Cat in the Dark (7 page)

“He could have left it home, could have paid some neighbor to feed it. They have maids down there—everyone has a maid, even Greeley, to clean up and take care of things. The maid could have fed an animal. Greeley never did have any sense. Who in their right mind would travel all that way carting a stray cat? It's sure to get lost up here, wander off, and then Greeley will have a fit.”

Bernine had put aside the financial page. “Can't you board it somewhere?” she asked coldly. “Surely there are kennels for cats.”

“First thing I told Greeley, but he wouldn't hear of it.”

Bernine shrugged and returned to the newspaper. Dulcie, fascinated, sniffed at Mavity's uniform searching for the cat's scent.

But she could smell only the nose-itching jolt of Mavity's gardenia-scented bath powder. Leaping to the floor, she sniffed of Mavity's shoes.

No hint of cat there. Mavity's white leather oxfords smelled of shoe polish and of a marigold Mavity must have stepped on coming up the walk; the flower's golden color was streaked up the white leather. Frustrated with her inability to scent the strange tomcat, she curled up again on the couch, quietly regarding Mavity.

“I told Greeley that cat could do its business outdoors. Why ever not, when I live right there on the edge of a whole marsh full of sand? But no, even if the cat goes outside, it still has to have a fresh sandbox, right there in the kitchen. Talk about spoiled—talk about stink.

“I told Greeley it's his job to change the sand, go down to the marsh and get fresh sand, but I have to keep telling and telling him. And to top it off, the cat has sprayed all over my furniture—the whole house reeks of it. Oh, my, what a mess. I'll never get it clean. Why do tomcats do that?”

Dulcie almost choked with suppressed laughter. She daren't look at Joe for fear she'd lose control.

“Well, in spite of that beast, it's good to have Greeley. It's been four years since he was here. After all, Greeley and Dora and Ralph—they're all the family I have.”

Mavity grinned. “I guess my little car will hold the two of them and the luggage; it always has before.” She
glanced at Bernine and reached to stroke Dulcie. “It's not every day your only family comes for a visit.”

Swallowing back her amusement, Dulcie rolled over, her paws waving in the air. Mavity was so dear—she could complain one minute, then turn around and do something thoughtful. She had cooked all week, making cakes and casseroles for Greeley and his daughter and son-in-law so they would enjoy their stay.

Dulcie didn't realize she was smiling until Wilma scowled a sharp warning and rose hastily, pulling Mavity up.

“The frittata's done,” Wilma said. “It will burn. Let's take up breakfast.” She headed for the kitchen, urging Mavity along, shooting Dulcie such a stern look of warning that Dulcie flipped over, flew off the couch, bolted through the house to the bedroom and under Wilma's bed.

Crouched in the dark she swallowed back a mewing laugh—at Mavity, and at Wilma's look of anger because she'd been smiling—trying not to laugh out loud. It was terrible to have to stifle her amusement. Didn't Wilma understand how hard that was? Sometimes, Dulcie thought, she might as well plaster a Band-Aid over her whiskers.

Lying on her back on the thick bedroom rug, staring up at the underside of the box springs, she considered Greeley and his tomcat.

Were these two the burglars?

But that was not possible. It would never happen, the solution to a crime fall into their furry laps as easy as mice dumped from a cage.

Last night she and Joe had followed the old man and Azrael clear across the village before they lost them. Keeping to the darkest shadows, they had tailed
them to the busy edge of Highway One, had drawn back warily from the cars whizzing by—had watched the cat leap to the old man's shoulder and the man run across between the fast vehicles where no sensible animal would venture.

Pausing on the curb, their noses practically in the line of fast cars and breathing enough carbon monoxide to put down an ox, they had argued hotly about whether to follow the two across that death trap—argued while Azrael and the old man hurried away down the block.

“You can go out there and get squashed if you want,” she'd told him, “but I'm not. It's dark as pitch, those drivers can't see you, and no stupid burglar is worth being squashed into sandwich meat.”

And for once she had been able to bully Joe—or for once he had shown some common sense.

But then, watching the pair hurry two blocks south and double back and cross the highway again, toward the village, their tempers blazed.

“They duped us!” Joe hissed. “Led us like two stupid kittens following a string—hoping we'd be smashed on the highway.” And he crouched to race after them.

But she wasn't having any more. “We could tail them all night. As long as they know we're following, they're not about to go home.”

“They have to go home sometime—have to sleep sometime.”

“They'll sleep on a bench. Just see if they don't.”

But Joe had shadowed them for over an hour, and she tagged along—until Joe realized that Azrael knew they were still following, knew exactly where they were on the black street, that the cat had senses like a laser.

But now—what if Mavity's brother and his cat were the burglars?

