Cat Under Fire

8

The cats narrowed their eyes, bombarded by sunlight. Sun blazed through treetops and bounced off burnished clouds. They stood at the edge of a terrace high above the hills, a tile expanse furnished with white wicker chairs, white wicker desk… a bed… bookcases…

Their eyes adjusted, their response focused, they saw clearly. They stood not on a terrace but on the threshold of Janet's bedroom, its two glass walls filled with trees and sky. To the left of the wide corner windows Janet's bed was tucked cozily into a wall of books. The white sheets had been tossed back in a tangle, the brightly flowered quilt lay half on the floor, as if Janet had just stepped away from the bed, had perhaps gone into the kitchen to make coffee; the sense of her presence was powerful. Her blue sweatshirt lay tossed across the wicker chair with a pair of jeans and a red windbreaker; beneath the chair lay a pair of jogging shoes leaning one atop the other, her white socks tucked neatly inside. Dulcie sniffed at the clothes of the dead woman and shivered; these would be the clothes she wore driving home from San Francisco that night after the opening at the de Young. The next morning she would have put on welding clothes, old scorched jeans, heavy leather boots, clothes that an accidental welding burn wouldn't hurt.

Three big white rugs softened the expanse of tile, thick and inviting and quite dry; the cats' paws sank deep, inscribing sooty prints. Dulcie sat down to clean her pink pads, but Joe stood, absorbing the warmth of the room, heat from the sun pressing in through the glass, absorbing the powerful sense of the dead woman. The feel of her presence was so strong he felt his fur tingle.

Beneath the white wicker desk was a tennis ball, and clinging to the desk legs and to the legs of the chair were fine white cat hairs. As Joe scented the tomcat, an involuntary growl rose in his throat; but it was an old scent, flat and faded.

He leaped to the bed, onto the rumpled sheets, leaving sooty pawprints, then belatedly he licked clean his own pads. The sun-warmed sheets smelled of human female, and of Janet's light perfume. He flopped down and rolled, purring.

The bookshelves above the bed had been recessed into the wall. The bottom shelf, at bed level, was bare. When he reared up to study the books, he could see the names of writers that Clyde liked to read, Cussler, Koontz, Steinbeck, Tolkien, Pasternak, an interesting mix. Half a dozen scrapbooks and photo albums were sandwiched between these, but he saw nothing that looked like a diary-unless Janet had made her journal in one of the big albums. As he clawed one down, Dulcie leaped up beside him.

"Strange that there's no nightstand. Where did she keep her night cream? Her facial tissues and clock? And Wilma keeps a bowl of mints by the bed. They're nice late at night."

Pawing open the album, they found newspaper clippings neatly taped to the pages, reviews of Janet's work and articles about awards she had won. Many had her picture, fuzzed and grainy, taken beside a painting or a piece of sculpture. There was a quarter-page article from the L. A. Times about Janet's top award in the Los Angeles Museum Annual, and another Times article gave her a big spread for a one-woman show at the Biltmore. Northern California papers supplied clippings about an award at the Richmond Annual, and the San Francisco papers listed awards in Reno, San Diego, Sacramento. There seemed to be clippings for all the major exhibits, as well as for Janet's one-woman shows, many at the major museums.

"She's done-she did all right," Joe said. "It wasn't easy. She put herself through school working as a welder in San Francisco, lived in a cheap room in the commercial district. That's a rough part of the city. I was born in an alley just off Mission. That's where I got my tail broken, that's where Clyde found me.

"She didn't have any furniture at first, just an easel, and she slept on a mattress on the floor. She kept everything in cardboard boxes."

"How do you know all this?"

"From napping in the living room while she and Clyde drank beer and listened to Clyde's collection of old forties records." Joe grinned. "She liked the big bands as much as Clyde does." He'd loved those nights, just the three of them. He'd been comfortable with Janet, and, long before he'd discovered his super-cat talents, he had shared with Janet and Clyde a cat's normal pleasure in music. That heady forties beat seemed to get right under his skin, right in to where the purrs started.

"She was the only woman he ever dated who didn't pitch a fit about Clyde keeping my ratty, clawed-up chair in the living room. Janet called it a work of art." The covering of his personal chair, he had long ago shredded to ribbons. The chair was his alone: no cat, no dog, no human had better mess with it.

