Cat in the Dark (4 page)

“Please,” she said, “leave him alone. He might be like us. There might be a wonderful mystery about him. But he terrifies me.”

 

Later, in the small hours when Joe and Dulcie had parted, as she snuggled down in the quilt beside Wilma, she dreamed of Azrael, and in sleep she shivered. Caught by the tom's amber eyes, she followed him along medieval lanes, was both frightened of him and
fascinated. Winding across ancient rooftops they slipped among gargoyles and mythic creatures twisted and grotesque, beasts that mirrored the black tom's dark nature. Azrael before her, drawing her on, charming her, leading her in dream until she began to lose all judgment.

She'd always had vivid dreams. Sometimes, prophetic dreams. But this drama woke her, clawing the blankets, hissing with fear and unwanted emotions. Her thrashing woke Wilma, who sat up in bed and gathered Dulcie close, her long gray hair falling around them, her flannel nightgown warm against Dulcie. “Nightmare? A bad nightmare?”

Dulcie said nothing. She lay shivering against Wilma, trying to purr, feeling very ashamed of the way the black tom had made her feel.

She was Joe Grey's lady; her preoccupation with the stranger, even in dream, deeply upset her.

Wilma didn't press her for answers. She stroked Dulcie until she slept again, and this time as Dulcie dropped into the deep well of sleep she held her thoughts on Joe Grey and on home and on Wilma, pressing into her mind everyone dear to her, shutting out dark Azrael.

 

It was not until the next morning that Joe, brushing past Clyde's bare feet, leaping to the kitchen table and pawing open the morning
Gazette,
learned more about the burglary at Medder's Antiques. He read the article as Clyde stood at the stove frying eggs. Two over-easy for Clyde, one sunny-side up for Joe. Around Clyde's feet the three household cats and the elderly black Labrador crouched on the kitchen floor eating kibble, each at his or her own bowl. Only Joe was served breakfast on the table, and he certainly wasn't having kibble.

Clyde said kibble was good for his teeth, but so were whole wheat kitty treats laced with fish oil and added vitamins from Molena Point's Pet Gourmet. Choosing between P.G.'s delightful confections and store-bought kibble was no contest. Two of P.G.'s fish-shaped delicacies, at this moment, lay on his breakfast plate, which Clyde had placed just beside the newspaper. Clyde had arranged four sardines as well, and a thin slice of Brie, a nicely planned repast awaiting only the fried egg.

It had taken a bit of doing to get Clyde trained, but the effort had been worth it.

Standing on the morning paper sniffing the delicate aroma of good, imported sardines, he read the
Gazette
's account of the burglary. The police did not know how the burglar had gotten into the store. There had been no sign of forced entry. No item of merchandise seemed to be missing. Fifteen hundred dollars had been taken, three hundred from the cash register, the balance from the locked safe. The safe had been drilled, a very professional job. Joe didn't know he was growling until Clyde turned from the stove.

“What? What are you reading?” Clyde brought the skillet to the table, dished up the eggs, then picked Joe up as if he were a bag of flour so he could see the paper.

Joe dangled impatiently as Clyde read.

Clyde set Joe down again, making no comment, and turned away, his face closed and remote.

They had been through this too many times. Clyde didn't like him messing around with burglaries and murders and police business. And Joe was going to do as he pleased. There was no way Clyde could stop him short of locking him in a cage. And Clyde Damen,
even at his worst, would never consider such a deed—never be fool enough to attempt it.

Clyde sat down at the table and dumped pepper on his eggs. “So this is why you've been scowling and snarling all morning, this burglary.”

“I haven't been scowling and snarling.” Joe slurped up a sardine, dipping it in egg yolk. “Why would I bother with a simple break-and-enter? Max Harper can handle that stuff.”

“Oh? Those small crimes are beneath you? So, then, what's with the worried scowl?”

Joe looked at him blankly and nipped off a bite of Brie.

