Cat Telling Tales

32

Galloping over the rooftops for the gallery, Kit and Pan could hear the auctioneer’s quick staccato and then in a minute other voices and laughter rising up, as if the auctioning had finished. Kit imagined folks heading for the buffet, and the good smells drew her on, making her lick her whiskers. But running full tilt, Pan stopped suddenly and doubled back, looking down and across the street.

Debbie’s car was parked below, in front of the village Laundromat. The windows were open and little Tessa was looking out, both children were there, but not Debbie. They scanned the street and looked in through the Laundromat windows but didn’t see her, and Kit flattened her ears, lashing her fluffy tail. “What kind of mother leaves her kids alone at night, on the street, in an unlocked car?”

“Debbie does,” Pan said. “She has them sit up in front so if anyone bothers them, they can blow the horn.”

“Fat lot of good that would do.”

Pan crouched over the roof gutter looking down at Tessa, his expression so filled with longing that Kit reached out a paw, touched his paw gently. “You want to go down there?” she said softly. “We could—”

“I can’t let Tessa see me. She’d never stop talking, telling her mother I’d followed them, begging her to look for me. And Vinnie? She catches one glimpse, who knows what trouble she’d make, asking how I got here. That kid won’t leave anything alone, we don’t need that kind of attention. ”

“Maybe, though . . .” Kit said, “maybe at night you could slip into the cottage to see Tessa? Wait until she’s asleep, until they’re all asleep, then talk to her the way you did before?”

“How do you know that?”

“Debbie told the Damens. She laughed at Tessa, made fun of her, said a talking cat was impossible, but Tessa wouldn’t back down. She said that in the night, in the dark, you told her your true name. Joe heard it all, he told me and Dulcie. He said it was all he could do not to claw Debbie. No wonder Tessa never talks, when her mother is so sarcastic.”

“I wish she hadn’t told,” Pan said quietly. “I did whisper to her, how else could she have named me? She’s so small, and . . . dear,” he said, looking embarrassed. “Debbie doesn’t deserve her.” He looked at Kit, flicking his ears. “Maybe . . . Is there some way I could visit her, get her to keep the secret?”

“If you could talk to her at night again, maybe you could help her. Show her how to survive that woman. I could be the lookout,” Kit said. “I could watch Debbie and Vinnie, make sure they don’t wake and hear you, make sure that Debbie, if she’s still up, doesn’t come sneaking in.”

Pan smiled. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we could do that.” His amber eyes were so deep, his look so close and real it made her tremble. “Late in the night,” he said softly, “when the house is dark, maybe we can help her, maybe together we can.”

Charlie found all five cats in the bookstore, out of the way of the workers who were cleaning up the last of the buffet, folding up the big table and the metal chairs, putting the little café tables back in their usual places. On a bookstore table, Kit and Pan crouched before their empty plates waiting for news, licking the last smears of salmon mousse from their whiskers. Dulcie and Misto sat above them on a bookshelf, as Joe Grey paced back and forth along the shelves, the five cats waiting impatiently to know if Kraft had been caught. They’d heard no more shots, no more sirens, the night was silent, but somewhere out in the dark, officers might still be in danger.

Charlie sat down at the table beside Kit and Pan and flipped open her cell phone, pretending to make a call, to key in a number that never rang at the other end. She said softly, “They got him.” The cats came to full attention, Joe Grey paused on the bookshelf and lay down just above her, and on the table Kit rolled over, handily drawing closer. All ears were up, all tails very still.

“They spotted the Audi headed north just before the off-ramp to the hospital. When he saw two patrol cars coming up fast behind him, and a CHP cutting across the median from the southbound lanes, he swerved up the ramp, doubled back southbound, weaving in and out. Cut a right at Carpenter, grazed two oncoming cars, headed up into the residential. A Realtor must know those little winding streets like the back of his hand, he must have been convinced he could lose them up there. It didn’t work,” she said, grinning. “They forced him over, he fired once at Brennan. McFarland took him down with two shots. He struggled out of the car bleeding, his hands up, and didn’t fight anymore.”

Kit was so pleased she almost laughed out loud.

No wonder we heard the shots, Joe thought. Those hilly streets, they’re only a few blocks from here, just up past the gallery.

“He’s all tucked away in the hospital,” Charlie said. “Private room with a guard, regular VIP treatment. Max has talked with the DA, there’s enough evidence for an arraignment, he was really pleased to have the laptop.” She reached to pet Kit, and shyly to stroke the top of Pan’s head. “Kathleen made copies of everything on it, the fake messages from Alain, all kinds of real estate transactions on a dozen different letterheads. From what they’ve found so far, those are all fake. They searched the condo, got a lock man up there to open the wall safe but of course it was empty. Max has the cash, maybe a hundred thousand and I don’t know how much in gold. They’re still lifting prints in the condo.”

