Cat in the Dark (17 page)

T
HE LIBRARY
and garden were crawling with cops. From the roof, Joe Grey watched three medics kneel among the lilies beside the bodies of Dora and Ralph Sleuder. Unable to observe all the action from inside, he had streaked up the back of the building to the roof, leaving Dulcie inside on the book stacks doing interior surveillance. The police action upon entering the garden had been swift and precise as each man swung to his appointed job.

But now the medics, unable to help the deceased, rose again and moved away, nodding to the police photographer. He, pushing back his shoulder-length black hair, knelt among the flowers to shoot close-ups first of the victims' faces, then of their raw white limbs, recording from every possible camera position; loading new film, at last he turned from the bodies to photograph the surround, the window above the corpses, the white stucco wall, and the garden itself, calling an assistant to part the lilies so he could shoot the earth beneath. Across the garden, Freda Brackett's angry accusations rose sharply.

She stood before the library's open front door, toe to toe with Max Harper, her words burning like flames. Harper listened to her harangue without speaking, his thin face frozen into complicated lines of distaste that made Joe laugh. Didn't Freda see the deep anger in the police captain's eyes—and the spark of cold amusement?

“What kind of police force
is
this, Captain Harper, to let such a shocking crime occur practically inside the library! This is beyond excuse. You have no idea the damage this will cause the children. What kind of police would subject children to this nightmare? Any well-run police force would have prevented this shocking event. You…”

Joe ceased to listen to her—as he suspected Harper had, too. The aftermath of the Sleuders' deaths was turning out pretty much as he'd thought—and as Dulcie had feared. The children, on arriving for story hour and discovering the bodies, had crowded against the window, pushing each other out of the way, shocked at first, then quickly out of control. Staring down through the glass, smearing it with their noses and with sticky fingers, they screamed then laughed, working themselves into a furor of shrill giggles that did not abate until their parents dragged them away. Not even the ululation of sirens careening through the village had quieted them, nor had the arrival of the ambulance and four police cars skidding to the curb; they only shouted louder, fought harder to see every detail.

Out beyond the garden, two officers were clearing the street and putting up cordons at the ends of the block. At both corners, pedestrians had gathered, idle onlookers drawn to tragedy, some out of empathy but most with prurient curiosity. Of all those who crowded to look, Joe was the only observer enjoying a rooftop
vantage. Lying with his chin propped on his paws and his paws resting on the roof gutter, his alert gray ears caught every whisper.

He watched the evidence officer lift lint and debris from the bodies and the surround and mark the evidence bags as to content and location. Watched him go over the victims' clothes with the department's tiny vacuum cleaner and wondered if any lint had fallen from Greeley's clothes when he knelt over Dora—or, for that matter, if the lab would find black cat hairs—or traces of their own fur where he and Dulcie had sniffed at the victims' faces.

Well, so Harper found cat hairs. So what was he going to do? There'd been cat hairs at other murder scenes. He watched the fingerprint specialist dust the deceased's clothing and skin and the window and the slick green lily leaves, carefully lifting prints. Watched the forensic pathologist arrive—a white-haired man stepping out of an ancient gray Cadillac—to examine the bodies, place bags over the victim's hands, and wrap Dora and Ralph for transport to the morgue. As the courthouse clock chimed ten-thirty, the forensics team moved inside the library, and so did Joe Grey, heading for the book stack where Dulcie sat twitching her tail, highly amused as she listened to a little group of irate mothers.

 

Lieutenant Brennan, heavy in his tight uniform, stood talking with the five women and their excited preschoolers, the little ones wiggling and shouting. Three-year-old James Truesdel wanted to know why those people were asleep in the garden, and Nancy Phillips, with five-year-old superiority, told him they were not asleep, they were dead.
She
wanted to know: “How did they get dead, with their clothes off?” And five-year-old
Albert Leddy, trying to drag his mother back toward the window seat from which he had been extricated, pitched such a tantrum, kicking his mother in the shins, that if he'd been a kitten Dulcie would have whacked him hard and nipped his nervy little ears.

