Cat in the Dark (13 page)

“Hurry up. Unplug the toaster. A haircut doesn't take forever. Your dad…”

“I am hurrying. Give me the statements.” Jerking out the toaster cord, she jammed in the plug, flipped the switch, and stood shuffling through the sheaf of papers until a green light came on.

Slipping to the edge of the refrigerator, Joe could just see a letterhead above Mavity's name and address.
WINTHROP JERGEN, FINANCIAL ADVISOR
.

Dora made two copies of each page and separated them into two piles. When she was halfway through, Ralph stopped her. “You better call him. I'll finish.”

“You call him.”

“No. You're the one started this. You do it.”

Sighing, she fished a slip of paper from her pocket, picked up the phone from the desk and carried it to the coffee table dragging the cord, sat down on the couch where she could be comfortable. “I hope he's there.”

“He said he'd wait for the call.”

“Why is it so hard to get him on the phone?”

“Just call, Dora. Before your daddy gets back.”

While Ralph ran copies, she punched in seven clicks. No area code, so it was a local call. Waiting for her party to pick up, she glanced directly toward the refrigerator. Joe held his breath, didn't twitch a whisker.

Abruptly she returned her attention to the phone. She didn't say hello, she offered no cordial introduction, just started talking.

“We have them.”

A pause.

“I can't. Dad has the car. He took Mavity to work. He's getting a haircut—I told you he'd get one today. He'll be back any minute.”

Silence.

“All right. But hurry.”

She hung up. “He's on his way.” She headed for the bedroom and in a few minutes returned dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt that told the world she liked hot cars and champagne, carrying a large leather briefcase. Ralph finished up the copies, straightened the two stacks, and put the originals back in the bottom desk drawer. Dora carried one stack into the bedroom, then unplugged the copier and slipped it into the briefcase, tucking the other set of pages on top.

When Ralph padded into the kitchen to make coffee, Joe froze again. The couple sat at the table, not
five feet from him, sipping coffee and waiting.

“Where can he be?” Dora grumbled. “What's taking so long?”

After twenty minutes by the kitchen clock, she fetched a plate of cake from the cupboard and cut two thick slices.

Ten minutes more, and another ten. They had poured the last of the coffee and Joe felt ready to pitch a fit—it was an interminable wait for both the Sleuders and their silent audience. At last a car came down the street.

“That has to be him. Where has he been?” Dora patted her hair and straightened her shirt. “What in the world took him so long?”

But the car went on by. Joe heard it stop a block away, heard the car door slam. In a minute, footsteps came up the street, turning to the house.

“That's him,” Ralph said. A shadow loomed beyond the louvered glass: a thin man. Dora pulled the door open.

“Had car trouble,” the man said, stepping inside. “Left it up the block. It's running rough as a paint shaker.”

Joe, watching him, was rigid with amazement.

He was of medium height and slight of build, his light brown hair tied in a ponytail that flopped over the hood of his blue windbreaker.

This was the man who lingered around the apartments. The silent watcher. Joe caught a whiff of motor grease as he moved past Dora to the table.

“Let's have a look.”

Dora opened the briefcase and handed him the copies.

“Shuffle them out, Dora. My hands are greasy from the car.”

She spread the statements across the kitchen table;
he stood scanning them as she sorted through, then looked up at her, smiling.

“This is what we want. Exactly. You've done a good job here.” He winked at her. “You two are quite something.”

The man watched as Dora put the papers in a neat pile again and slid them back into the briefcase on top the copier, carefully closing the lid.

Removing a white handkerchief from his pocket, he wrapped it around the handle. “No need to get grease on the leather. I'm just filthy.” He smiled again, holding the briefcase away from his pantleg, and moved toward the door. “Wish me luck, folks, that I can nurse the old car into the village.”

“I could phone for a tow truck,” Dora offered.

“I'll take it slow. I think it's the carburetor, but I should be able to make it to the garage all right.” He stared down at his dirty hands, let Dora open the door for him.

The man's name was never spoken. When he had gone, Joe endured what seemed eternal confinement between the chips and cookies while Dora fixed breakfast and the two folks ate a never-ending meal of fried sausage, fried eggs, instant grits, toast, and coffee. At first the smells made him hungry, but after prolonged exposure, he wanted to throw up. He woke from a fitful doze as Dora began to do the dishes, running hot water into the sink, plunging her hands into the suds.