Well, Kit thought, the whole department had been busy. In the time it took the party to break up, and her and Pan to demolish their big plate of seafood, turkey, salmon mousse, and three desserts, everyone at the department had been hard at work, she imagined the computers and phones and fax machine just humming away. Never overly modest, tonight Kit felt pretty smug.

“The murders are in our jurisdiction,” Charlie said, “but the real estate swindles reach way beyond California. Oregon, three Midwestern states, North Carolina and Virginia. Max is turning copies of that evidence over to the FBI, everything on the laptop, and the papers from Hesmerra’s tin box. I expect our county DA will charge Kraft with multiple counts of real estate fraud, as well as two counts of murder—the investigation of Hesmerra’s death is still under way.” She glanced up as Billy came across the room. “See you next week,” she said, pretending to end the call.

Billy had been helping with the cleanup, with moving tables and folding up cages; he’d worked willingly all evening at various tasks, but now as he approached, his expression wasn’t happy, and he looked at Charlie forlornly. Away behind him, Perry and Esther Fowler stood watching.

He stepped close to the table, speaking softly. “They said . . . My aunt Esther said a person from Children’s Services will be at school tomorrow morning. To talk to me. To make arrangements for my placement . . .” He looked down, his voice faltering.

“Placement?” Charlie said, trying not to shout. “What placement?”

“To tell me what institution or foster home they’re going to put me in.”

“The hell they are,” Charlie said, scowling past him at the Fowlers. “They’re not taking you anywhere. Who are they sending, did you get a name? Did they say what time?” She looked up as Ryan came to join them, passing the Fowlers without speaking.

Billy said, “They didn’t say a name. Said first period, around nine.” The boy’s face was white, he was trying hard not to cry.

“Max and I will be there,” Charlie said, her voice low and measured with anger. “You’re not going anywhere, you’re staying with us. For as long as you like.” She looked up at Ryan. “If the Fowlers won’t cooperate, if they won’t sign the legal papers to let you live with us, I’m sure Debbie will.”

“Debbie will,” Ryan said. “Or she’ll be out on the street looking for a roof over her head.”

Billy tried to grin at them, but still he was pale and uncertain. Ryan hugged him, and Charlie said, “It will be all right, we’ll take care of it. Go on out and help Clyde with the rest of the tables.”

The boy walked silently past the Fowlers hardly looking at them. He didn’t stop, though they tried to question him. Watching him, Joe hoped a signature from Debbie would be sufficient. He wondered what other leverage Max would have, maybe with Perry Fowler, as well as his hold over Erik Kraft.

There’d been no mention of Fowler’s involvement in Kraft’s embezzlements, but Joe thought maybe Fowler wasn’t clean, maybe he and Esther had known all along, and looked the other way. If that was the case, Max might have plenty of information to use to help Billy.

He guessed the truth would come out when Max and Kathleen had all the loose ends wrapped up. Detectives Garza and Davis were, at this point, pretty much out of the loop. Dallas had started working another case, a domestic violence that had flared up noisily, night before last. And Juana was at home tonight, fasting, preparing for an early morning surgery. She had decided to go ahead with the knee replacement; Ryan had said Officer Brennan would be taking her to the hospital.

Joe thought about his strong and reliable friend having to deal with the pain of surgery and then with a mechanical knee, and he prayed that all went well. Charlie’d said Juana had taken her young cat over to the Firettis, to board, where he’d likely be spoiled just the way Juana spoiled him. Joe thought maybe Misto would play nursemaid, and spoil the little cat, too.

Out in the patio, as Billy helped Clyde arrange the tables, he watched a young couple leaving with their carrier, their new kitty peering out. Every cat had been spoken for, and those folks that the volunteers knew well had taken their cats with them. Others, not so well known, would wait while CatFriends checked them out, talked with their veterinarians, even visited their homes. Charlie said they weren’t going to rescue and doctor and nurture a cat, then not make sure it would be well cared for. Billy looked in at George Jolly’s two black-and-white adoptees, who waited in their carrier on a table near the kitchen. One reached out a paw to him, while the other rolled over for a tummy rub.

Charlie had told him the last one of George Jolly’s three elderly cats had, shortly before Christmas, been put down by Dr. Firetti because of painful liver failure. Charlie said Jolly was now, at last, ready for new housemates. When she described Jolly’s house, Billy knew the cats would like it. There were high shelves and all kinds of climbing places, and out in back, a lush garden, Charlie said, with an escape-proof fence. He guessed Sammie Miller’s two cats were, for sure, going to a happy home.