But she had to smile, too, because from the temper of the parents, the pro-library cat group had snatched the day just as Joe had predicted, had grabbed opportunity by the tail. As Freda Brackett left Captain Harper and came back inside, nine parents converged on her, and James Truesdel's mother began to question her in a manner that indicated there would soon be a hotly phrased letter in the
Gazette.

Behind Freda, Bernine Sage manned the three constantly ringing phone lines—word traveled fast in the village—giving dry, uninformative answers. It was hard to tell whether Bernine was an island of efficiency or of total indifference. Dulcie glanced up to the door as a young man bolted in, having talked his way past the police guard.

Danny McCoy was disheveled and breathing hard, his red hair tousled; having obviously rushed over from the
Gazette
offices, he exchanged a look of complicity with Mrs. Leddy.

Danny, too, was a mover and shaker on Dulcie's behalf. He had done several columns supporting the library cat and had made a big deal that library cats were a growing trend across the country. He had done a really nice article on the Library Cat Society, interviewing its president and several of its members and quoting from the society's quarterly newsletters about the popularity of individual library cats in Minden, Nevada, Eastham, Massachusetts, and, closer to home, El Centro. Now, deftly trapping Freda between the checkout desk and a book cart, he began with the standard ques
tions: Who had found the bodies? What time were they discovered? Then he moved on to the question of why the children had been allowed to see the murder victims, why they had not been supervised, to avoid such ugly experience.

“We didn't know the bodies were
there,
” Freda snapped. “One does not come to work expecting to find dead bodies outside the children's room. The police are supposed to patrol that street. Why didn't
they
see the bodies? This Captain Harper was extremely lax to allow such an occurrence. This is not New York City. This is a small, quiet town. What else do the police have to do, but keep the streets and public buildings safe?”

“But, Ms. Brackett, why were the children allowed to view the corpses?”

“I told you. We didn't know they were there! Can't you understand me? It was the
children
who discovered the tragedy.
We
don't go into the children's room first thing in the morning. We are far too busy preparing to open the library, preparing the checkout machine, clearing the bookdrop, starting up the computers…”

“No one looked out the window before the children arrived?”

“Of course not. Why would we? Don't you listen? We had no reason to look out. The children's librarian was at her desk getting ready for story hour. This work takes a good deal of preliminary attention. My staff does not have time to dawdle, gawking out windows, Mr. McCoy.”

“So you let the children run in there, without any supervision, and view a shocking and frightening death scene.”

Dulcie smiled with appreciation. Danny was being totally unfair. Taunting Freda and shaping his own biased agenda. The article he was preparing to write
would be scathing—he was going to cream Freda.

Purring and rolling over, she watched Joe slip in the front door and across the reading room behind the feet of several officers. He made one leap to a reading table, another to the top of the book stack, landed beside her with a soft thud, purring.

“Where's Mavity?” she whispered. “Did someone go to find her, to tell her about Dora and Ralph? Did they go to look for Greeley?”

“Harper sent an officer to find Mavity. I don't know about Greeley.” And he settled down to watch Danny torment Freda, the young reporter playing her as skillfully as any cat baiting an angry rat.

“Exactly what degree of damage, Ms. Brackett, might this event have done to the children? Is it possible, would you say, that some of the children will need psychiatric help? Perhaps trauma counseling? Is the library insured for that kind of…”

“The city sees to our insurance, Mr. McCoy. I don't have time for this foolishness. If the children glimpsed a murder scene, that is no different from what they see on television.”

Mrs. Truesdel moved closer to join them. “That is not what you told Captain Harper, Ms. Brackett. You said the children would probably need therapy. And as far as television,” Mrs. Truesdel said, “I don't let my five-year-old watch violent TV. Nor do my friends. We
try
to protect our small children from undue violence. Certainly we don't expect them to witness two shocking deaths during story hour.”

“This experience,” Danny said, “will give them far worse nightmares then any TV show.” He moved closer to Freda. “Certainly this ugly look at death has been far more harmful to the children than, say, finding a little cat in the library.”