When she had put the dishes in the drain, she hurried to the bedroom and returned wearing a yellow-and-purple mumu and flipflops and carrying a blanket and a beach umbrella. Ralph padded out dressed in skin-tight black exercise shorts and a red tank top straining across his considerable girth. Joe watched them toddle down the steps and plow through the muddy, sandy
marsh to a streak of sand at the edge of the water, watched them spread their towels on the fish-scented shore. As Ralph put up the beach umbrella, Joe leaped down from the refrigerator and resumed his own search, swiftly prowling, poking with a nervous paw.

He found no other suitcase smelling of Greeley. He dug into the bags belonging to Dora and Ralph, then looked for the money beneath the beds and up under the bedsprings and under the couch cushions, all the while listening for footsteps on the porch or the sound of a car—or the soft thump of paws hitting the windowsill.

He tossed the bathroom, too, then pawed open the kitchen cabinets. He fought open the refrigerator but found no wrapped package that might contain money. Standing on the kitchen counter, he was just able to open the freezer, a favored place for householders to hide their valuables according to Max Harper. Leaning into the cold, he sniffed several paper-wrapped packages, but the smell of each matched its handwritten label: pork chops, shrimp, green beans. He nearly froze his ears off. Being practically inside the freezer, trying to listen for intruders, feeling as nervous as a mouse in a tin bucket, he backed out gratefully into the warm kitchen.

When he could think of nowhere else to look—couldn't figure a way to take the top off the toilet tank or remove the light fixtures—he gave up, sprang out the open window, and trotted up the hill behind the cottage. Fleeing the scene through the woods, he hit the wide gardens above, galloping between those substantial homes wondering where Greeley had hidden the money and what Dora and Ralph were up to. Telling himself that Dora Sleuder wouldn't rip off her own aunt Mavity.

W
INTHROP JERGEN
liked to tell his clients that he was a sentimental nonconformist, that he would endure almost any inconvenience so he could enjoy the magnificent view from his out-of-the-way office-apartment.

In fact, the view meant nothing. That wondrous vista down the Molena Point hills wasn't even visible when he sat at his desk, only the tops of a few ragged trees and empty sky. He had to stand up or move to the couch before the glare of sun-glazed rooftops stabbed at his vision. And this morning the so-called view was a mass of wind-churned trees and ugly whitecaps. That was the trouble with being close to the water, these violent winds whipping inland. Now, standing at his desk looking down to the dead-end street below, observing the weeds and the three battered service trucks parked behind Charlie Getz's rusting van, he wondered why he tolerated this disreputable display.

According to the provisions of his lease, he could have refused to let Damen undertake the remodeling,
but he thought it better to endure a few months' annoyance in order to acquire a more respectable environ. And it was always possible that Damen would overextend himself, sink more money into the project than he could manage, and would be in need of cash, perhaps a personal loan.

Glancing at his watch, he left his desk and in the bathroom removed his sport coat, tucked a clean bath towel over his white shirt and tie, ran hot water into a washcloth and steamed his face, bringing up a ruddy color and relaxing the tightness that prevailed after he'd been at work for several hours. He brushed his teeth, used the blow-dryer to touch up his hair, removed the towel, and washed his hands. He was to pick up Bernine at twelve-thirty. He'd had trouble getting a reservation on a Saturday, but Bernine had raved about the Windborne. The restaurant was indeed charming, a rustic, secluded aerie clinging to the seacliffs south of the village. Bernine said she liked the ambiance. The moneyed ambiance, he thought, amused. As long as Bernine wasn't buying. If he kept this up, lunch or dinner every day, she could prove to be expensive.

He wasn't sure whether Bernine Sage would become a client or a lover, or both. It didn't matter. One way or another, she would be useful. She was blatantly obvious in coming onto him, but she was a good-looker, kept herself groomed and dressed in a style that commanded attention. A nice showpiece. And she seemed to know her way around, knew a lot of worthwhile, influential people.

As long as they understood each other, the relationship could be mutually entertaining. With Bernine on his arm he got plenty of appraising looks. She attracted interest, and interest, in a certain strata, meant money.

Straightening his tie and slipping back into his sport coat, he returned to the computer screen to finish up a last group of entries. He checked his figures, then closed and secured the file with a code and punched in the screen saver, a slowly wheeling montage of various foreign currencies. Putting his backup disks safely in the file cabinet, he locked it and locked the desk, left no disk or hard copy accessible. And without the code, no one could access his hard drive.

Surely no one around here had reason to snoop, or very likely had the knowledge to override his code. But he made it a point to follow set routines. He was successful in large part because he did not deviate from carefully chosen and rigorously observed procedures.