Clyde reached across the table and nudged him. “What's going on? What's with you?”

“Nothing,” Joe said coldly. “Is there some law that I have to tell you all my business?”

Clyde raised an eyebrow.

“So there's a new cat in the village. It's nothing to worry you, nothing for you to fret over.”

Clyde was silent a moment, watching him. “I take it this is a tomcat. What did he do, come on to Dulcie?”

Joe glared.

Clyde grinned. “What else would make you so surly?” He mopped up egg with his toast. “I imagine you can handle the beast. I don't suppose this cat has anything to do with last night's burglary?”

Joe widened his eyes and laughed. “In what way? What would a cat have to do with a burglary? It's too early in the morning for dumb questions.”

Clyde looked at him deeply, then rose and fetched the coffeepot, poured a fresh cup.

“You get the Sheetrock all torn out?”

“We did, and hauled it to the dump. No more Sheetrock dust, you and Dulcie can hunt mice to your
little hearts' content without sneezing—until we start hanging new Sheetrock, of course.”

The five-apartment unit that Clyde had bought was a venture Joe considered incredibly foolhardy. No way Clyde Damen was going to turn that neglected dump into a sound rental investment. The fact that Clyde was working on the project himself turned Joe weak with amusement.

The only sensible thing Clyde had done on the venture was to hire his girlfriend, Charlie Getz, who operated Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It. Charlie's business was relatively new. She had only a small crew—just two women—but she did good work. Her cleaning lady was sixty-year-old Mavity Flowers, who was a tiny, skinny creature but a surprisingly hard worker. The other employee, Pearl Ann Jamison, was a real find. Pearl Ann not only cleaned for Charlie, she was handy at light carpentry and could turn out professional Sheetrock work, from installation of the heavy wallboard to mudding and taping. The rest of the work on the building, the wiring and plumbing, Charlie and Clyde were farming out to subcontractors.

Joe finished his breakfast, nosed his plate out of the way, and began to wash, thinking about the burglary. He supposed the antique shop had been the first, as he'd seen nothing in the papers about any other similar thefts. He didn't let himself dwell on the nature of the black tom or where he came from but kept his mind on the immediate problem, wondering what other small village businesses the man and cat planned to hit.

But maybe this had been a one-time deal. Maybe the pair was just passing through, heading up the coast—maybe they'd simply needed some walking-around money. Maybe they were already gone, had
hauled out of Molena Point for parts unknown.

Sure. The village should be so lucky.

No, this burglary hadn't been impromptu. The planning was too precise, the team's moves too deliberate and assured, as if they had done their research. As if they knew very well that the quiet village was a sitting duck, and they knew just how to pluck it.

He hated to think that that cat might have been prowling the shops for days—maybe weeks—and he and Dulcie hadn't known about it, hadn't scented the beast or seen him. He imagined the cat and the old man idling in Mrs. Medder's antique shop getting friendly with her, the old man making small talk as he cased the place looking for a safe or a burglar alarm, the black tom wandering innocently rubbing around the old woman's ankles, purring and perhaps accepting little tidbits of her lunch while he, too, checked the layout, leaped up to stare into the drawer of the open cash register, and searched the shadows for an alarm system.

He didn't like that scenario. It was bad enough for a human to steal from the village shops. A cat had no business doing this stuff.

Leaping from the table to the sink, pacing restlessly across the counter and glaring out the window, Joe wished he'd followed those two last night. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Dulcie could find excuses to avoid confronting the black tomcat if she chose, but he was going to nail that little team. Licking egg from his whiskers as he watched the rising sun lift above the Molena Point hills, Joe Grey's lust for justice flamed at least as bright as that solar orb—burned with a commitment as powerful and predatory as any human cop.

C
HARLIE GETZ
had no reason to suspect, when she woke early Saturday morning, that she was about to be evicted from her cozy new apartment, that by the time most of the village sat down to breakfast she'd be shoving cardboard boxes and canvas duffles into her decrepit Chevy van, dumping all her worldly possessions back into her aunt's garage—from which she had so recently removed them. Thrown out, given the boot, on the most special day of her life, on a day that she had wanted to be perfect.

