Cat in the Dark (15 page)

J
OLLY'S ALLEY
was no longer a pretty retreat for either tourist or village cat. Beneath the darkening sky where the first stars shone, the cozy brick lane with its little shops looked like a garbage dump. The light of its two wrought-iron lamps shone down upon a mess of greasy paper wrappers, broken eggshells, sandwich crusts, and chewed chicken bones. Wadded paper napkins and broken Styrofoam cups spilled from the two overturned refuse cans, and the smears of cold spaghetti and slaw and potato salad were stuck liberally with tufts of torn-out cat fur—a dozen colors of fur, telling the tale of a huge battle.

Joe and Dulcie, pausing at the alley's entrance, surveyed the mess with amazement, then outrage. Dulcie's ears went back and her tail lashed. Joe crouched as if to spring on whatever feline culprit remained.

But no culprit was visible, the battling cats had fled. Only the tufts of fur told the story, and their pawprints deep in the potato salad—and the stink of fear that lin
gered, as sharp as the smell of gunpowder after a front-line skirmish.

And, stronger even than the fear-stink, was the odor of the perpetrator—the belligerent reek of the black tomcat.

Sniffing Azrael's scent, Joe and Dulcie padded across the greasy bricks, peering into the shadows beneath the jasmine vine, searching for him.

Suddenly above them a shadow exploded between the rooftops and dropped down within the jasmine vine, dark and swift.

The black tom sauntered out of the foliage, his bullish shoulders swaggering, his amber eyes burning. Looking around at the devastation, he smiled and licked his whiskers.

Joe's growl was deep. “I suppose you waited until all the cats congregated for an evening's snack, then attacked them. Did you trap the smallest ones behind the garbage cans, so you could bloody them?”

Azrael widened his amber eyes. “And what business is it of yours, little cat? What are you, keeper of the village kitties?” Crouching, he circled Joe, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing.

Joe leaped, biting into Azrael's shoulder, raking his hind claws hard down Azrael's belly. Azrael clawed him in the neck. They spun, a tangle of slashing and screaming, then Azrael had Joe by the throat, forcing him down. Joe twisted free and bit him in the flank as Dulcie lunged into the fray. Together they pinned the tomcat. Under their violent double assault, he went limp. When they drew back, he fled to a safer position.

Now suddenly he was all smiles, waving his tail, curving and winding around a lamppost, the change swift and decisive. Chirruping and purring, he fixed his gaze on Dulcie.

“If I had guessed, my dear, that you would be here this evening, we could have feasted together—after I routed that rabble, of course. Or perhaps,” he said softly, “you would have enjoyed that little skirmish—a little playful challenge to get your blood up. Hold!” he said as Joe moved to attack. “I have news. Information that will interest you.”

But Joe leaped tearing at Azrael's ear and shoulder, and again the two were a screaming whirlwind—until the deli door crashed open and George Jolly ran out swinging a bucket. A cascade of dishwater hit them. Azrael bolted under a bench. Joe backed away, shocked, licking greasy dishwater from his whiskers.

“Look at this mess! At the mess you cats made.”
Jolly fixed his gaze on Joe. “What kind of behavior is this? I go away for half an hour and you trash my alley! And on a Sunday, too—with the village full of visitors. You! I'd thought better of you, gray tomcat. Why would you do this?”

He looked hard at Dulcie. “Tomcats! Stupid fighting tomcats. All this over a lady?
Shame. For shame.
” He shook his head sadly. “I feed you no more, you tomcats. I feed no one. You disappoint me. You're nothing but common street rowdies!”

Turning his back, he went inside. But he was out again at once, carrying a broom and dustpan. Irritably he righted the garbage cans and began to sweep, filling the dustpan over and over, dumping garbage back into the metal barrels. Azrael had disappeared, and as Jolly unwound a hose, Joe and Dulcie fled to the end of the alley.

Bouncing a hard spray across the bricks, Jolly washed up every smear, hosing the last crumbs into the drainage grid. Giving Joe a disgusted look, he disappeared inside. As he shut the door, Azrael dropped
down from the roof. Ignoring Joe, he sidled up to Dulcie, looking incredibly smug.

“Such a charming companion you were the other morning, my dear Dulcie—diverting me so cleverly, while your crude friend, here, tossed Mavity's cottage.”

He eyed Joe narrowly. “What were you looking for, gray cat, prowling Mavity's home while Dulcie performed her little ruse?”

Joe washed his paws, sleeking the white fur, and spread his claws to lick them dry.