But his own cats had lucked out, too, Billy thought, with a whole hay barn full of mice to hunt. He didn’t know what made him think about Zandler just then. Except that the landlord had groused about his cats, said they were dirty. Well they were cleaner than that old man. He thought about Zandler prowling the burned house, and wondered again if Gran’s money was still hidden there—or if Zandler, or someone else, had found it. Maybe he’d never know, but he sure meant to keep looking.

As the remaining volunteers gathered for a good-night celebration, the scent of fresh coffee filled the patio and George Jolly brought out the anniversary cake he’d baked, setting it before the Damens: a three-layered confection iced in white, decorated with a red Valentine heart and a border of running cats. Everyone toasted the newlyweds, and toasted each other at the success of the auction. They had raised over forty thousand dollars, and every last stray had a new home, a more productive night than any of CatFriends had dreamed.

Charlie and Billy left soon after the boisterous toasts ended, Billy yawning, full of good food, sated with too many people talking all at once—and worried about tomorrow. Wondering if his friends could, indeed, stand up to the power of the county authority that meant to take him away. Now, tired and discouraged, he wanted only to climb into his bed, in his cozy stall, among his own furry family.

As Kit and Pedric and Lucinda left the party, Kit looked back over her shoulder hoping Pan would decide to come with them, but he didn’t, he only gave her a conspiratorial smile, and hopped into the Firetti van beside Misto. Wilma and Dulcie were leaving, too. Wilma, having done a background check on Emmylou Warren, had thought of asking her home with them, but Emmylou had already vanished; she hadn’t stayed long, a silent observer at the edge of the party, then had slipped out again into the night as was her way.

“Where will she go?” Wilma said, turning the car heater up as she and Dulcie headed home. “Keep on sleeping in her old car, among all the bags and boxes?”

“Or maybe off to look for Birely?” Dulcie said. “To tell him his sister has died?”

“How would she ever find him? Oh, but she has his cell phone number.” She glanced down at Dulcie. “What about Sammie’s house, now the police have released it? You suppose she left it to Birely?”

“What would he do with it?” Kit said. “A wanderer like Birely, settle down in one place? I don’t think so. Trapped by a roof and four walls? He’d be about as happy as a feral cat shut in a box.”

“I guess,” Wilma said. “Maybe she left the house to Emmylou, if she was Sammie’s only friend. That would be nice” She looked down at Dulcie and scratched the tabby’s ears. “You cats did all right,” she said. “Cats and cops together.”

Joe arrived home yawning, endured Rock’s wet licks across his face, gave Snowball a few licks of his own, and then was up into his tower stretched out among his cushions, staring up at the stars.

“Sleep tight,” Ryan called up to him.

“You did good,” Clyde said, “you all did.”

“Didn’t do bad yourselves,” Joe told them, thinking of their welcome help. And he slept, as did each of the cats, each warmed by their own private mystery: Joe Grey with dreams he hadn’t wanted, but wasn’t able to forget. Misto filled with visions of his lost past and, maybe, visions of what was yet to be. Dulcie awash in poetry whose source she could never have explained. And Kit, her wild dreams now given over, so suddenly, to an amazement of romance.

And Pan? What did Pan dream? Of past lives, as his daddy did? Of medieval times long vanished? Or did he dream of one tortoiseshell lady? Or, perhaps, dream equally of both, and with equal fascination?

But as the cats dreamed, each reaching out into realms they could not fully define, Wilma Getz dreamed, too. As Dulcie snuggled beside her beneath the quilt, Wilma slept wrapped in her own sense of miracle. Before leaving for the auction this evening, she had switched on her computer and found Dulcie’s last, finished poem, and didn’t that make her smile. The tabby’s sudden creative flare was, to Wilma, the greatest joy of all. The transformation of the thieving kitten she had adopted so long ago, to this most surprising and talented of cats, still left her marveling. Now, more than ever, left her nearly purring, herself, with excitement. And they slept, side by side, Dulcie and her human, dreaming, to the echo of Dulcie’s poems.

All along the cliff top blowing

She stalks her prey in grasses growing

Forest tall and thick above her

Quick and silent feline hunter

Queen of the high sea meadow

Mouse creeps very close to edge

She snatches it from narrow ledge

Sparrow tardy in his flight

Will never see another night

He’s gone to feed the queen

Through dark to early morn she’ll roam

Waves crash below

Gulls scream above her

Scolding as the wild queen passes

Through the swaying summer grasses

Queen of the high sea meadow