She'd already spent three months sponging off Aunt Wilma, had moved in with Wilma jobless and nearly broke and with no prospects, had lived rent-free in Wilma's guest room after abandoning her failed career.

During that time she'd launched her new venture, put what little cash she had into running ads, buying the old van and used cleaning and carpentry equipment, hiring the best help she could find on short notice. She was twenty-eight years old. Starting Char
lie's Fix-It, Clean-It and renting her own apartment, taking responsibility for her own life after wasting six years in San Francisco had been one big strike for independence. A huge step toward joining—belatedly—the adult world.

Now here she was back to square one, homeless again.

She had loved being with Wilma, loved coming home to a cozy house, to a blazing fire and a nice hot meal, loved being pampered, but she valued, more, being her own provider.

Now, waking at dawn before she had any notion that an eviction notice was tucked beside her front door, she snuggled down into the covers, looking around her little studio with deep satisfaction. The one room pleased her immensely, though the furnishings weren't much, just her easel, her single cot, her secondhand breakfast table, and two mismatched wooden chairs. Open cardboard boxes stacked on their sides like shelves held her neatly folded clothes. But through her open windows a cool breeze blew in, smelling pleasantly of the sea, and above the village rooftops the sunrise, this morning, was a wonder of watercolor tints, from pink to pale orange streaked among islands of dark clouds.

The coastal foothills would be brightening now as the sun rose behind them, casting its light down on the small village, onto the narrow, wandering lanes and dark, leathery oak trees and the maze of slanted, angled rooftops, and reflecting from the windows of the little restaurants and shops—the morning sun sending its light into the windows of the Aronson Gallery onto her own drawings, picking out her work with fingers of light.

What a strange sensation, to think that she
belonged to a gallery, that her work was to be part of a real exhibit. She still couldn't believe her luck, not only to be included with six well-known artists but to see her drawings occupying more than half the gallery's front window—a real vote of confidence for a newcomer. The exhibit had been a bonus out of nowhere, unforeseen and amazing.

Four years of art school and two years trying to find her way as a commercial artist, a dozen trial-and-error, entry-level advertising jobs that she knew weren't right for her, nor she for them, had led at last to the realization that she would never make a living in the art world. Her failure had left her feeling totally defeated—a misfit not only in her chosen field but in life. Only now, after she had abandoned all idea of supporting herself in the arts, had anyone been interested in her drawings.

Reaching to her nightstand, she switched on the travel-sized coffeepot that she had prepared the night before, wondering if her flowered India skirt and sandals and the low-necked blue T-shirt
were
the right clothes for the opening or if she'd better try the black dress again, with the silver necklace her aunt had loaned her. She imagined the gallery as it would be tonight, lighted and festive, thinking about the crowd of strangers, hoping she could remember people's names.

As the scent of coffee filled the room she sat up, pushing her pillow behind her, and poured a steaming mug, blowing on the brew to cool it. Coffee in bed was pure luxury, a little moment to spoil herself before she started the day, pulled on her jeans and boots and a work shirt, and hurried out to be on the job by eight, installing Sheetrock and trying to figure out how to do things she'd never done before. She would not, once she got moving, stop again until dark overtook her, except for a hasty sandwich with her girls, maybe with Clyde,
and with whatever subcontractor might be working.

Leaning back into the pillows, she planned her day and the week ahead, laying out the work for the plumber, the sprinkler man, and the electrician, and watching, through her open windows, the sky brighten to flame, the sunrise staining the room, and laying a wash of pink over her framed drawings. Her studies of the two cats looked back at her, so alert and expectant that she had to smile. Dulcie had such a wicked little grin, such a slant-eyed, knowing look, as if she kept some wonderful secret.