“If you so enjoy snooping,” Azrael told him, “if you
like
poking into human business—which I find incredibly boring—you might be interested in last night's telephone conversation. Though I would prefer to share my information privately, with the lady,” Azrael said, purring.

Dulcie looked at him coldly. “Share it with both of us. One does not hunt another's turf without shedding blood. What was this conversation? Why would we be interested?”

“An invitation to dinner,” Azrael told her. “Someone in the village has invited Dora and Ralph out to dinner—without Mavity or Greeley.”

“Humans go out to dinner frequently,” Dulcie said, yawning.

“They are keeping this dinner a secret. They've told no one. The reservation is at a very fancy restaurant, much too elegant for those two Georgia hicks.”

Dulcie yawned in his face. “Who made such an invitation?”

“They got a phone call, so I only heard one side. Heard Dora say
Winthrop.
Couldn't tell if she was talking
to
Winthrop Jergen or about him. You know Jergen—Mavity's financial guru.”

“We know him,” Joe said, turning from Azrael to wash his hind paw.

Azrael sat tall, puffing himself up, lashing his thick black tail. “Why would a big-time financial advisor take those two rednecks to dinner? And why wouldn't they tell Mavity and Greeley? Not a word,” Azrael said, narrowing his amber eyes.

“Maybe the Sleuders want to invest,” Dulcie suggested. “Surely Mavity bragged about Jergen—about how much money he's earned for her.”

“Then why not invite her along? But what a laugh—
she
hasn't any business investing, she's nothing but a scrub woman. A bad-tempered, mean-spirited scrub woman, the way she treats visitors.”

Dulcie looked hard at him. “The way she treats dirty-mannered tomcats? At least her money is her own. She didn't steal it, like her brother.”

“If she'd learned from Greeley she wouldn't be mopping floors—not that I care what happens to that one.”

“Where is this dinner?” Dulcie said. “What restaurant?”

“Pander's. Real fancy, people all dressed up, BMWs and stretch limos, street lined with Lincolns and New Yorkers. You should have seen Dora swoon. The minute she hung up the phone she rushed into the bedroom, fussing about dresses, pulling clothes out of her suitcase, holding them up and looking in the mirror.”

Azrael smiled. “But when Mavity got home, Dora was suddenly real busy doing up the dishes, cleaning up the kitchen. No hint of the big invitation.”

“Why didn't
you
tell Greeley?” Dulcie asked.

“Waiting to see what happens,” Azrael said cooly. “To see where this little adventure leads.” He licked his paw, smug and self-assured. “Sometimes it pays to hold back a little something from Greeley.”

He rose, lashing his tail. “Greeley's blind when it
comes to Dora. He'd never believe that Dora lied to him. When it comes to Dora, he wouldn't believe even me.” And for a moment, the black tom looked almost pitiful.

“Greeley didn't believe that Dora nearly killed me with that damned frying pan,” he hissed. “The minute he leaves the house she starts throwing stuff—but he says I'm lying.”

“When is this fancy dinner?” Joe said. “And why are you telling us?”

Azrael's face became a sleek black mask. “I told you—that night on the rooftops, I told you. I sense death.” He looked at Joe almost helplessly. “This dinner…Visions of death. I do not want it to touch Greeley.”

The black tom shook himself. “If I spy on Dora and Ralph, if they see me prowling the restaurant, Dora'll pitch a fit, have the whole place down on me.” He looked at Joe a long time. “She'd pay no attention to you—you'd be just a neighborhood cat lurking. You can slip under the tables. Try the terrace first. She seemed impressed that they might sit on the upstairs terrace, with a view down on the village.” Azrael gave a toothy laugh. “What's the big deal about rooftops?” He fixed Joe with another level look. “You can find out what Dora and Ralph are up to—find out if it will harm Greeley.”

“Why would his own daughter do something to hurt him?” Dulcie asked.

“Maybe she wouldn't mean to harm him. Maybe she wouldn't understand the implications.”

“You're making too much…” Joe began.

“I sense death around Greeley,” the cat yowled. “I see death.”

“Even if you do, why should we get involved?” Joe asked coldly. “What's in it for us?”

The black tom gave Joe a deep and knowing look. “You will do it. You dance to curiosity as some cats dance to catnip. You two are riven with inquisitiveness.

“And with righteousness,” Azrael continued smugly. “If you think the law will be broken, that there's a crime, that a human will be harmed, you little cats will do it.”

Joe crouched to rake him again, but the tom ignored him, twitching a long black whisker.

“You nosed into every possession Dora and Ralph have. You left your scent on every smallest bit of clothing. If you thirst for knowledge and justice, if you stalk after lawbreakers, how could you
not
run surveillance—as your Captain Harper would say—on this intriguing little meeting?”