After graduation Janet had moved to Molena Point, to another cheap room, had picked up welding jobs around the docks to support herself. Every penny went into paint and canvas, into oxygen and acetylene for her sculpture, and into sheets of milled steel. She had taken her work to every juried show in the state, and in only two years she was picked up by the Aronson Gallery.

She had lived better then, had bought some used furniture and a used van. She had been in Molena Point less than a year when she started dating Kendrick Mahl. Mahl was the art critic for the San Francisco Chronicle then; he kept a weekend place in Molena Point. When they married, Janet moved in there, but she kept her old room for studio space. After the wedding, Mahl's reviews of her work were favorable but understandably restrained. After the divorce he called her paintings cheap trash. Months after she left Mahl, she started dating Clyde. Joe thought she'd needed that comfortable relationship.

He clawed down a second album, this one was filled with eight-by-ten glossies, publicity photos of Janet and of her work. In the first shot she stood turned away from a splashy landscape, a painting of the rocky sea cliff as seen from the level of the white, crashing waves. At the very top of the painting, just a hint of rooftops shone against a thin strip of sky. Janet stood before the painting looking directly at the camera, her grin mischievous, her hands paint-stained, her smock streaked with paint; her eyes were fixed directly on them, filled with power and life.

Shivering, Dulcie wrapped her tail close around herself and sat looking at the room where Janet had lived. Where Janet had waked that Monday morning with no idea that, within an hour, she would be dead.

Dead, Dulcie thought, and with nothing else afterward? Ever since Janet died, that question had troubled her.

They found in this album dated photographs of Janet's recent paintings, and at the back was a picture of the white cat, an eight-by-ten color shot. He sat on a blue backdrop, a carefully chosen fabric the color of his blue eyes and blue collar. His fur was long, well groomed, his tail a huge fluffed plume. His expression was intelligent and watchful, but imperious, too, coolly demanding.

There were shots of the white cat with Janet, one where he sat in her lap, and one where he lay across her shoulder, his eyes slitted half-closed.

"Can he still be alive? Maybe he's hurt. Is that why I dream of him, because he needs our help?"

"The volunteers looked everywhere, Dulcie. There must have been twenty people combing the hills. Don't you think if he were alive, they would have found him? Don't you think that, even hurt, he would have tried to come home?"

"Maybe he's too badly hurt. Or maybe he did come home, maybe he found the studio gone, flattened, nothing but ashes-and Janet gone, no fresh scent of her. He would have been terrified. He might have just gone away again, frightened and confused. The fire itself must have been terrible for him. Maybe he was afraid even to come near the house."

"No matter how scared, if he were hungry, he'd go to the neighbors, at least to cadge a meal."

"There's some reason I dream of him." She gave him a clear green look. "The dreams have some purpose. They have to come from somewhere, not just from my own head. Before I dreamed of him, I didn't even know what he looked like, except from seeing him blocks away. I didn't know his eyes were blue, I didn't know that he wore a blue collar with a brass tag." She looked at him a long time. "Where did those bits of knowledge come from?"

"Maybe you saw his collar some time, saw him close up and don't remember."

"I didn't. I would remember."

But he didn't answer, and she let it drop. Maybe there was something in the male genes that wouldn't let him think about such mysteries.

The rest of the album contained snapshots of Janet at a picnic, and at a party, and several shots of her beside an overweight, overdressed woman. "Beverly," Dulcie said. "That has to be her sister Beverly-she's just the way Wilma described her. Looks like an overfed pug dog."

There were three shots of Janet in a wet suit beside a rocky shore, then pictures of a baseball game, where Janet stood tanned and grinning, ready to pitch, and there was a shot of her at bat.

They went through all the albums, pulling them off the shelves until the big, leather-bound books covered the rumpled bed. They found no diary. Dulcie prowled beneath the bed, under the fallen sheets and comforter, then searched the bookshelves again, thrusting her nose behind the disarranged books. When, balancing on the bottom shelf, she felt it shift beneath her paws she dropped down and dug at it.

They worried at the shelf, wiggling and clawing until it moved, then slid back.

