Cat in the Dark (6 page)

“Don't you threaten me,” Jolly snapped, swinging the saucepan. “You learn some manners or you'll be snarling at the dogcatcher.” He stood glaring until Azrael backed away switching his tail, his head high, and turned and swaggered off up the alley—until the formidable Death Angel vanished into the night.

Joe and Dulcie did not see Azrael again until some hours later as they prowled the rooftops. Pale clouds had gathered across the moon, and there was no sound; the bats had gone to roost or perch or whatever bats did hanging upside down in their pokey little niches beneath the eaves. Who knew why bats would hunt one night and not the next? Presumably, Joe thought, it had to do with how bright the sky was—yet why would bats care, when they hunted by radar? On the roofs around them, the shadows were marbled by moonlight. Above them they heard a barn owl call, sending shivers. Even Joe Grey respected the claws and beak of the barn owl.

When the clouds parted and the full moon brightened the rooftops, across the moon's face the owl came winging. He swooped low and silent. The cats crouched to run. Screaming a booming cry, he dove, heading for the shadows beyond them.

They heard the boom of his wings beating against the roof, and heard screaming—the owl's scream and a cat's scream, then the frantic flurrying of feathers, the thud of bodies…

The owl exploded into the sky and was gone.

And in the moon's gleam the black cat sauntered out swaggering and spitting feathers.

Unaware of them, he slipped along seeming none the worse for his encounter. Pausing as before at each window and skylight, looking in, he lingered at a thin dormer window. He reared suddenly, clawing at the frame.

A wrenching creak slashed the night as the casement banged open.

Below on the street the cats heard footsteps, and when they fled over the roofs to look, they saw Azrael's human partner pacing, peering impatiently in through a
glass door below a liquor store sign, his gray hair tangled around the collar of his wrinkled leather jacket, his boots, when he fidgeted, chuffing softly on the concrete.

The instant the door opened from inside, the old man slipped in. The cats, dropping down onto the hanging sign then to the sidewalk, crouched beneath a car where they could see through the plate glass.

Within, a faint, swinging light shone as the old man shielded his flashlight behind his hand, directing its beam along rows of bottles where Azrael paced, his tail lashing against the rich labels.

At the cash register, the old man bent over the lock and inserted a metal pick, his thin face lined and intent.

Within minutes he had the drawer open and was snatching out stacks of bills. Cleaning out the shallow tray, he lifted it, spilling loose change onto the floor as he grabbed at the larger bills that lay beneath; the night was so still they heard every coin drop.

“Why do shopkeepers do that?” Dulcie whispered. “Why do they leave money in the register?”

“Because the village has never had that much trouble. Don't you wonder if this old boy knew that—if he knew what an easy mark Molena Point is? Yet he has to be a stranger—I'd remember that old man.”

They watched him stuff wads of bills into his pockets while, behind him, Azrael wound back and forth along the liquor shelf smiling and rubbing against the bottles.

“Cut the purring!” the old man snapped. “You sound like a spavined outboard. And don't leave cat hair stuck to everything.”

“I never leave cat hair. Have you ever seen me shed?”

“Of course you shed. Everything I own is covered with black fur.”

Azrael leaned from the shelf, peering over his partner's shoulder. “Get those tens—they can't trace tens so easy.”

“Who's going to trace anything? No one marks their money in this burg. You're talking like some big-assed bank artist.”

“How do you know they don't?”

“Don't be so paranoid.”

“It's you that's paranoid—getting jumpy because I purr and grousing about cat hair.”

The old man smoothed his thin gloves where they had wrinkled over his fingers and closed the register, and the two slipped out the front door.

“Don't forget to lock it,” the cat hissed.

“Don't be so damn bossy.”

“Don't get smart with me, old man. You'll be running this party alone.”

The man and cat stiffened as, half a block away, a prowling police car turned into the street. As it shone its light along the storefronts in routine inspection, the two burglars slid through the shadows into the alley, were gone as completely as if they had never been there.