The portraits of Joe Grey were more reserved. Tomcat dignity, she thought, amused. Drawing Joe was like drawing draped satin or polished pewter—the tomcat was so sleek and beautifully muscled, his charcoal-gray coat gleaming like velvet.

But his gaze was imperious. So deeply appraising that sometimes he made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she could swear that she saw, in Joe Grey's eyes, a judgment far too perceptive, a watchfulness too aware and intense for any cat.

Charlie didn't understand what it was about those two; both cats had a presence that set them apart from other felines.

Maybe she just knew them better. Maybe all cats had that quality of awareness, when you knew them. Her thoughts fled to last night when she had stood alone in the moonlit village looking up at the black rooftops, stood touched by that vast, wheeling space, and had glimpsed two cats leaping between the rooftops across the pale, night sky, and she felt again a wonderful delight in their freedom.

She had gone out to dinner alone, hadn't felt like a can of soup or peanut butter and crackers, which was all her bare cupboard had offered. And she didn't feel
like calling Clyde. Their dating was casual; he probably would have been happy to run out for a quick hamburger, but she'd wanted to be by herself. Besides, she'd been with him half the day, working on the house. She'd been tired and irritable from dealing with a hired carpenter, had wanted to walk the village alone, watch the evening draw down, have a quiet dinner and then home to bed. When she had taken on the job of refurbishing Clyde's newly purchased relic of an apartment house, she had bitten off almost more than she could chew. She'd had no intention, when she started Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It, of becoming a remodeling service. The business was meant to be just what it said: minor household repairs and painting—replacing a few shingles, spiffing up the yard, window washing, gutter cleaning, a good scrub down, total maintenance for the village homes and cottages. Not tearing out and replacing walls, supervising workmen, replacing ancient plumbing. She had no contractor's license, but Clyde was, for all practical purposes, his own contractor. All they had to do was satisfy the various building inspectors.

She'd gotten home from work as the summer twilight faded into a clear, chill night, had peeled off her sweaty jeans and shirt, showered, put on clean denims and a warm sweater. Leaving her apartment, she had walked through the village down to the shore ten blocks south, moving quickly between wandering tourists. This was the beginning of the Fourth of July weekend, and along the narrow streets,
NO VACANCY
signs glowed discreetly among climbing nasturtiums and bougainvillea.

She had chosen a circuitous route, cutting across Ocean to the south side of the village, slowing to look in the windows of the Latin American Boutique,
enjoying the brightly painted carvings and red-toned weavings, admiring and coveting the beautiful crafts and trying not to make nose prints on the glass.

She had met the shop's owner, Sue Marble, a white-haired woman of maybe fifty who, people said, kept the store primarily so she could claim a tax write-off on her frequent Latin American trips. Not a bad deal, more power to her.

But as she had moved along beside the window, a Peruvian death mask gleamed through her own reflection, an ugly face superimposed over her face, framed by her wild red hair. The image had amused her—then frightened her. Swiftly she had turned away, hurried away toward the shore.

She hit the beach at Tenth Avenue, and had walked south a mile on the hard sand, then turned back up Ocean to The Bakery, thinking that a glass of Chablis would be nice, and perhaps crab Newburg. She thought sometimes that she led herself through life only with these little treats, like beguiling a mule with a carrot.

But why not treat herself? Tuck some bits of fun in with the hard work? Hanging Sheetrock all day was no picnic—and the heavy work had left her ravenous.

The Bakery, a rambling structure of weathered shingles, had been a summer-vacation house in the early 1900s. A deep porch ran along the front, facing a little seaside park of sand dunes and low, twisted oak trees spreading like dark, giant hands over the curves of sand and sweeps of dark ice plant. She'd been disappointed that all the terrace tables were taken, but then had spied a small corner table and soon was settled facing the darkening dunes, ordering wine and the Newburg, quietly celebrating the first gallery exhibit of her drawings.