“Dead bodies, Mr. McCoy, seen through a window, cannot bite the children or communicate to them some life-threatening disease.”

“I don't follow you. The library cat is healthy. What disease do you think she…”

“Rabies, Mr. McCoy. Lyme disease. Cat scratch fever—all of which can kill, if not treated. In the past year, in this county alone, there have been fifteen cases of rabies. And the statistics on Lyme disease…”

“But Dulcie has had her rabies shots. She has excellent veterinary care—she's not a diseased stray off the streets. And to my knowledge there have been no cases of Lyme disease in this coastal area.”

“A cat's bite or scratch,” Freda snapped, “is notoriously filthy.”

“Has she ever bitten or scratched a child?”

“There is always the chance she will. Cats are half-wild creatures; they are never really domesticated.”

Atop the book stack, Dulcie's eyes blazed. If ever she did yearn to bite and scratch, this was the moment. If ever she abandoned her domesticated ways, now was the time.

Beside her, Joe was nearly choking with laughter, his ears and whiskers twitching, his mouth open in a wide grin.

Soon Danny, having taken enough quotes from Freda for a scathing article, smiled sweetly at her, turned away, and approached three other mothers and their children. He was deep into conversation with them, writing down their comments, when another squad car pulled to the curb and an officer hurried up the path looking for Captain Harper, who stood just inside the door talking to the photographer.

“We didn't find Mavity Flowers,” he told Harper. “She wasn't at home or at work up at Damen's apart
ments. And we haven't found Greeley Urzey.”

Joe and Dulcie looked at each other. Dulcie whispered, “Has Greeley skipped?
Did
he do it?”

“No way, Dulcie. He…” Joe paused, scowling. “Here comes Clyde. He doesn't look too happy.”

Hurrying up the walk, stepping over the yellow ribbon barrier and past the police guard, Clyde, like Danny, was disheveled and red-faced. Rushing in, nodding to Harper, he spotted Joe atop the book stack.

Sprinting across the room, he snatched Joe by the scruff of the neck and swung him down onto his shoulder, giving Joe a glare that would turn a Doberman to stone.

“Claws in,” he hissed. “Put your claws
in.
And stay right there. Not a move. Not a snarl out of you.”

Joe was shocked and hurt. What had he done? And he could say nothing. In public, he had no chance to defend himself.

Clyde looked up at Dulcie more gently. “Would you two like some breakfast?” He reached up for her. She gave him an innocent green gaze and slipped down willingly into his arms, soft and innocent, her claws hidden, her little cat smile so beatific Joe thought he'd throw up; he turned away from her, disgusted.

“It's time you two were out of here,” Clyde said softly, meaning:
Stay away from this! Leave it alone! Forget it.
Carrying them out, Joe on his shoulder and Dulcie in his arms, he hurried around the block to his car and plunked them down in the ragged front seat. He was driving his latest acquisition, a battered '32 Ford that sounded like a spavined lawnmower. Starting the engine with a deafening clatter, he headed for Wilma's house.

When Clyde had sold his antique red Packard touring car to help pay for the apartment building, he'd started driving an old Mercedes he'd fixed up.
The car was all right except for its color. Joe had refused to ride in the baby pink Mercedes. Clyde himself had taken all the ribbing he could stand, then sold the Mercedes and finished up the last details on the yellow '29 Chevy convertible in which he had escorted Charlie to the gallery opening. But then he'd picked up this Ford; he always had to have some old clunker to refurbish. Eventually he would turn it into a beauty, but meantime a ride in the heap was like being transported in a bucket of rattling tin cans. Driving to Wilma's, Clyde didn't speak to them. They crouched together hunched and cross as he parked at Wilma's curb.

She was on her hands and knees in the garden, transplanting gazanias, thinning out the low yellow flowers. As Clyde killed the rattling engine, the cats leaped out.

Wilma sat back on her heels, looking them over, her eyes widening with suspicion. “What?” she said. “What have they done now?”