The space beneath contained a box of tissues, face cream, a jar of hand cream, two small sketch pads, pencils, pens, and a small folding clock. Half-hidden beneath the jumble lay a small, leather-bound book.

Dulcie touched it with a hesitant paw. The scent of leather was mixed with Janet's scent. She took it in her teeth, dragged it out, dropped it on the bed. Gently she pawed it open.

The cats glanced at each other and smiled. This was it, this was Janet's diary.

Janet's handwriting was small and neat. She had written as much as she could on each page, leaving only thin margins, squeezing the lines close together as if she had felt frugal about the space, as if she had wanted to make the journal last over as many years as possible.

The last half of the diary was empty.

She had begun the journal during art school days, but had made only occasional entries then, mostly random notes of scenes she wanted to paint… Corner Jones and Lombard, white Victorian towering behind shops… The top of Chestnut Street when the storm sky is low and dark, and the East Bay seems so close you could touch it… The light against Russian Hill when clouds break the sun. Who can put that light on canvas?

She had made brief notes about her move to Molena Point, and some memos as to moving costs. There was a page of notes about apartment hunting, then a lapse of time. Then later, during her stormy marriage to Kendrick Mahl, the entries were long and painful, a montage of hurts from Mahl, his sarcasm about her work-and his involvement with other women, the details meant for no one else's eyes, as Janet set down her painful disappointment in Mahl, and then at last her resolve to leave him. Her notes about the divorce were raw and ugly, filled with her growing hatred.

Joe hadn't thought of Janet as one to hold on to hurts, but she had held on, clinging to her anger, and who could blame her? Kendrick Mahl was a vindictive man, hurtful and cold. Joe had no reason not to believe Janet; he thought Janet didn't lie easily. She had not talked to Clyde much about Mahl.

The journal entries were all tangled together, her personal life, her painting notes, brief reminders of when and where each painting was hung and if it had received an award, all the fragments of her life jumbled into one entity like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In the occasional stilted notes about her sister Beverly, it was apparent that the two sisters did not get along. A year before Janet's death, Beverly had wanted to open a gallery and take Janet's work from Sicily, a proposal Janet had rejected. The entry reflected her anger with bold, dark handwriting. Not even when she was the most hurt by Mahl had she written in this little book with such obvious rage.

"How can they be sisters?" Dulcie said. "There's no love, there's no closeness at all between them." She stared at Joe with widening eyes. "I had three sisters and two brothers, and I never saw them again after Wilma took me away."

"And you're sorry she took you?"

She licked her whiskers. "If Wilma hadn't taken me, I probably would have died. I was the runt, they kept pushing me away from the milk. I didn't know what it felt like to be really, beautifully full of supper until I went to live with Wilma.

"But I do wonder what it would have been like to have someone to play with, when I was little."

"Maybe that's why you steal. You had a maladjusted kittenhood."

She gave him a gentle swat, and returned to Janet's diary. Scattered through the journal were brief passages that did not seem to be painting notes but were simply written for pleasure, little pleasing word pictures, a drift of clouds over the darkening hills, the sea heaving green against the rocks, vignettes more detailed than her painting notes. The entries where Janet broke off with Rob Lake were written shortly after Mahl became Rob's agent.

Anyone's head would be turned, Kendrick was the most powerful critic in Northern California before he left the Chronicle to open his own gallery. He can make Rob's reputation, or prevent Rob from ever getting anywhere. Of course Rob's being used. Can't he see that? Or is he so eager that he doesn't care, that our relationship means nothing? I can't see him anymore, not when he belongs to Kendrick, I can't be comfortable with him now.

Joe withheld comment. His remarks about Rob Lake only angered Dulcie. She would have to admit in her own time that Lake wasn't as pure as she'd imagined.

Near the end of the journal was a note about a Mrs. Blankenship, who seemed to be a neighbor. Janet described her as a harmless old dear who had nothing to do but watch other people from her bedroom window.

She has sent word by her daughter that she doesn't like me welding so near their house, that it isn't safe, and that the flashing light bothers her. I've put up heavy shutters in the studio, and started pulling my kitchen shade, too. Poor old woman doesn't have anything else to do with her time. Maybe she should get a dog.

