Cat in the Dark (25 page)

“No,” Harper said. “I don't think that.” He looked at Wilma for a long time, then turned away, heading for his car. Wilma moved to the window, watching the patrol unit slide away into the village, thinking what a tangled web had drawn them all in—and, for Harper, what a cat's cradle of leads and unanswerable questions.

G
REELEY URZEY'S
sour, boozy smell filled Wilma's car thicker than steam in a sauna. Despite the fact that she drove with all the windows down, the stink of secondhand rum and stale sweat made her want to boot the old man out and let him walk to her house—except, of course, he wouldn't. He'd head back for that hovel among his cases of 90 proof.

She
could
have stopped by Mavity's cottage and insisted that he take a bath and change his reeking clothes, but she hadn't wanted to take the time. Mavity was so anxious to see him; Wilma hadn't even waited, as she'd promised herself, for the old man to sober up.

But even as rum-sodden as Greeley was, he seemed genuinely worried about Mavity. He sat leaning forward, staring hard through the windshield as if to hurry the car faster—and clutching the black cat in his lap.

She had to smile at the way he'd slipped the cat in. After the police officer let her into the Davidson Building and saw her safely downstairs again with Greeley in tow, she'd waited alone in the dirty hall for
Greeley to go back upstairs and fetch his jacket. She didn't think he'd run out on her—there was no other entry, just the second floor windows. She'd watched, amused, when he returned clutching not only the jacket but the black cat nestled down in the wadded-up leather as if the animal might not be noticed.

Drunk and argumentative, he'd insisted on bringing the beast despite the fact, as she'd pointed out, that Mavity disliked Azrael, and that it was Mavity's comfort they were concerned about here.

Now as she drove across the village, the cat sat possessively on Greeley's lap, a huge black presence which, unlike most cats, made no move to leap out the four open windows. “He'll do as I tell him,” Greeley had promised drunkenly, “or he'll know what for.”

Well, maybe the cat wasn't as bad as Mavity claimed. Certainly it was a handsome animal; admiring him, Wilma reached gently to stroke his broad black head—and drew her hand back at the blaze of rage that flamed in his slitted orange eyes.

So much for making friends. The animal was as unsocialized as its master.

The cat watched her narrowly as she parked in her drive and killed the engine, its gaze strangely calculating—as eerie as Poe's “The Black Cat” with its chilling stare.
The figure of a gigantic cat…I could not rid myself of the phantasm of the cat…a large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree…

As she herded Greeley toward her kitchen door, escorting the drunken, smelly old man into her clean house, she felt like she was bringing home a parolee just released from the drunk tank—except that Greeley smelled worse. The instant she opened the door, the cat leaped inside, brushing boldly past their legs with none of the wariness most cats exhibited upon entering unfa
miliar rooms. Immediately he scented Dulcie's cat door and flew at it, sniffing and growling, and before she could stop him he turned his backside and drenched the little door with his testosterone-heavy stink, applying liberally the mark of male dominance and possession.

Shouting, she slapped at him with her purse—and jerked her hand away as he sprang at her, his swift claws raking her arm, leaving long red welts oozing drops of blood.

“You make that cat behave, Greeley. Or you'll put it outside.”

Greeley shrugged and offered a helpless grin. Wilma found some peroxide in the emergency cupboard, poured some on a paper towel, and scrubbed the wounds, thinking of rare tropical infections and blood parasites. Snatching a spray bottle from the sink, she poured ammonia into it, to mix with the water. “He claws me again or sprays again, Greeley, he gets a shot of this in the face. He won't like it.”

The cat glared. Greeley looked back grinning, amused that she would threaten his tomcat. Giggling, he headed for the dining room, stumbling unsteadily past her.

Before the cat could leap after him, Wilma slid through the door and slammed it in the beast's face.

Making sure the latch clicked, that the door was securely shut, she guided Greeley down the hall toward her bedroom. Ushering him in, she wondered if his boozy, sweaty smell would cling in the room forever. Down the hall behind her, she heard the kitchen door click open.