They watched him intently, Joe angrily, Dulcie with increasing interest.

“Tonight,” Azrael said softly, narrowing his flame-golden eyes. “Seven-thirty. They're to take a cab.” And he slipped away, vanishing among the shadows.

Dulcie looked after him with speculation.

Joe said, “What's he trying to pull? There's no crime, nothing has happened. What a lot of…”

She kept looking where Azrael had vanished, and an eager, hotly curious expression gleamed like fire in her wide green eyes.

“He's setting us up, Dulcie.”

“Why would he set us up? I don't think so. Did you see his eyes when he talked about Greeley? That was—that was a plea for help.”

“Come on, Dulcie. A plea for help from the likes of him? That cat cares about no one.”

“He cares about Greeley.” She gave Joe a deep green look. “He loves Greeley. I'm going over there to Pander's.”

“Come on, Dulcie. You let him sucker you right in.”

“Into
what
? What could he do? What harm can come of it?”

“Dulcie…”

“Do as you please,” she hissed. “I want to know what this is about.” And she trotted away, switching her tail, heading for Pander's.

Joe galloped after her, leaned down and licked her ear. “Totally stubborn,” he said, laughing.

She paused, widened her eyes at him, purring.

“Hardheaded.” He licked her whiskers. “And totally fascinating.”

She gave him a green-eyed dazzle and a whisker kiss.

“So what the hell?” Joe purred. “So we slip into Pander's, maybe cadge a scrap of fillet. So what could happen?”

C
ROUCHING
close together beneath a red convertible, the cats licked their whiskers at the delicious smells from Pander's, the aroma of roast lamb and wine-basted venison and, Dulcie thought, scallops simmered in a light sherry. But the elegant scents were the only hints of Pander's delights, for the building itself was not inviting. From the street it looked as stark as a slum-district police precinct.

The brick face of the plain, two-story structure rose directly from the sidewalk with no architectural grace, not even a window through which to glimpse the restaurant's elegantly clad diners. The closed door was painfully austere, with no potted tree or flower or vine beside it, in the usual Molena Point style, to break the severity. Only the expensive cars parked at the curb and the delicious aromas wafting out hinted at the pleasures of Pander's as the cats waited for Dora and Ralph Sleuder to appear.

Despite the gourmet allure, Joe would just as soon be home catching a nap as spying in that rarified envi
ron, dodging the sharp eyes and hard shoes of unsympathetic waiters.

“What if we can't get in?” Dulcie said softly, studying the blank, closed facade.

“Should have phoned for a reservation. We'd like two cushions laid on a corner table, my good man. We'll have the venison—you can dispense with the silverware.”

She just looked at him.

“We'll go over the roof,” he said more gently. “Drop down onto the terrace.” The second-floor dining terrace, at the back, boasted no outer access, only the stairs from within the main dining room.

“But, Joe, the minute we look over the edge of the roof and the terrace lights hit us, we're like ducks in a shooting gallery.”

“Who's going to look up at the roof? They'll all be busy with their menus and drinks and impressing each other.” He looked hard at her. “I still say it's a setup. I don't trust anything that lying alley cat tells us.”

“He looked really worried. I think he truly wanted our help. Maybe his prediction of murder isn't all imagination, maybe Greeley is in danger, and we can find out why.”

Joe shrugged. “Maybe Jergen found out that Greeley's stealing. Maybe he's going to hit Dora for blackmail—she forks over or he turns in her father.”

“That sounds flimsy. How would he even know Greeley? For that matter, how does he know Dora and Ralph?” Her green eyes narrowed. “Why this dinner so soon after Dora and Ralph copied Mavity's financial statements?”

“As to that, what about Pearl Ann snooping into Jergen's computer? Is there some connection? And,” he said, “need I point out again that there's been no crime
committed? That this is all simply conjecture?”

She gave him that don't-be-stupid look, her eyes round and dark. “When people start prying into other people's business, copying their personal papers, accessing their computer files, either a crime's been committed or one's about to be.
Someone's
up to no good. We just don't know who.” And she settled closer to Joe beneath the convertible to await Jergen's little dinner party.

The Sleuders had not yet made an appearance when Pander's door opened, a middle-aged couple came out, and the cats glimpsed, within, a tuxedoed maître d' of such rigid stance that one had to assume, should he discover a trespassing cat, he would snatch it up by its tail and call the dog-catcher. They had been waiting for some time when they realized they were not the only observers lingering near Pander's closed door.