"That's the woman we saw staring out the window across the street," Dulcie said. "It's the only house that looks right over to the studio." The houses on the street above were higher, farther away, and positioned so that probably no one cared what Janet did. But the house across the side street had a clear view. "I wonder," she said softly, "what that old woman saw, the morning of the fire. There hasn't been any witness named Blankenship."

"It was five in the morning. Why would an old woman be looking out her window at five in the morning?"

"Old people don't sleep well, they're up at all hours. Wilma wakes up in the middle of the night and reads. I have to burrow under the covers."

Her green eyes widened. "Maybe I can find out; maybe I can hang out there for a while. Play up to the old lady."

"Why not? You could do that. Get her to confide in you-tell her you're a talking cat, that you'd like to interview her. Like to ask her a few questions. Maybe you could borrow a press card, say you work for the Gazette."

"I could play lost kitty. Hungry lost kitty. Little old ladies are suckers for that stuff."

Silently he looked at her.

"It's worth a try. What harm?"

"That old woman might hate cats. Maybe she poisons cats."

"If she hates cats, I'll leave. If she puts poison out, I won't eat it. Do you think I can't smell poison?"

"Sometimes, Dulcie…" But he sighed. What was the use?

She smiled and returned to the journal. "Why does Janet say this about Sicily Aronson, that Sicily is admirably calculating? What does she…?"

A sudden noise from the street startled them, the sound of a car door opening. They sprang to the window, looking down at the street.

A black Cadillac had parked at the curb. The driver's door was open, and, as they watched, a large woman began to extricate herself from beneath the steering wheel. Dulcie's eyes widened. "Beverly. That's Beverly Jeannot, has to be. Why would she come up here?"

"Why not? It's her house now. You know Janet left her the house."

"But the police tape is still up. I thought no one was supposed to come inside. I wonder if Captain Harper knows she's up here."

"Dulcie, it's her house. Don't you think she has a right to come in?"

Behind the Cadillac a pale cream Mercedes of antique vintage pulled up. Dulcie stared, her tail twitching with surprise. They could see the driver's red hair massed like a flame. "Where did Charlie get a pretty car like that? She can hardly afford a cup of coffee."

"That's Clyde's old Mercedes, the one he rebuilt. He must have loaned it to her. Maybe her old bus died. It wouldn't take much."

Charlie swung out of the Mercedes as Beverly emerged from the Cadillac. Beverly Jeannot was an overstuffed, soft-looking woman with large jowls, a wide stubby nose, and short brown hair set into such perfect marcel waves she might just have come from a 1920s beauty salon.

She was done up in something long and floating and color coordinated, all in shades of pink and burgundy, with high-heeled burgundy shoes and a natty little burgundy handbag. Her overdone outfit made a sharp contrast to Charlie's skinny jeans and faded yellow sweatshirt. The two women were as different as a jelly donut and a gnawed chicken bone. Charlie carried a clipboard, a claw hammer, and a wrecking bar.

As the mismatched pair started up the hill, moving out of sight along the far side of the house, Dulcie stared at the books scattered on the bed. There was no way to get them back on the shelves-that would take forever. She leaped to the bed, pawed the cubbyhole closed, and nosed Janet's diary to the floor; leaping down she pushed it under the bed. They slid under behind it, dragging it deeper beneath the fallen sheets as footsteps rang on the entry deck. They could hear the soft mumble of voices, then a wrenching screech as Charlie began to pull nails, releasing the boarded-over front door.

There were two thuds as Charlie leaned the plywood sheets against the house, then the soft, metallic click of the lock turning.

As Beverly Jeannot's high heels struck across the living room tiles, the cats backed into the far corner, pulling Janet's diary with them, shoving it under a fold of quilt. And, tucked warm beneath the quilt beside the leather-bound book, Joe found himself listening intently, surprised at his own sharp curiosity.

For the first time since Janet's death, his interest in her killer was intense, predatory. Determined. Now, suddenly, he meant to find out who killed Janet.

Maybe it was his immediate, instinctive dislike of Beverly Jeannot.

Or maybe his concern grew from the strong sense of Janet surrounding them, her scent, her pictures, her words-her deepest feelings shared.