The cat came swaggering out of the kitchen, giving her a stare as sharp as a stabbing knife and pushed past her into the bedroom.

Mavity was asleep. Greeley leaned over his sister and delivered a peckish kiss, surely scratching stubble
across her soft skin. Mavity woke, stared up at him vaguely, and drew away, grimacing at his smell.

Unperturbed, Greeley sat down on the bed beside her, taking her hands in his with a gentleness that surprised Wilma.

“Dora's gone,” Greeley slurred. “My little girl's gone. And Ralph gone, and that man you set such store by.” Glancing to where the cat was sniffing around the dresser, Greeley whispered, “Death sucked them in. Sucked them all in. Death—death before the moon is full.” Strange words for the drunken little man. Leaning down, he put his arms around Mavity, holding her close.

The cat watched, seeming almost amused. And as brother and sister comforted each other, the beast began to prowl, nosing into every inch of the bedroom, turning occasionally to observe Wilma, his huge topaz eyes as evil, she thought, as twin glimpses into hell.

Annoyed at her own fear, she went to make some coffee.

But, hurrying down the hall, she could feel the tomcat watching her. And when she glanced back, its eyes on her glowed so intently she turned away, shaken.

What was this beast?

Dulcie hadn't told her the nature of this animal.

Fixing a tray with coffee and sugar and cream and some pound cake, she returned quickly. The cat was not in sight. She set the tray on the night table and checked under the dresser and bed, then went to search the house. She didn't like to think of that creature alone with Dulcie.

She didn't find the animal. When she returned to the bedroom, Greeley was crying drunkenly, the tears rolling down his stubbled cheeks.

“…feeding those chickens when she was only a little girl, and helping her mama to plant the garden—
my little girl…And that old goose used to chase her! Oh, how she would run,” Greeley blubbered. “I killed that goose, killed it…But now—I couldn't kill whoever hurt her, couldn't save my little girl. So cold—so cold there in all them lilies…”

As Greeley doubled over, weeping, the black cat reappeared and leaped onto the bed. Mavity paled and shrank away from it, looked as if she'd like to hit it. Wilma watched, shocked, as it began to stalk Mavity—and thought of the times Mavity had complained about the beast's dirty habits. Surely, there was no love between them. But now the animal looked dangerous. As he crouched to leap, Wilma grabbed him, tossed him to the floor. The black cat landed heavily and jumped at once to the foot of the bed where it began pawing Greeley's jacket that lay crumpled on the blanket.

Clawing at the wrinkled leather, he slid his paw into a pocket, and with a quick twist, dragged out a black-feathered carcass. Taking this in his mouth, his ears back, his head low, he began to stalk Mavity. She jerked away, gasping, as Wilma snatched the blood-streaked bird.

But it wasn't a bird. The thing was hard under her fingers, not soft and limp like a dead bird. She turned it over, looking.

It was a small wooden man, the black feathers wrapped around him like a cloak and tied with red cord. His face was painted with blood red lines like a primitive warrior. His hair felt like real human hair, the side locks stiff with dried red mud, as if he were made up for some primitive ritual.

“Voodoo doll,” Mavity whispered, staring at the six-inch man then at Greeley. “You showed me those, in that shop. Where did you get that? Why would you bring that horrible thing here?”

“Only a plaything,” Greeley said, patting Mavity's hand. “
I
didn't bring it. The cat—the cat likes a plaything. The cat found it…” He reached up to take the carving from Wilma.

She held it away. “Why did you bring this?”

“
I
didn't bring it! The cat brought it. Damn cat—always dragging in something.”

“The
cat
put it in your pocket?”

Greeley shrugged. “He digs in my pockets.” He grinned sheepishly. “He likes that Latin American shop. I expect it smells like home.”

“I'll take it in the kitchen.”

The black cat hadn't taken his eyes from the doll. But now he turned from it, fixed his gaze on Mavity, and crept up the bed again, toward her.

“Get him away!”

Grabbing the cat, Wilma drew back a bloodied hand. “Greeley, get the beast out of here.”

“Get down!” Greeley scolded. “Get off the bed!” The cat hissed at him but leaped to the floor.