The patrol car didn't slow. The moment it had passed, the two appeared again, heading up Ocean. As they moved away, Joe and Dulcie followed, slipping along beneath the parked cars. Joe was determined to stay with them tonight, to see where they went to ground. Dulcie didn't like this, but she was unwilling to stay behind.

The two burglars proceeded up Ocean for four blocks, then turned down toward the Fish Shack. The old man paused before entering. “You want the cod or the shrimp?”

“The shrimp—what these stateside yokels pass off
as shrimp. Poor substitute for what we get at home.”

“You're not at home, so stop bitching.” The little man disappeared inside. The cat turned away to the curb where he sniffed at the messages left by passing four-legged citizens. If he scented Joe and Dulcie over the smell of other cats and dogs and fish and axle grease, he gave no indication. His partner returned dangling a white paper bag liberally splotched with grease.

“No shrimp. You'll have to eat fish and chips.”

“Couldn't you have gotten crab?”

“Didn't think to ask. Let's get on, before the law comes back.” And off they went, man and cat walking side by side bickering companionably, two swaggering lowlifes with the cocky walk of drunks leaving a cheap bar.

B
EYOND WILMA'S
open shutters, the neighborhood was drowned by fog, the cottages and trees hidden in the thick mist, the gnarled branches of the oak tree that ruled her front garden faded as white as if the tree had vanished and only its ghost remained. Standing at the window sipping her morning coffee, she thought that it was the coastal fog, as much as Molena Point's balmy days, that had drawn her back to her childhood village to spend her retirement years. She had always loved the fog, loved its mystery—had wandered the foggy neighborhoods as a little girl pretending she had slipped into a secret and magical world.

At dawn this morning, she had taken a long walk along the shore listening to the breakers muffled and hidden within the white vail, then home again to a hot cup of coffee and to prepare breakfast for her company.

Behind her, the Sunday paper lay scattered comfortably across her Kirman rug, and beside the fire, Clyde sprawled on the velvet loveseat reading the sports page. On the other side of the hearth, lounging in the
flowered chaise, Bernine Sage pored over the financial section. Neither had spoken in some time. Clyde's preoccupation was normal; Bernine's silence came across as self-centered and cold.

She would not ordinarily have invited Bernine to breakfast or for any meal, but this morning she'd had no choice. Bernine had been at her door late last night when she arrived home from the opening. Having fought with her current lover, needing a place to stay, she seemed to think that it was Wilma's responsibility to offer her a bed; she hadn't asked if Wilma
had
company or if her presence would be inconvenient. “Why I ever moved in with that idiot—what a selfish clod. And not a motel room left. I've called and called. Damn the holidays.”

After getting Bernine settled, Wilma had left a note on the kitchen table hoping Charlie would see it.

Charlie had seen the note, all right. When Wilma came out at five this morning, the scrap of paper was in the trash, wadded into a tight ball.

Bernine had dressed for brunch this morning not in jeans like everyone else, but in a pink velvet leisure suit, gold belt, gold lizard sandals, and gold earrings, and had wound her coppery hair into a flawless French twist decorated with gold chains—just a bit much in this house, in this company, Wilma thought, hiding a smile. Her own concession to company for breakfast had been to put on a fresh white sweatshirt over her jeans. And Clyde, of course, was nattily attired in ancient, frayed cut-offs, a faded purple polo shirt with a large ragged hole in the pocket, and grease-stained sandals.

Bernine had greeted him, when he and Joe arrived,
with a raised eyebrow and a shake of her elegant head. “You brought your
cat
? You brought your cat to breakfast? You actually walked over here, through the village, with a cat tagging along?”

Clyde had stared at her.

“Well,” she said, “it's foggy. Maybe no one saw you.”

“What difference if someone saw us? We—I do this all the time, take the cat for a walk.”

“I'm surprised that a cat would follow you. What do you do, carry little treats to urge it along? Don't people laugh—a grown man walking a cat?”

“Why should anyone laugh? Why should I
care
? Everyone knows Joe. Most people speak to him. And the tourists love it; they all want to pet him.” Clyde smiled. “Some rather interesting tourists, as a matter of fact.” And he turned away, snatching up the Sunday paper, looking for the sports page.