Across the street a man stood in the shadowed recess between two buildings, a thin, stooped man, pale and very still, watching Pander's: the Sleuders' mysterious friend and courier. The man who loitered, in the evenings, outside Clyde's apartment building.

“He gives me the shivers,” Dulcie whispered. The cats watched him for a moment then slipped away beneath the line of cars and around the corner to the back alley.

They hoped to find the kitchen door propped open, a common practice among Molena Point restaurants during the summer to release the accumulated heat of the day and to let out the warm breath of the cookstove.

But the rear door was securely shut, the entire building sealed tighter than Max Harper's jail.

“Spotlights or not,” Joe said, “let's hit the roof.” And he took off for the end of the building, swarming up a
bougainvillea vine through clusters of brick red flowers. With Dulcie close behind him, they padded across Pander's low, tarred roof toward the blinding light that flowed up from the terrace. Soft voices rose, too, and laughter, accompanied by the tinkling of crystal.

Crouching at the edge, their paws in the roof gutter and their eyes slitted against the glare, they peered down onto two rows of snowy-clothed tables and the heads of sleekly coiffed women in low-cut gowns and neatly tailored gentlemen; the tables were set with fine china and heavy silver, and the enticing aromas engulfed the cats in a cloud of gourmet nirvana. Only with effort did they resist the urge to drop onto the nearest table and grab a few bites, then run like hell.

But they hadn't come here to play, to create chaos in Pander's elegant retreat, as amusing as that might be.

Along the terrace wall, dark-leafed, potted trees stood judiciously placed to offer the diners a hint of privacy between their tables. The cats did not see Dora and Ralph. But a serving cart stood directly below them, and in a flash of tabby and gray they dropped down onto it then onto the terrace, slipping beneath the cart, finding their privacy in the shadows between its wheels.

From this shelter, their view down the veranda was a forest of table and chair legs, slim ankles, pant cuffs, and gleaming oxfords. A waiter passed, inches from their noses, his hard black shoes creaking on the tiles. To their right, a pair of glass doors opened to the interior dining room. They knew from their housemates' descriptions that Pander's had four dining rooms, all richly appointed with fine antique furniture and crystal chandeliers, and the tables set with porcelain and sterling and rock crystal. Both Wilma and Clyde favored Pander's for special occasions, for a birthday or for the anniversary of Wilma's retirement. The staff was quiet
and well-trained, none of the
my-name-is-George-and-I'll-be-your-waiter
routine, and none of the overbearing showmanship of some expensive but tasteless restaurants that catered to the nouveau riche, waiters with bold opinions and flashy smiles. Pander's existed for the comfort and pleasure of its guests, not to put on a floor show.

When Wilma did dine at Pander's, she would bring home to Dulcie some small and delectable morsel saved from her plate, wrapped by her waiter in gold foil and tucked into a little gold carton printed with Panders' logo. Once she had brought a small portion of beef Wellington, another time a little serving of pheasant stuffed with quail. She had served these to Dulcie on the good china, too, making of the occasion a delightful party. Pander's was one of the human institutions about which Dulcie liked to weave daydreams, harmless little fantasies in which she was a human person dressed in silk and diamonds and perhaps a faux-leopard scarf, little imaginary dramas that delighted her and hurt no one.

But now she began to worry. “What if they didn't get a terrace table? If they're not here when the courthouse clock chimes eight, we'll have to try the dining rooms, slip along under the dessert cart when they wheel it in that direction.”

“I'm not going through that routine again. Creeping around on our bellies between squeaking wheels. I had enough of that in the nursing home.”

“At least you didn't have to worry about your tail getting under the wheels.” She cut him an amused glance. “A docked tail does have its upside.

“And,” she said, “your short tail makes you look incredibly handsome—even more macho. The drunk who stepped on your tail and broke it—he didn't know he was doing you such a big favor.”

The terrace was filling up, several parties had entered; only two tables remained empty, and no sign of the Sleuders. The cats were crouched to make a dash for the inner door when they saw Dora and Ralph coming through.

“There they…” She stopped, staring.

Joe did a double take.

The Sleuders' host was not Winthrop Jergen.

Dora and Ralph's dinner companion, gently ushering them in behind the maître d', was Bernine Sage, her red hair wound high with bands of gold, her orange-and-pink flowered suit summery and cool—making Dora and Ralph look so shabby that Dulcie felt embarrassed for them.

Dora had chosen a black dress, possibly to make herself appear thinner, but the black was rusty and faded, as if she had owned the dress for a very long time, and her black stockings were of the extra-support, elasticized variety. Ralph was dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with amazingly wide lapels, a shirt that should have been put through a tub of bleach, and a broad necktie with black-and-white dominoes printed across it. His socks were pale blue.