“And stay off,” Greeley added ineffectually.

Wilma turned away, carrying the doll, but the tomcat leaped, grabbing for its grisly toy. She swung it at the cat's head until the beast ran. Mavity hadn't exaggerated—the creature gave her more than chills. When she turned to look back, the cat was not behind her and the hall was empty.

She laid the carving on the kitchen table. More than its ugliness bothered her. It seemed to hold around itself a deep oppression. As she stood studying the doll she glimpsed a shadow behind her, slipping along the floor.

She spun as the cat crouched to leap—whether at her or to snatch the doll she'd never know: At the same instant, an explosion of tabby fur hit him, knocking him sideways.

Dulcie was all over him, slashing and clawing. The black cat fought violently in a tangle of raking claws—but he fought only briefly before breaking away, and careened out through Dulcie's cat door, the empty door slapping behind him.

As quick as that, he was gone. Dulcie leaped to the table, looking twice her normal size, and began to lick blood from her claws. Gently Wilma stroked her.

“What a nasty beast. Are you hurt? Where did he hurt you?”

Dulcie spit out a mouthful of fur. “I'm fine. A few scratches. They'll clean right up.” Her gaze fixed on the black-feathered doll. “Voodoo,” she hissed. “Did Greeley bring this? That old, disgusting drunk…Or did Azrael carry it here?” She glared at Wilma, laying back her ears. “Why did you let Greeley bring that cat here—and with
this
?”

“I didn't know. I was trying to keep Greeley happy. I didn't want him making a scene, so I let him bring the cat. I didn't see this thing. And the cat seemed tame enough, seemed just an ordinary cat.”

She looked hard at Dulcie. “But he isn't, is he?”

Dulcie studied Wilma a long time. “No,” she said softly, “he's no ordinary cat. But he's not like us, either. He's not like Joe Grey—he's horrid.” With an angry swipe, she knocked the feathered man to the floor.

“Azrael believes in these voodoo things,” she said, hissing. “He believes in dark magic—he said it was a fine way to get back at those who mistreat you.

“I expect he wanted,” Dulcie said softly, “to make Mavity sicker—just because Mavity doesn't like him, because she complained about his manners.”

She fixed her green gaze on Wilma. “Why else would he bring this terrible idol, if not to torment Mavity and frighten her—or try some wild spell on
her? Can that stuff work?” she said, shivering, staring down at the black doll lying like a hunk of tar on the blue linoleum. Wilma snatched up the feathered figure and hurried down the hall. Following, Dulcie watched Wilma shove the ugly little idol in Greeley's face.

“What is this about, Greeley? What did you mean to do?”

“It's only a native doll,” Greeley said, laughing. “Indian kid's playtoy. The cat brought it.”

“Voodoo doll,” Wilma replied.

“Voodoo?”
He looked at her as if she wasn't bright and choked out a rum-laden laugh. “Child's toy. That Ms. Sue Marble, she's got all kinds of stuff—them Guatamala blankets, all that Panama clutter. Nothing of any use, all that artsy stuff. Even them little gold people aren't worth nothing—not the real thing, not the real gold. Gold birds. Gold lizards. Sue showed me.” But suddenly his face colored and he looked embarrassed, his eyes shifting away.

“You must have gotten very friendly,” Wilma said, amused, forgetting her anger.

“That nice little woman,” Greeley said defensively, “wouldn't have nothing costly.” He was blushing; he wouldn't look at her. She had to smile at his discomfiture, at his strange embarrassment.

Was he romancing Sue Marble? But why embarrassment? His distress puzzled her, made her uneasy.

Romancing Sue for her money?

Oh, that would be too bad.

Dropping the doll in the wastebasket, she carried the basket out to the kitchen to empty it with the trash, all the time pondering over Greeley—and keeping her ear cocked for the thump of Dulcie's cat door, for the stealthy return of Greeley's nasty little friend.