Now the cat in question lay patiently awaiting the breakfast casserole. Stretched across the couch beside Dulcie, the two of them occupied as much of the blue velvet expanse as they could manage, comfortably watching the fire and dozing. Their occasional glances up at Wilma communicated clearly their pleasure in this lazy Sunday morning before the blazing fire, with their friends around them—and with the front page of the Molena Point
Gazette
lying on the floor where she had casually dropped it so that they could read the lead article. As they read, their little cat faces keen with interest, she had busied herself at the coffee table rearranging the magazines, effectively blocking Bernine's view. But then the cats, finishing the half-page account of the liquor store burglary, had put on dull, sleepy faces again, diligently practicing their best fuzzy-minded expressions.

The two cats looked beautiful this morning, Wilma thought, sleek and healthy, their coats set off by the blue velvet cushions, Dulcie's curving, chocolate stripes as dark as mink, her pale, peach tinted ears and paws freshly washed. And Joe always looked as if he had groomed himself for a formal event, his charcoal-gray coat shining, his white paws, white chest, and white nose as pristine as new snow.

Wilma didn't speak to them in front of Bernine, even to prattle baby talk as one would to ordinary pets; their responsive glances were sometimes more intelligent than they intended, and Bernine was far too watchful. The history that Bernine had picked up from a previous boyfriend, the Welsh mythology of unnatural and remarkable cats that had peopled the ancient world, was better not stirred even in the smallest way. Better not to set Bernine off with the faintest hint of immediate feline strangeness.

In fact, having Bernine in the house with Dulcie was not at all comfortable. She just hoped Bernine would find a place soon. And certainly Bernine's intrusion into the guest room was not a happy situation for Charlie who, half an hour ago, had disappeared in the direction of the garage, silent and uncommunicative. Wilma knew she would be out there sulking as she unloaded her possessions from the van. Already cross at the eviction from her apartment—though she hadn't let her anger spoil last night's gallery opening—her sullenness was multiplied by Bernine's unexpected presence. Bernine was not Charlie's favorite person.

Earlier this morning when the two young women had coffee in the kitchen, Charlie had made no effort to be civil, had hardly spoken to Bernine. Wilma hoped that when Mavity arrived, her old friend would ease the atmosphere, that her earthy temperament
would soften their various moods. Mavity might be ascerbic, without subtlety or guile, but her very honesty made her comfortable to be near.

As she picked up the coffeepot from the desk and moved across the room to fill Clyde's cup, she watched the cats sniffing the good smells from the kitchen and licking their whiskers. She could just imagine Bernine's sarcasm when the cats were fed from the same menu as the guests.

Clyde lowered the sports page and held out his cup. “Charlie going to stay out in the garage all morning? What's she doing?”

“Unloading her tools and equipment—she'll be in shortly. You could go out and help her.”

Clyde sipped his coffee, shook his head, and dug out the editorial section, burying himself again. Bernine watched him, amused. Very likely, Wilma thought, Bernine understood Charlie's temper—and the reason for it—far better than did Clyde.

 

Dulcie watched Clyde, too, and she wanted to whop him, wished she could chase him out to the garage with Charlie. Didn't he know Charlie was jealous? That she was out there sulking not over the eviction, or simply over Bernine's presence, but over Bernine's proximity to Clyde himself? Males could be so dense.

But you didn't need female perception, or feline perception, to see that Bernine's sophistication and elegant clothes and carefully groomed good looks, coupled with her superior and amused attitude, made big-boned Charlie Getz feel totally inadequate. You didn't need female-cat intelligence to see that Charlie didn't want Bernine anywhere near Clyde Damen.

Scowling at Clyde, she realized that Bernine was watching her, and she turned away, closing her eyes and
tucking her nose beneath her paw, praying for patience.
Must
the woman stare? It was hard enough to avoid Bernine at the library, without being shut in, at home, with that cat hater.