Certainly everything fit. Greeley had been here for two weeks. Both burglaries had occurred within that time. The old man looked the right age to be Mavity's brother, and, more to the point, he was small like Mavity, with the same wiry frame.

There was, Dulcie thought, a family resemblance, the deeply cleft upper lip, the same kind of dry wrinkles, the same coloring. Though Mavity's hair was gray, and the burglar's was ordinary brown, with gray coming in around his ears.

If the burglar
was
Greeley, then, as sure as mice had tails, he had stashed the money somewhere in Mavity's cottage. Where else would he hide it? He didn't live in Molena Point; it wasn't as if he had access to unlimited hiding places. Greeley was practically a stranger in the village.

As she flipped over, clawing with excitement into the carpet, wondering when would be the best time to slip into Mavity's cottage and search for the stolen cash, beside her the bedspread moved and Joe peered under, his yellow eyes dark and his expression smug.

“So,” he whispered. “This one dropped right into our paws. Did you smell Azrael on her?”

“No, I didn't. We can't be sure…”

“Of course we're sure. There's no such thing as coincidence.” He looked at her intently. “New man in town, brings his cat all the way from Panama. Why would he bring a cat all that way, unless he had some use for it? And that old burglar,” Joe said, “even looks like Mavity.”

Twitching a whisker, he rolled over, grinning, as pleased as any human cop who'd run the prints and come up with a positive ID.

C
HARLIE HAULED
the last duffle from her van and dumped it in Wilma's garage, enjoying the chill fog that pressed around the open garage and lay dense across the garden—but not enjoying, so much, shifting all her gear once again.

As a child she had loved to play “movers,” filling cardboard-box “moving vans” with toys and sliding them along a route carefully planned to bring all her family and friends together into a tight little compound. At six years old, moving had satisfied a yearning need in her. At twenty-eight, hauling her worldly goods around in pasteboard boxes was right up there with having a double bypass.

Stacking her cartons of jumbled kitchen utensils and clothes against the wall beside Wilma's car, she sniffed the aroma from the kitchen, the delicious scent of ham and onions and cheese. But, hungry as she was, she didn't relish having to sit at the table with Bernine.

She considered making an excuse and skipping breakfast, but that would hurt Wilma. It wasn't Wilma's
fault that Bernine had moved in uninvited; she could hardly have let the woman sleep on the street—though the image
did
appeal. And not only had Bernine taken over the guest room, she was sitting in there with Clyde right now, all cozy beside the fire, and Clyde hadn't made the slightest effort to come out and keep
her
company.

Coming home last night from the opening, she'd been on such a high, had returned Clyde's kisses with more than her usual ardor; they'd had such a good time. And now, this morning, he seemed totally distant.

Slamming the last box into place, she wheeled her cement mixer out of the van and rolled it around behind the garage, parking it next to her two wheelbarrows, throwing a tarp over the equipment to keep out some of the damp. Wilma's backyard was as narrow as an alley, stopping abruptly at the steep, overgrown hillside. The front yard was where Wilma's flowers bloomed in rich tangles of color between the stone walks. Wilma, having no use for a lawn, had built an English garden, had worked the soil beds with peat and manure until they were as rich as potting mixture, creating an environ where, even beneath the oak tree, her blooms thrived.

Closing the van's side door, Charlie stood a moment gearing herself to go back inside. Last night when Clyde gave her a last lingering kiss and drove off in the yellow roadster, waving, she had headed for bed wanting to stretch out and relive every lovely moment of the evening, from the festive arrival Clyde had planned for her, and all the compliments about her work, to Clyde's very welcome warmth. But then, coming into the guest room, there was Bernine in
her
bed, on the side of the room she thought of as absolutely her own, and Bernine's clothes scattered all over as if she'd moved in forever. Bernine had been sound asleep, her creamy complexion glowing, her red hair spread across the pillow as if she were
about to have her picture taken for some girlie magazine or maybe welcome a midnight lover.

A silk skirt lay across the chair, a pink cashmere sweater was tossed on the dresser, and Bernine's handmade Italian boots were thrown on the other bed beside a suede coat that must have cost more than six cement mixers. Surveying the takeover, feeling as if she'd been twice evicted, she'd gone back into the kitchen to cool down, to make herself a cup of cocoa. It was then that she found the note, folded on the table and weighted down with the salt shaker.

She'd read it, said a few rude words, wadded it up, and thrown it in the trash. Had stood at the stove stirring hot milk, thinking she would sleep in the van.

But of course she hadn't. She'd gone to bed at last, dumping Bernine's boots and coat on the floor, creeping into the other bed deeply angry and knowing she was being childish.

