crowded, and cozy, her desk placed between two tall file cabinets stacked to the ceiling with books. Dulcie’s housemate worked only part-time now in her position as a reference librarian, but she’d managed to keep her tiny office. Much of her work was done in there, on peripheral projects, including the library’s old-fashioned vertical file. The library saved clips from the local paper and local magazines, historical information about Molena Point. And—because of Dulcie herself—they maintained an extensive collection about cats who lived in libraries across the country. Having a special interest in working cats, they saved, as well, clips about any number of cats in shops and business offices, a tribute to the talents and skills of even your ordinary, everyday feline.

Dulcie sat on the desk, her back to him, silhouetted by the glow of the computer, her peach-tinted ears nearly transparent in the light, her nimble paws playing across the keyboard, so engrossed she didn’t hear him push the door in. Only when the plastic flapped back into place did she spin around, startled.

She stared down at him, her green eyes wide, guilt writ large on her sweet, striped face. What was this? What was she up to? What was so secret that she didn’t want him to see? Leaping up beside her, he nestled close to her warm shoulder. When she lifted a paw to darken the screen, he swiped it away. She hissed, and cut him an irritated look, her striped tail lashing.

The short lines of type on the screen, even to the antiliterate tomcat, were obviously poetry. Was she reading dirty verses, something ugly that humans had put on the Web? He’d never known his lady to go for smut. But then, scanning the lines, his eyes widened.

There was no title, no author’s name, nothing but the nine lines of poetry, and he could feel her shy embarrassment as he read.

What a lovely cat she is

Posed behind the curtain’s gauze

Like a princess robed in gold.

Coy her gaze through laces gleaming,

What dainty vision does she embrace

Behind that dear, exquisite face?

I step to the veil, draw back its folds,

And there it lies, at my feet,

The bloody rat she’s brought to eat.

“You wrote this,” he said, grinning. Her tail went very still, he could feel the uncertain tremor of her heartbeat through the warmth of her tabby fur. He read the lines again, and at the last line, he couldn’t help it, he let out a loud guffaw that echoed through the office and into the empty library. “How long have you been doing this? Is there more? You’re writing from the human viewpoint.”

If a cat could blush, her little striped face would be pink as cotton candy. “It made you laugh,” she said, pleased.

“Does Wilma know?”

“How could she not? It’s her computer. I guess I could have set up an access code, but . . . She thinks . . . She’s pleased,” Dulcie said modestly.

Joe nuzzled her cheek. “I like it. It makes pictures, it does make me laugh. How do you do that? How do you even begin, where does it come from?”

Dulcie’s tail swung more easily. “I don’t know, it’s just . . . there. In my head. I write it down before it gets away.”

“Can I see more?”

“Not tonight, you didn’t come to read poetry,” she said, looking deep into his eyes. “What’s happened?” she said. “What’s the matter?”

“Debbie Kraft. Arrived at midnight. Enough luggage to stay a year.”

She gave him a sympathetic nudge. “Ryan and Clyde don’t need this. You think they’ll let her stay? But she must be devastated, grieving for her mother. No matter what Billy says about Debbie never seeing her.”

“She didn’t sound devastated. She sounded rude and pushy.”

Dulcie was quiet a moment, then, “I was thinking about the fire, about Emmylou prowling in the rubble. About the tin box she apparently took from Hesmerra’s, the Kraft Realty papers. Wilma was talking with Chichi Barbi, and she said Hesmerra applied with her for a job.” Chichi Barbi had, late last year, bought Charlie Harper’s cleaning service, Charlie’s Fix It, Clean It. “Chichi said when she hired Hesmerra, the old woman dickered and argued about locations and hours. Said she was dead set to get on the crew that cleans the house of one of the Kraft Realtors. And then later, the minute the Realtor moved away, Hesmerra quit her job.”

Dulcie gave him a sly smile. “Next thing you know, Hesmerra’s working nights for the firm that cleans the Kraft offices. And now, Kraft papers turn up in her burned house? How does that add up?”

“How indeed,” Joe said. “Particularly when her two daughters are married to the two owners of Kraft Realty?”

“When Wilma suggested Hesmerra used her pull with one of her daughters to get the Kraft job, Chichi said she doubted it. Said those girls aren’t friendly with their mother. And, she said, Kraft has a strict policy about hiring family. She thought the cleaning company didn’t know who Hesmerra was.”

Joe said, “Maybe Erik Kraft put in a word, bent the rules to help her out? Or, again, maybe he didn’t have a clue. And, if she did lift those papers, what did she mean to do with them?” He licked his whiskers, thinking. “First she cleans for one of the Kraft Realtors, then turns up cleaning the Kraft offices. Then she turns up dead. Which Realtor’s house?”