As the three were seated, the cats flashed across open space and beneath the table nearest to their cart. Slipping behind a potted tree to the next table, winding between silk-clad ankles and satin pumps and polished Balley loafers, they were careful to avoid physical contact with the clientele, not to brush against someone's ankle and elicit startled screams and have waiters on them as thick as summer fleas.

Moving warily, their progress alternating between swift blurs and slinky paw-work, they gained the end of the terrace and slipped under the Sleuders' table, crouching beside Bernine's pink high heels and nude
stockings, Dulcie tucking her tail under so not to tickle those slim ankles.

Dora's black shoes were a size too small. Her skin pooched over and her thick stockings wrinkled. Ralph was wearing, over his baby blue socks, black penny loafers with dimes in the slots. The threesome was seated so that the Sleuders could enjoy the view out over the village rooftops. Bernine's vantage commanded the terrace tables and their occupants; she could watch the room while seeming to give the preferred seating to her guests. Their conversation was hesitant, almost shy. Above the cats, a menu rattled. Dora shifted in her chair, rearranging her feet so Joe had to back away. She asked Bernine about Molena Point's weather in the winter, and Ralph inquired about the offshore fishing. The cats were starting to doze when a waiter came to take the drink orders. Dora ordered something called a white moose, Ralph liked his Jack Daniel's straight with no chaser, and Bernine favored a Perrier.

When the waiter had gone, Bernine said, “How is Mavity feeling—is she all right? She's working so hard. I worry about her. House cleaning is terribly heavy work for a woman of her years.”

Dora's voice bristled. “Mavity has always worked hard.”

“I know Charlie is shorthanded,” Bernine confided, “but Mavity isn't so young anymore.”

“Hard work is the way she and Daddy grew up; they thrive on it. Both of them worked in the family grocery since they were in grammar school. It was right there on Valley Road when this part of Molena Point was mostly little farms,” Dora told her. “Mavity and Daddy wouldn't know what to do without hard work. Daddy was the same on the farm, always working.”

“Well, I suppose she does want the work just now,
since she's investing every penny. She's so excited about increasing her savings.”

There was a pause as their drinks arrived, the waiter's hard black shoes moving around the table, the sound of ice tinkling, the sharp scent of alcohol tickling the cats' noses. “But I do wonder,” Bernine said, “about these investments of hers. Mavity is thrilled with the money, but this Winthrop Jergen…” Another long pause. Dora began to wiggle her left toe. Ralph's feet became very still. Bernine said tentatively, “I wonder sometimes if Mr. Jergen is—quite to be trusted.”

No one responded. Under the table, Ralph tapped his foot softly. Dora shifted position, pressed one foot tightly against the other.

Bernine said, “The kind of money Mavity's making seems—well, nearly too good to be true.

“Though I don't see how Mr. Jergen could cheat her,” she hastened. “After all, she must get a regular monthly statement. And she told me herself, she drew two hundred dollars from her profits just last week to do a few things to the house, buy some new dishes.”

Dora made a strange little sound. “Oh, the dishes are lovely. Real Franciscan pottery, just like Mama had. Well, she didn't have to do that, just because we were coming. Didn't have to do anything for us.”

“She wanted to,” Bernine said. “And I guess she can afford it, all right. I'd love to invest with Mr. Jergen, but I—I don't know. Investments make me so nervous.”

“Investing with that Je…” Ralph began. Under the table, Dora kicked him.

“Still,” Bernine went on smoothly, “if Mavity can make that kind of money…Well, maybe I
would
like to try.”

Ralph cleared his throat. “I—I wouldn't do that.” Dora kicked him again, barely missing Joe, and the cats
backed away against the terrace wall. There was another pause, as if Bernine might have looked at Ralph with surprise.

“Do—do you have any—special reluctance?” she asked. “I know so very little about investments.”

Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe, amused. This was hugely entertaining. Whatever Bernine was playing at, she must seem, to Dora and Ralph, the height of sophistication—it must be a heady experience for Ralph to find Bernine Sage asking his advice.

Ralph leaned closer to Bernine's chair. “I would be careful about investing with Jergen.” And Dora's heel pressed hard against his ankle.

“Oh?” Bernine said softly. “You're not telling me there's something wrong?”

The waiter approached and they heard the tinkle of fresh drinks. There was a long interval concerned with ordering, with crab mornay, with a salad of baby lettuces, cuts of rare fillet, and a broiled lobster—a discussion that left the cats sniffing around under the table for any leftovers from previous diners.