This morning, coming down the hall from the shower, she'd avoided looking at Bernine sleeping so prettily—and had avoided looking in the mirror at her own unruly hair and her thousand freckles, had pulled on her jeans and her faded sweatshirt, her scuffed boots, tied back her wild mane with a shoestring, and slipped out of the room only to catch a glimpse of Bernine's slitted eyes, watching her, before she turned over, pulling the covers up.

Then in the kitchen she'd hardly poured her coffee before Bernine came drifting in, yawning, tying a silk wrapper around her slim figure. And now the woman was in there with Clyde, all dressed up and smelling like the perfume counter at Saks. She hoped Bernine's soured love life, or whatever had left her temporarily homeless, had been suitably painful.

An old boyfriend once told her that her temper came from insecurity, that her anger flared when she
felt she was not in control of a situation, that if she would just take positive action, put herself in control, she wouldn't get so raging mad.

Maybe he was right. She was considering what positive action she would like to take against Bernine when Mavity's VW Bug pulled to the curb, its rusted body settling with little ticks and grunts like some ancient, tired cart horse.

Watching Mavity slide out, small and quick, and hurry to the front door, Charlie began to feel easier. Mavity always had that effect. And at last she went on in, across the roofed back porch to the kitchen.

Wilma's kitchen was cozy and welcoming with its blue-and-white wallpaper, its patterned blue counter tile and deep blue linoleum. The big round table was set with flowered placemats, Wilma's white ironware, and a bunch of daisies from the garden. Charlie poured herself a cup of coffee as Wilma and Mavity came in, Mavity's short gray hair kinky from the fog, her worn white uniform freshly washed and pressed.

As Wilma took a casserole from the oven and put a loaf of sliced bread in the microwave, Charlie mixed the frozen orange juice, and Mavity got out the butter and jam. Clyde schlepped into the kitchen hitching up his cut-offs, looking endearingly seedy. His disheveled appearance cheered Charlie greatly—why would Bernine be interested in a guy who looked like he'd slept in some alley?

On the table, the frittata casserole glistened with melted cheese; the Sicilian bread came out of the oven steaming hot. The bowl of fresh oranges and kiwi, mango and papaya was aromatic and inviting. As they took their places, the two cats trooped in, licking their whiskers, and sat down intently watching the table. Charlie wished she could read their minds; though at
the moment there was no need, their thoughts were obvious—two little freeloaders, waiting for their share.

When they were seated, Wilma bowed her head, preparing to say grace. Charlie liked that in her aunt. Wilma might be modern in most ways, but true to family tradition she liked a little prayer on Sunday morning, and that was, to Charlie, a comfortable way to start the week.

But the prospect of a morning prayer seemed to make Bernine uneasy; she glanced away looking embarrassed. As if the baring of any true reverence or depth of feeling was not, to Bernine, socially acceptable—or, Charlie thought, was beyond what Bernine understood.

“Thank you for this abundance,” Wilma said. “Bless the earth we live upon, bless all the animals, and bless us, each one, in our separate and creative endeavors.”

“And,” Clyde added, “bless the little cats.”

Amused, Charlie glanced down at the cats. She could swear that Dulcie was smiling, the corners of the little tabby's mouth turned up, and that Joe Grey had narrowed his yellow eyes with pleasure. Maybe they were reacting to the gentle tone of Clyde's and Wilma's voices, combined with the good smell of breakfast. Now the cats' gazes turned hungrily again to the table as Wilma cut the frittata into pie-shaped wedges and served the plates. Five plates, and a plate for Joe and Dulcie, which she set on the floor beside her chair, evoking an expression of shock and pain from Bernine.

Wilma passed Clyde's plate last. “How's work going on the apartments?”

“A few complications—it'll be a while before we're ready for you to landscape the patio. But between Charlie's expertise and my bumbling we'll get it done.”

“Thank goodness for Mavity,” Charlie said, patting Mavity's hand. “We couldn't do without you.”

“Couldn't do without Pearl Ann,” Mavity said.
“I'm the scrub team,” she explained to Bernine. “But Pearl Ann does other stuff. I don't know nothing about taping Sheetrock. Pearl Ann's a regular whiz—she can tape Sheetrock, grout tile, she can do anything. She says her daddy was a building contractor and she grew up on the job sites.”

Clyde passed Mavity the butter. “Pearl Ann would be just about perfect, if she'd improve her attitude.”

“I invited her to breakfast,” Wilma said, “but she planned to hike down the coast this morning.” Pearl Ann Jamison, tall and plain and quiet, was fond of solitary pursuits, seemed to prefer her own dour company to the presence of others. But, as Mavity said, she was a good worker.

Mavity glanced at her watch. “I don't want to be late, leave Dora and Ralph sitting in the airport.”