Two incidents of the morning did bother him, however. Small mistakes he must have made, though he abhorred carelessness.

He had found a number error in the Benson file. And he had found, in a hard copy file for the Dawson account, two spreadsheets out of order. Such small inefficiencies could lead to far more serious errors. He did not allow such carelessness in others, and he certainly couldn't sanction it in himself.

Locking the apartment, heading down the stairs jingling his keys, he paused at the bottom of the steps glancing to his right into the weedy patio at the stacks of lumber, the sawhorses, and crated plumbing fixtures. He hoped this project wouldn't last forever. Turning left from the stairwell, he stepped out onto the driveway and to the bank of garages. Activating his pocket remote, he opened his single garage door, backed the Mercedes out, and headed down the hills.

Molena Point's shops and cottages were appallingly picturesque. In his opinion, a regular Disney World, though he would not say that to anyone. As for
the crowds of tourists, those people might as well be in Fantasyland, they were so busy spending money on foolish whims. No thought to solid investment. No, the tourists weren't for him. It was Molena Point's established residents who made up the predictable cadre of his clients.

Parking in the short-term green zone in front of the Molena Point Library, he had intended to wait for Bernine in the car, but on impulse he swung out and moved through the deep garden, along the stone walk, and in through the dark, heavily carved doors of the sprawling Mediterranean building.

The central reading room was brightly lighted, its white walls and spaciousness offsetting the dark tables and bookcases. Through an office door he could see Bernine, dressed in a short pink suit, standing near a desk beside the head librarian—Freda something—a frowsy scarecrow of a woman who seemed to be scolding a third party standing nearly out of sight beyond the door. Interested, he wandered in that direction, pausing beside the book stacks.

He could see a bit of the third woman, with her back to him. Red sweatshirt, long gray hair caught back with a silver clip, faded jeans. That would be the Getz woman, the person Bernine was staying with.

Plucking a book from the shelf, something about Scottish bed-and-breakfasts, he stood slowly turning the pages, listening for any stray information that might be useful.

They were arguing about a cat.
A cat—
that cat that had caused all the fuss in the newspaper, the animal they called the library cat. Freda was giving the tall, gray-haired woman a real dressing-down. And she had considerable skill at it, too; she handled her authority with style, splendidly high-handed and thorough.

And certainly Bernine, standing at full attention, was being very politic; her few comments, when Freda spoke to her, were as smooth as butter. How insane, all this fuss over some cat. You couldn't walk the street without someone wanting you to sign a petition.

He turned away as this Wilma person came out. She was actually carrying the cat, holding the animal across her shoulder like a baby. She crossed the reading room rigid with anger and disappeared through an office door.

From behind the closed door he heard her talking to someone, softly arguing. Curious, he moved closer. The other voice was so soft he could not make out the words, but both women were angry. He had a strong desire to see the other speaker, such a sudden, intense curiosity that he was tempted to push open the door.

 

Shutting the door behind her, Wilma set Dulcie on the desk. “That woman! How did we ever get saddled with her?”

“I'd like to slash her,” Dulcie hissed, her green eyes blazing. “Eviscerate her like a dead toad.”

Glancing at the door, Wilma lowered her voice. “She frightens me. We don't know what she might do.” She reached to stroke Dulcie. “Won't you agree to leave the library for a while?”

Dulcie's eyes widened.

“She could be capable of anything. I don't want you hurt.”

Dulcie glared, her ears flat. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. I know you can be all teeth and claws. But Freda is bigger, and she has the advantage of any number of large, heavy weapons. She could block your cat door and corner you, trap you in one of the offices.
She might even turn on the gas. This petition movement has her in a rage. She's livid that the town and her own staff are trying to override her.”

“You think she'd turn on the gas and risk blowing the place up? Don't be silly. And so she blocks my cat door. You know I can open any door in this library—the back door, the front door, the door to the side street. I can turn the knobs and, with a little time, I can turn every one of these dead bolts.”

Wilma stroked her diffidently. “I know how skilled you are. And I know your hearing and eyesight are far superior, that there's no way she could slip up on you. But you refuse to admit that, simply because of size, a human might have some advantage. She's cruel, Dulcie. And she's angry!”

Dulcie turned away and began to wash, every lick across her tabby fur telegraphing her disdain.

Wilma walked around the desk and sat down facing her. “Please, won't you stay in my office during the day? Near your cat door? And stay away at night until the petitions go to the city council?”