Why were anti-cat people so one-sided? So rigid? So coldly judgmental?

And how strange that the very things Bernine claimed to value in her own life, her independence and self-sufficiency, she couldn't abide in a sweet little cat.

Beside her on the couch, Joe was avoiding Bernine's gaze by restlessly washing, his yellow eyes angrily slitted, his ears flat to his head. He'd been cross and edgy anyway, since last night when they followed the old man and Azrael and lost them. And then the front page of the
Gazette
this morning hadn't helped, had turned him as bad-tempered as a cornered possum.

The Molena Point
Gazette
didn't concern itself with news beyond the village. Problems in the world at large could be reported by the
San Francisco Chronicle
or the
Examiner
. The
Gazette
was interested only in local matters, and last night's break-in occupied half the front page, above the fold.

Dulcie wondered if the police had collected any black cat hairs. She wondered what good the stolen money was, to Azrael.
So the old man buys him a few cans of tuna. So big deal.
But she didn't imagine for a minute that any monetary gain drove Azrael. The black tom, in her opinion, was twisted with power-hunger, took a keen and sadistic pleasure in seeing a human's hard-won earnings stolen—was the kind of creature who got his kicks by making others miserable. For surely a chill
meanness emanated from the cat who liked to call himself the Death Angel; he reeked of rank cruelty as distinctive as his tomcat smell.

When the doorbell blared, she jumped nearly out of her skin. As Wilma opened the door, Mavity Flowers emerged from the mist, her kinky gray hair covered by a shabby wool scarf beaded with fog. Beneath her old, damp coat, her attire this morning was the same that she wore for work, an ancient rayon pants uniform, which, Dulcie would guess, she had purchased at the Salvage Shop and which had, before Mavity ever saw it, already endured a lifetime of laundering and bleaching. Mavity varied her three pants uniforms with four uniform dresses, all old and tired but serviceable. She hugged Wilma, her voice typically scratchy.

“Smells like heaven in here. Am I late? What are you cooking?” She pulled off the ragged scarf, shook herself as if to shake away remnants of the fog. “Morning, Clyde. Bernine.

“Had to clear the mops and brooms out of my Bug. Dora and Ralph's plane gets in at eleven. My niece,” she told Bernine, “from Georgia. They bring everything but the roof of the house. My poor little car will be loaded. I only hope we make it home, all that luggage and those two big people. I should've rented a trailer.”

Dulcie imagined Mavity hauling her portly niece and nephew-in-law in a trailer like steers in a cattle truck, rattling down the freeway. Bernine looked at Mavity and didn't answer. Mavity's minimal attention to social skills and her rigid honesty were not high on Bernine's list. Yet it was those very qualities that had deeply endeared her to Wilma. Mavity's raspy voice echoed precisely her strained temper this morning; she had been volatile ever since her brother arrived two weeks ago.

Greeley Urzey visited his sister every few years, and
he liked to have his daughter and her husband fly out from the east to be with him; but it took Mavity only a few days with a houseful of company before she grew short-tempered.

“That house isn't hardly big enough for Greeley and me, and with Dora and Ralph we'll be like sardines. They always have the bedroom, neither one can abide the couch, and they bring enough stuff for a year, suitcases all over. Greeley and me in the sitting room, him on the couch, me on that rickety cot, and Greeley snoring to shake the whole house.”

Dulcie and Joe glanced at each other, suppressing a laugh.

“It
is
a small house,” Wilma said kindly, sitting down on the couch beside Dulcie and patting a space for Mavity.

Mavity sat stroking Dulcie, then reached to pet Joe. “You're a nice cat, Joe Grey. I wish all tomcats were as clean and polite.”

She looked at Wilma, shaking her head. “Can you believe that Greeley brought a
cat
with him! A great big, ugly cat. Carried it right on the plane with him. He found it on the streets of Panama; it probably has every disease. My whole house smells of tomcat. I can't believe Greeley would do such a thing—a cat, all that way from Panama. Took it on board, in a cage. Three thousand miles. I didn't think even Greeley could be so stupid.