“They don't get in until eleven,” Wilma said, and she dished up another helping of frittata for Mavity. “Maybe they won't stay too long,” she added sympathetically.

“One of those night flights,” Mavity told Bernine. “Catching the shuttle up from L.A. They bring enough luggage for a year.”

“Yes, you said that,” Bernine told her dryly.

“And with my brother here, too, my little place is straining at the seams. Maybe one of these days I can afford a bigger house,” Mavity rambled amiably. “Two guest rooms would be nice. I plan to start looking when my investments have grown a bit more. That Winthrop Jergen, he's a regular genius, the way he's earned money for me.”

Bernine gave Mavity her full attention. “You have someone helping you with your—savings?”

“Winthrop Jergen,” Mavity said. “My investment counselor. Doesn't that sound grand? He lives right
there in Clyde's upstairs apartment, was living there when Clyde bought the place.”

“Oh,” Bernine said. “I see.” As if Mavity had told her that Jergen meted out his financial advice from the local phone booth.

“He has clients all over the village,” Mavity said. “Some of Clyde's wealthiest customers come to Mr. Jergen. They pull up out in front there in their Lincolns and BMWs.”

Bernine raised an eyebrow.

“He moved here from Seattle,” Mavity continued. “He's partly retired. Said his doctor wanted him to work at a slower pace, that his Seattle job was too frantic, hard on his blood pressure.”

She gave an embarrassed laugh. “He talks to me sometimes, when I'm cleaning. He's very young—but so dedicated. That conscientious kind, you know. They're hard on themselves.”

“And he does your—investments,” Bernine said with a little twisted smile.

“Oh, yes, the bit of savings we had before my husband died, and part of my salary, too.” Mavity launched into a lengthy description of the wonders that Winthrop Jergen had accomplished for her, the stocks he had bought and sold. “My account has almost tripled. I never thought I'd be an investor.” She described Jergen's financial techniques as if she had memorized, word for word, the information Jergen had given her, passing this on with only partial comprehension.

Bernine had laid down her fork, listening to Mavity. “He must be quite a manager. You say he's young?”

“Oh, yes. Maybe forty. A good-looking man. Prematurely silver hair, all blow-dried like some TV news anchor. Expensive suits. White shirt and tie every day, even if he does work at home. And that office of his,
there in the big living room, it's real fancy. Solid cherry desk, fancy computer and all.”

Bernine rewarded Mavity with a truly bright smile. “Your Mr. Jergen sounds most impressive.”

Dulcie, watching Bernine, envisioned a fox at the hen coop.

“But I do worry about him.” Mavity leaned toward Clyde, her elbows comfortably on the table. “You know that man that watches your apartment building? The one who's there sometimes in the evening, standing across the street so quiet?”

“What about him?”

“I think sometimes that Mr. Jergen, with all the money he must have—I wonder if that man…”

“Wonder what?” Clyde said impatiently.

Mavity looked uncertain. “Would Mr. Jergen be so rich that man would rob him?”

Clyde, trying to hide a frown of annoyance, patted Mavity's hand. “He's just watching—you know how guys like to stand around watching builders. Have you ever seen a house under construction without a bunch of rubberneckers?”

“I suppose,” Mavity said, unconvinced. “But Mr. Jergen is such a nice man, and—I guess sort of innocent.”

Bernine's eyes widened subtly. She folded her napkin, smiling at Clyde. “This Mr. Jergen sounds like a very exceptional person. Do you take care of his car?”

Clyde stared at her.

Dulcie and Joe glanced at one another.

“Of course Clyde takes care of his car,” Mavity said. “Mr. Jergen has a lovely black Mercedes, a fancy little sports model, brand-new. White leather seats. A CD player and a phone, of course.”

The little woman smiled. “He deserves to have
nice things, the way he helps others. I expect Mr. Jergen has changed a lot of lives. Why, he even signed a petition to help Dulcie—the library cat petition, you know. I carry one everywhere.”

Wilma rose to fetch the coffeepot, wondering if Mavity had forgotten that Bernine sided totally with Freda Brackett in the matter of Dulcie's fate.

This was the second time in a year that petitions had been circulated to keep Dulcie as official library cat, and the first round had been only a small effort compared to the present campaign. At that time, the one cat-hating librarian had quit her job in a temper saying that cats made her sneeze (no one had ever heard her sneeze). The furor had been short-lived and was all but forgotten. But now, because of the hardhanded ranting of Freda Brackett, all the librarians, except Bernine, and many of the patrons had been walking the village from door to door getting signatures in support of Dulcie. Even Wilma's young friend, twelve-year-old Dillon Thurwell, had collected nearly a hundred signatures.