W
ALKING BACK
the cat,” Max Harper told Charlie as he popped open a can of beer, “means to lay out the evidence and work backward—reconstruct the crime.” The five friends sat around a wrought-iron table in the landscaped patio of the freshly painted apartment building. Moonlight brightened the flower beds, which were softly lit by indirect lamps hidden behind the tall banks of Nile lilies that Wilma had planted as background for lower masses of textured ground cover. The brick paving had been pressure-washed, and it gleamed dull and rich, lending to the patio garden a quiet elegance. The new wrought-iron furniture in a heavy ivy pattern—umbrella table, lounge chairs, and chaises—completed the sense of comfort. Harper looked curiously at Charlie. “Where did you hear that phrase, to walk back the cat?”

“I'm not sure. Something I read, I suppose.”

Wilma said, “Isn't that a CIA term?”

“I read that in a romance-mystery,” Mavity offered. “That's the way it was used, when the CIA was wrap
ping up a case.” The little woman seemed completely recovered. Her memory had returned fully—she had recalled clearly the events surrounding Winthrop Jergen's murder and, once she came to grips with the truth about Jergen, she had been stoic and sensible, her idolization of the financier had turned to anger but then to a quiet resolve. Now she had put all her faith in Max Harper, to recover her savings.

But the fact that Dora and Ralph had come to Molena Point not only to trap Cumming but to keep Mavity from losing her money had hurt Mavity deeply—that Dora had died trying to help her.

Mavity was dressed, tonight, not in her usual worn white uniform but in a new, teal blue pants suit, a bargain that Wilma had found for her. The color became her, and the change of wardrobe, along with her returned health, seemed perhaps the mark of a new beginning.

Of the little group, only Max Harper, stretching out his long, Levi-clad legs and sipping his beer, seemed aware of Charlie's unease. He watched the young woman with interest. She was strung tight, seemed unable to keep her bony hands still, sat smoothing and smoothing her cotton skirt. As he considered the possible cause of her distress, and as he went over in his mind the last details of the Sleuder and Jergen case, while paying attention to the conversation around him, he was aware, as well, of the two cats crouched on the brick paving near the table—uncomfortably aware.

The two animals seemed totally preoccupied with eating fish and chips from a paper plate, yet they were so alert, ears following every voice, the tips of their tails twitching and pausing as if they were attending closely to every word. When he'd mentioned “walk back the cat,” both cats' ears had swiveled toward him,
and Dulcie's tail had jerked once, violently, before she stilled it.

He knew his preoccupation with the cats was paranoid—it was these crazy ideas about cats that made him question his own mental condition. Of course the two animals had simply responded to the word
cat,
they were familiar with the word from hearing it in relation to their own comfort.
Time to feed the cat. Have to let the cat out.
A simple Pavlovian reaction common to all animals.

Yet he watched them intently.

His gut feeling was that their quick attention was far more than conditioned response.

The cats didn't glance up at him. They seemed totally unaware of his intense scrutiny, as unheeding as any beast.

Except that beasts were not unheeding.

A dog or horse, if you stared at him, would generally look back at you. To stare at an animal was to threaten, and so of course it would look back. One of the rules in dealing with a vicious dog was never to stare at him. And cats hated to be watched. Certainly, with the cats' wide peripheral vision, these two were perfectly aware of his interest—yet they never glanced his way. Seemed deliberately to ignore him.

No one at the table noticed his preoccupation. Charlie and Clyde, Wilma and Mavity were deep into rehashing the reception they had just left.

They had come up directly from the library party, to enjoy a take-out supper in the newly completed patio and to continue the celebration—an affair that had left Harper irritated yet greatly amused. A reception for a cat. A bash in honor of Wilma's library cat. That had to be a first—in Molena Point, and maybe for any public library.

The party, besides honoring Dulcie, had quietly celebrated as well the departure of Freda Brackett. The ex–head librarian had left Molena Point two days earlier, headed for L.A. and a higher paying position in a library which, presumably, would never tolerate a resident cat. A library, Harper thought, that certainly didn't embody the wit or originality—or enthusiasm—to be found in their own village institution.