“That Alain Bent woman, the tall elegant one. That painted white brick up on the hill above where Ryan and Clyde bought their last cottage, where so many houses went vacant, that’s her house.” Dulcie rose from the computer. “Alain Bent and Erik Kraft worked together, they were sales partners, like a team, until she left the village. She kept the house, maybe until prices go up. Come on, I’ll show you, their picture’s spread all over.” Leaping down, she pushed open the inner door to the big, echoing reading room.

The high-raftered room seemed vast when it was empty of patrons and lit by only the soft glow of the moon shining in through the tall windows; moonlight threw twisted tree shadows across the reading tables, and across the leather couches that stood empty before the tall stone fireplace.

On the table nearest to the magazine racks, Dulcie had laid out half a dozen brightly colored Molena Point magazines. They were older copies, as if the newest volumes were still on some librarian’s desk. Each was open to a two-page real estate ad, the corners of the pages dimpled by the marks of little cat teeth. The full-color ads, arranged with four elegant residences to a page, included all the best real estate offices in the village, and each ad included a picture of the listing salesperson. In nine Kraft Realty spreads, partners Alain Bent and Erik Kraft were featured together, in their handsome two-agent sales pitch. Both were tall and slim, Alain’s dark hair sleeked back in a chignon at the nape of her neck, her black business suit trim and well tailored. Erik’s black hair was short, neatly trimmed, his sport coat casual and expensive, his open collar showing a deep tan. In one shot he was wearing white shorts and a white polo shirt, his legs and arms tanned and well muscled.

“Nice-looking couple,” Joe said suspiciously. “Debbie’s ex-husband, and his beautiful sales partner.”

Dulcie’s tail twitched, and she smiled a wicked little cat smile. “You’re thinking he could have left Debbie for Alain?”

Joe shrugged. Who knew, with humans?

“So,” she said. “What does this add up to? Erik Kraft and Alain Bent work their listings together. Hesmerra stole papers from the Kraft offices, and was snooping in Alain Bent’s house, then turns up murdered. Emmylou Warren steals the papers. Hesmerra’s two sons-in-law own Kraft Realty. And, to add to the mix, Debbie Kraft arrives in the village just two days after her mother is poisoned.”

Joe rose and began to pace, padding across the magazine pages looking down at them as if the puzzle might be all laid out before him, but not yet making sense. Dulcie had started to speak when she spun around. Together they stared across the room at the tall windows as a scratching sound was repeated, soft but insistent.

A branch swung against the glass where no other branches moved, there was no wind to stir its wild sweeping back and forth; then they saw the dark shape swinging on it, riding the pine limb. The branch went flying as Kit dropped to the windowsill.

She pressed her face to the glass, looking in. When she saw Joe and Dulcie her tail lashed with impatience, and she disappeared again, dropping to the ground. In a moment they heard the cat door swinging, and Kit came bolting through into the reading room. She leaped to the table, sliding on the slick magazines and nearly careening over the side.

“What’s all this? What are you doing? When I couldn’t find you I went to Joe’s house and in on the rafter but you have company, a woman talking and talking real shrill and a whining kid, and when I went in Ryan’s studio Rock and Snowball were huddled up on the daybed so miserable they scared me, and then I saw the picture on the mantel standing up beside a letter and I jumped up and—”

“Slow down!” Dulcie and Joe yowled together.

“Who was that woman?” Kit said, her yellow eyes wide. “I read the letter, what nerve. But—”

Joe said, “You saw the red tomcat, the picture of him.”

“He looks like Misto, only younger,” Kit said. “Red stripes instead of yellow and Misto said his son was that color and his name was Pan and I raced out to find you and they lived in Eugene where that letter came from, too. He looks like Misto and did you see he has exactly the same mark on his shoulder and the letter said he just got lost and they didn’t even look for him, they didn’t try to find him, they didn’t care where he went, they didn’t care if he’s hurt or dead and—”

“Slow down, Kit!” Dulcie hissed, her ears flat.

Kit tried, but she couldn’t contain her excitement. “If he lived in that nursing home we can find him on the computer, there are all kinds of things about cats and dogs in nursing homes and hospitals and—”

“Stop!” Dulcie cried, losing patience; of course Kit was right, she’d seen hundreds of entries about animals in hospitals, cats in a children’s hospital, therapy animals—if she could just find this cat, this particular nursing home. Leaping down, she raced for Wilma’s office, Joe and Kit right on her tail, and the three crowded onto the desk around the computer.