After her father died, it was her mother's subtle control that had eased her in the direction of art school, to develop the talent her mother thought was her strongest. Her mother would not consider that her skills at repair work and at organizing the work of others had any value. Sipping her wine, Charlie thought about her mother with regret and disappointment. Her mother had died a year before she finished art school.

Beyond The Bakery veranda, the breaking waves were tipped with phosphorescence, and above them the night sky flowed like surging water, its light seeming also to ebb and change. She'd been so physically tired from the day's work that the Chablis had given her a nice buzz, and the conversations around her were subdued, a relaxed ambience of soft voices against the hushing surf. When her Newburg arrived she'd made herself eat slowly, not wolf the good dish but savor each bite—had to remind herself this wasn't noon on the job, eating a sandwich with the work crew and with Mavity and Pearl Ann and Clyde, all of them starved. Had to remind herself this was not supper with Clyde. Eating with Clyde was much like eating with the carpenters; she was inclined to follow his lead, devour her meal as if it would remain on the table only briefly and must be consumed before it got away.

But Clyde was good company. And he was honest, quick to see the truth of a situation. If he was lacking in some social graces, who cared? There was nothing put-on or fake about him.

That first morning, when they went up to look at the five-apartment building after he signed the escrow papers, he'd been so excited. Leading her in through the weedy patio and through those moldering rooms, he'd been deep in the grip of euphoria, imagining what the
place would look like when they'd refurbished it—imagining he could do most of the work himself, just a little help from her.
Just a little paint, Charlie. A bit of patching.
They'd agreed to exchange labor. She'd help with the house, presenting him with bills that he'd honor by working on her declining Chevy van.

Of course there was more needed than patching, but the five apartments had nice large rooms and high ceilings, and Clyde had envisioned the final result just as clearly as he saw the possibilities in restoring an old, vintage car.

The difference was, he knew what it took to restore a car. Beneath his skilled hands the Mercedeses and BMWs and Bentleys of Molena Point purred and gleamed, as cared for as fine jewelry. But Clyde was no carpenter. To Clyde Damen, carpentry was a foreign language.

In order to pay cash for the building, he had sold his five beautifully restored antique cars, including the classic red Packard touring car that he so loved. The sales nearly broke his heart, he had done every speck of work on those cars himself in his spare time. But he was too tight to pay interest on a mortgage, and she didn't blame him.

As the dining terrace began to empty, she had dawdled over her dinner enjoying her own company, quietly watching the surf's endless rolling, feeling its power—spawned by the interplay of wind, the moon's pull, and the centrifugal whirling of the earth. The sea's unending motion seemed to repeat the eternal power of the universe—its vast and unceasing life.

She relished her idle thoughts, her idle moments, the little pauses in which to let her mind roam.

After the Newburg she had treated herself to a flan and coffee, and it was past midnight when she paid her
bill, left the veranda, and headed home through the softly lighted village. The streets were nearly empty. She imagined the tourists all tucked up in their motel rooms, with maybe a fire burning on the hearth, perhaps wrapped in their warm robes nursing a nightcap of brandy.

Walking home, she had paused to look in the window of a sporting goods shop at a beautiful leather coat that she would never buy; she'd rather have a new cement mixer. It was then, turning away, that her glance was drawn to the rooftops by swift movement: Two dark shadows had sailed between the peaks. She had caught only a glimpse. Owls? A pair of large night birds?

But they were gone, the sky was empty.

No, there they were. Two silhouettes, not flying but racing along a peaked ridge, leaping from roof to roof then dropping out of sight.

Cats! They were cats; she had seen a lashing tail against the clouds and sharply peaked ears. Two cats, playing across the rooftops.

And she had to laugh. There was no mistaking Joe Grey's tailless posterior, and his white paws and white nose. She had stood very still, setting carefully into memory the cats' swift flight against the pale clouds. They appeared again, and as they fled up another peak and leaped between dark ridges, scorching in and out among the tilting roofs, she had itched for a piece of charcoal, a bit of paper.