He didn't much care for cats. But Molena Point's impassioned rally to save Dulcie's position—gaining the wholehearted support of almost the entire village—had been contagious even to a hard-assed old cop.

 

Dulcie ate her fish and chips slowly, half of her attention uncomfortably aware of Harper's scrutiny, the other half lost in the wonders of her reception. She had held court on a library reading table where she had secretly spent so many happy hours, had sat atop the table like royalty on a peach-toned silk cushion given to her by the Aronson Gallery. And as she was fawned over—as Joe admired her from atop the book stacks—Danny McCoy from the Molena Point
Gazette
had taken dozens of pictures: Dulcie with her guests, Dulcie with members of the city council and with the mayor, with all her good friends.

Danny had brought the local TV camera crew, too, so that highlights of the event would appear on the eleven o'clock news. Young Dillon Thurwell had cut the cake, which George Jolly himself had baked and decorated with a dark tabby cat standing over an open book, a rendering far more meaningful than Mr. Jolly or most of those present would ever imagine. Perhaps best of all, Charlie had donated a portrait of her to hang in the library's main reading room, above a scrapbook that
would contain all forty signed petitions and any forthcoming press clippings.

Not even the famous Morris, who must have press people available at the twitch of a whisker, could have been more honored. She felt as pampered as an Egyptian cat-priestess presiding over the temples of Ur—she was filled to her ears with well-being and goodwill, so happy she could not stop purring.

Not only had the party turned her dizzy with pleasure, not only was Freda Brackett forever departed from Molena Point, but Troy Hoke was in jail for Jergen's murder and for the attempted murder of Mavity. And soon, if Max Harper was successful, Mavity would have her stolen money.

Life, Dulcie thought, was good.

Licking her whiskers, she listened with interest as Max Harper walked back the cat, lining up the events that had put Hoke behind bars awaiting trial for the murder of Warren Cumming.

Hoke had not been indicted for the murder of Dora and Ralph Sleuder. That crime, Harper speculated (and the cats agreed), would turn out to have been committed by Cumming himself—but Warren Cumming alias Winthrop Jergen need no longer worry about earthly punishment. If he was to face atonement, it would be meted out by a far more vigorous authority than the local courts.

A plastic bag containing morphine had been found in Jergen's apartment, taped inside the computer monitor, affixed to the plastic case.

“It's possible,” Harper said, “that Hoke killed the Sleuders, and taped the drug there after he killed Jergen, to tie the Sleuders' murder to him. But so far we have no evidence of that, no prints, no trace of Hoke on the bag or inside the computer.”

“But what about Bernine?” Charlie said. “Bernine had dinner with Dora and Ralph.”

“That was the night before,” Harper reminded her. “The night Dora and Ralph received the lethal dose, they had dinner at Lupe's Steaks, down on Shoreline—one of the private booths. Not likely they would know about those on their own. And despite Jergen's entry through the back door…” Harper laughed. “…wearing that pitiful football blazer and cap, one of the waiters knew him.”

Harper shook his head. “The man might have been creative with the numbers, but he didn't know much about disguise.

“And Bernine Sage has an excellent alibi for the night of the Sleuders' deaths. She was out with a member of the city council. She was,” he said, winking at Wilma, “trying to work a deal to destroy the petitions the committee had collected for Dulcie.”

“The library cat petitions?” Wilma laughed. “That was pretty silly. Didn't she know we'd have done them over again?”

In the shadows, the cats smiled, but at once they shuttered their eyes again, as if dozing.

Their private opinion was that though Bernine had an alibi for the night the Sleuders were killed, she had been instrumental in their deaths. If she had not pumped the Sleuders for information, then reported to Jergen that the couple meant to blow the whistle on him, Jergen/Cumming would likely not have bothered to kill them.

“I can't believe,” Charlie said, “that I worked with Pearl Ann for three months and didn't guess she was a man. That makes me feel really stupid.”

“None of us guessed,” Clyde said. “Hoke put together a good act. I swear he walked like a woman—
guys notice that stuff. And that soft voice—really sexy.”

They all stared at him. Clyde shrugged. Charlie patted his hand.