It took her a while, her paws pinched tight as she carefully pressed the keys, pulling up a number of subjects until she’d found the Eugene nursing home and then a clip about their amazing therapy cat. Kit was so fascinated she pawed eagerly at the screen, her eyes widening at the young red tom, who was held in the arms of a white-coated doctor—a strapping red tabby with a thoughtful expression, his knowing look far wiser than that of any ordinary cat. And the pattern on his shoulder was just the same as Misto’s, a clear medallion of concentric swirls narrowing in toward the center. Kit was so excited she was shivering. “We have to tell Misto, we have to go right now and wake him up and show him the picture and—”

“Wait,” Dulcie said. “Maybe we don’t want to tell him.” She scrolled down through a number of articles about the red tomcat, pausing at a headline that silenced Kit.

Did Nursing Home Cat Die in Fire?

The remarkable red tabby cat who began, on his own, to visit infirm patients at Green Meadows Nursing Home nearly a year ago has not been seen since a midnight fire burned the complex to the ground . . . “We haven’t seen him since three hours before the fire broke out. . . . He came to us as a stray . . .”

They read it together, crouched on the edge of the desk. At the last words, Kit sat silent, her ears down, her tail hanging over, limp. “What if he is Misto’s son? What if he’s dead? Oh, we can’t tell Misto . . . But he so misses his son. If he is dead . . . Oh, fire is a terrible thing. I don’t understand. All at once, that woman dead in a fire, and now this fire . . .”

Dulcie said, “No speaking cat would get caught in a fire, he’d have gotten out, he’d be too clever to get trapped.” She looked to Joe, begging him to help ease the tortoiseshell’s distress.

“That tom would have saved himself,” Joe said. “If he is Misto’s son or maybe grandson, you can bet he’s smart enough to get out of there, one way or another.” He pressed a paw on Kit’s paw. “He’s somewhere in Oregon, Kit, right now. And you can bet he’s safe.”

“But what if he was hurt in the fire, what if . . . ?” Her yellow eyes blazed at them. “We have to find him, we have to go and find him.”

“Then we have to plan,” Joe said patiently. “Do you know how many miles it is to Eugene? Do you remember how long it took Misto to get here, months, hitching with truckers and tourists? And then, when we get to Eugene, what? How do we find one lone cat in all that city? He could be anywhere.”

“Maybe,” Kit said, “maybe Misto would know where he might have gone. Misto knows Eugene and he—”

Dulcie said, “What if that is Misto’s son? What if he did die in the fire? You want to tell Misto that?”

“We can tell him we think we’ve found his son but not tell him about the fire.”

They both looked at her.

Dulcie sighed. “He’ll want to see the pictures. If we pull up those articles, he’ll read about the nursing home and about the fire. Maybe he’ll try to call them. If the nursing home burned down, does it even have a phone?” Dulcie dropped her ears, giving Kit a stern look. “We can’t tell him, not yet, we need to find out more.”

But, watching Kit, she knew Kit would tell Misto, that they couldn’t stop her. Or, if she didn’t tell him, and as flighty and irresponsible as the tortoiseshell could be, would she take off alone for Oregon in a fit of goodwill and passion and not much common sense?

Or would she and Misto go off together, an old cat too frail to survive a second journey halfway up the California coast and up into Oregon, and the flighty young tortoiseshell? Again, Dulcie looked at Joe for help. They’d backed themselves into a corner. Now, either they distressed Misto by telling him before they knew enough, or they abandoned Kit to her wild and headstrong passions.

“We’ll tell Misto,” Joe said softly. “We’ll show him the pictures. Tell him the whole story. We can’t tell him only half.” Maybe, Joe thought, Misto would show better sense than Kit and wouldn’t go racing off with no plan, no notion where the red tomcat might be.

“There are all kinds of animal rescue groups,” Dulcie said, “Humane Society, SPCA, Animal Friends. Maybe they can find him. Or maybe he’s already chosen a home, maybe he’s already settled in with someone, is rolling in luxury lapping up cream and he has no need of our help.”

“But he’d want to find Misto,” Kit said indignantly, “he’d want to find his father, he doesn’t know where Misto’s gone, he might be worried about his dad, wandering all over Eugene looking for him.”

Joe just looked at her. Kit could get pretty worked up.

“First thing in the morning,” Dulcie said, “I’ll call Eugene. Maybe I can find out if anyone at all saw him after the fire, or saw him escape the fire. Maybe by this time, someone has come forward, called to say he’s all right. If I can’t locate anyone from the nursing home, Wilma can, that’s what she does. She spent her whole career running investigations. Missing humans, missing cats, what’s the difference? Wilma can find out what happened to the red tomcat.”