Dulcie leaped off the desk, lashing her tail, and without another word pushed out her cat door. She'd had a difficult morning already, before Freda started in, and now Wilma. Tired and cross beyond toleration from leading Azrael around the village while trying to avoid his intimacies, she had come into the library needing a long nap, and there was Freda making another fuss. And now Wilma roiling at her. She felt as irritable as a bee trapped against the window; she wanted only to be left alone.

Azrael had pretended to enjoy her company as she gave him the grand tour, showed him the best places to hunt wharf rats, demurely led him along the shore and into the warehouses; as she showed him the meanest
dogs to avoid and where the best restaurant garbage was judiciously hidden out of sight of wandering tourists—not that any village cat frequented such places. Why should they, when they could enjoy George Jolly's offerings? But the entire morning she didn't dare let her guard down. He had only one thing on his mind—he
would
keep nuzzling her. She had swayed on a tightrope between seeking to distract Azrael while Joe searched Mavity's cottage—and fighting her own distressing fascination. She didn't want to find Azrael charming; she didn't want to be drawn to him.

Well he
was
a good storyteller. Lying in the sun on Molena Point's fishy-smelling pier, he had told her wonderful tales of the jungle, had shown her the jungle's mysterious, leafy world awash in emerald light, the rain approaching like a silver curtain to drench the giant leaves and vines then move on again, a silver waterfall receding, glinting with the sun's fire.

He had shown her the steaming city sidewalks crowded with dirty children begging for food and stealing anything their fingers touched, had shown her black buzzards bigger than any street cat hunched above her on the rooftops, diving heavily to snatch garbage from the sidewalks; had shown her tangles of fishing boats tied to the wharves, then buckets of silver cod dumped flopping on the pier. His stories were so vivid that she could smell the stench of the open market where fly-covered sides of beef hung rotting in the tropical sun—and the tomcat's soft-spoken Spanish phrases enticed her, caressed her, though she did not understand their meaning.

She had ignored the darkness surrounding Azrael, the cloying heaviness beneath his sweet Spanish phrases—until he repeated his ugly predictions of murder.

“The people in this village, that woman Bernine Sage, and this investment person, and your Wilma Getz and her niece and that auto mechanic, all of them are drawing close to death. As unable to pull away as leaves blown to the edge of a dark pool.” And Azrael had smiled as if greatly enjoying the prospect of human death. Rising, he had peered down into the shadowed world of mud and pilings below them, where Molena Point's small colony of stray cats eked out a meager living.

Suddenly, lashing his tail, he had leaped off the pier and shouldered into the shadows below, snarling and belligerent, routing the cowering strays, tormenting and bullying those thin cats, had sent them slinking away into dark niches to crouch terrified between the damp boulders.

Shocked, she had stormed after him and driven him back with steely claws. To hell with guile and sweet smiles.

But at her attack, his amber eyes had widened with amazement. “What's the matter? They're only common cats. They're not like us. Come on, Dulcie, have a little fun—they're only stupid beasts.”

“You think they're stupid because they can't speak? You think they're without feelings? Without their own sensibilities and their own unique ways?”

He had only looked at her.

“Common cats have knowledge,” she had said softly. She was hot with anger, but she daren't enrage him—not until Joe had finished with Mavity's cottage. “Can't you see,” she had mewed gently, “that they have feelings, too?” All the while, she wanted to tear the stuffings out of him, he was
so
arrogant—this cat couldn't see a whisker-length beyond his ego-driven nose.

Disdainfully he had flicked his tail at her silly notions and stalked away. And she, chagrined, had swallowed her pride and galloped after him, sidling against his shoulder.

He'd glanced down at her, leering smugly again, turning on the charm, rubbing his whiskers against hers. She had held her tongue with great effort and spun away from the wharf, laughing softly and leading him a wild chase through the village. The cat was so incredibly boorish. Who needed a tom that viewed other cats so brutally, who viewed a female not as an interesting companion or hunting partner, but as a faceless object meant only to mount, only for male gratification?

And when at long last she heard the tower clock strike ten, and knew that Joe would have left Mavity's, she gave Azrael the slip. Making a tangled way among and through the shops, through enough varied scents—spices, perfumes, shoe polish—to hide her trail, she had slipped into the library guessing that, even if Azrael tracked her, he wouldn't follow her into that sanctuary of strict rules where he'd likely be thrown out on his lashing black tail.

Alone at last, she'd had a little wash and settled into the shelves of medieval history for a quiet nap. But it wasn't two hours later that she woke to Wilma and Freda arguing.