“A guy in drag,” Harper said, “slight of build, thin arms, slim hands—a skilled forger and a top-flight computer hacker.”

Hoke, dressed as Pearl Ann, had been picked up in Seattle carrying eight hundred thousand dollars in cash, sewn into the lining of his powder blue skirt and blazer—money he had transferred from Jergen's accounts to his own accounts in two dozen different names in nine San Francisco banks. It had taken him some time to draw out the money in various forms—cash, bank drafts, cashier's checks, which he laundered as he traveled from San Francisco to Seattle, where he was picked up. The police had found no witness that Pearl Ann had boarded the San Francisco bus in Molena Point. But they located the car Hoke had rented in Salinas, under the name of William Skeel, after deliberately wrecking Mavity's VW and dumping Mavity in the alley beside the pawnshop.

“It looks,” Harper said, “as if Jergen had come to suspect Pearl Ann's identity. As if, the day he died, he had set Hoke up.

“He told everyone he was going up the coast, then doubled back hoping to catch Hoke red-handed copying his files. He parked a few blocks away and slipped into the apartment while Hoke/Pearl Ann was working. The hard files he'd left on his desk were bait—three files of accounts newly opened, with large deposits. All with bogus addresses and names that, so far, we've not been able to trace.”

Harper sipped his beer. “Hoke comes up to do the repairs, opens those hard copy files with three new accounts, all with large sums deposited, and he can't
wait to get into the computer. Sends Mavity on an errand, uses Jergen's code, intending to get the new deposit numbers and transfer the money. We're guessing that he was about ready to skip, perhaps another few days and he meant to pull out for good.

“But then Jergen walks in on him at the computer. They fight, Hoke stabs him with a screwdriver…” Harper looked around at his audience. “Yes, we found the real murder weapon,” he said gruffly. “Jergen was near death when Hoke stabbed him with the ice tray divider—maybe to lay suspicion on Mavity, to confuse forensics. Or maybe out of rage, simply to tear at Jergen. This is all conjecture, now, but it's how I piece it together.

“He hears a noise, realizes Mavity has returned, maybe hears her running down the stairs. Goes after her, snatches up one of those loose bricks that were lying along the edge of the patio.” He glanced at Mavity. “And he bops you, Mavity, as you're trying to get in the car.

“After he loads you in the backseat, he realizes he has the bloody screwdriver. Maybe he'd shoved it in his pocket. He buries it down the hill, with the brick.

“He may have moved the VW then, to get it out of sight. He cleans up and changes clothes, then heads out. Takes his bloody jumpsuit and shoes with him—all we found in the duffle he left was a clean, unused jumpsuit. We may never find the bloody clothes. They're probably in the bottom of some Dumpster or already dozed into a landfill—the Salinas PD checked the Dumpsters in that whole area around where Hoke wrecked Mavity's car.

“It's still dark when he dumps Mavity into the alley by her car and leaves her. He walks to the nearest car rental office, waits until eight when it opens. Gets a car
and heads north. He's left his own car in the storage garage a block from the Davidson Building where he kept it—registered in one of his other names.

“We'd like to find the bloody clothes, but even without them we have plenty to take him to court. The money trail alone is a beauty.”

The FBI computer expert who had come down from San Francisco to trace Cumming's computer transactions had followed Hoke's transfers from Jergen's accounts, using the code words supplied by Harper's anonymous informer. The Bureau had put out inter-office descriptions of Hoke and of Pearl Ann. Two Bureau agents picked him up at the Seattle airport, in his blue skirt and blazer, when he turned in an Avis rental in the name of Patsy Arlie. He was wearing a curly auburn wig.

“But the strangest part,” Harper continued, watching the little group, “is my finding the screwdriver the way I did, the day after Jergen was killed.”

He had discovered it the next morning when he came down the stairs from Jergen's apartment after meeting with the Bureau agent. He had been late getting back from Salinas Medical that morning; the agent, using a key supplied by Clyde, was already at work at Jergen's computer. The weapon was not on the steps when he went up to the apartment, nor did Harper see it when he arrived.