Cat Shout for Joy (17 page)

 

22

T
hough it was
just mid-­morning, a warming fire burned on the Firettis' hearth, its blaze reflected in the fog-­frosted windows. Firelight brightened the flowered couch where Misto lay tucked up in a quilt between Dulcie and Pan. Mary Firetti and Wilma sat on the matching couch sipping coffee. Wilma had brought a gift for Misto, a big tray of custards. The three cats had promptly lapped up three small bowls before they snuggled close.

At home earlier, Dulcie had paced from room to room wanting to be outside, wanting to roam but having promised to stay in, not to run the roofs but to rest. She had paced and glared at Wilma, who sat at her desk paying bills. She'd wanted to be at the station, wanted to find Joe Grey, wanted in on the action. Whenever she'd trotted out into the garden for a few minutes she felt Wilma at the window watching her. It was all very well to be quiet and protect the kittens, but she'd begun to feel like a caged wildcat. But when the custards were ready to take to Misto, getting in the car, Wilma said, “You need only be idle for a little while, the kittens will arrive soon. I don't need to tell you how important this is, these are the most precious of babies.”

Dulcie knew that! She tried not to snap at Wilma. She tried not to sound sulky. But even a trip in the car was a treat, just to get out. Trotting up the Firetti walk through the last of Mary's cyclamens as bright as new crayons, she had raced into the cottage to nearly pounce on Misto and Pan, she was so glad to see them—­though it had only been a few hours.

Pan said, “Kit slipped away early. Restless, so restless.”

Dulcie snuggled closer and looked tenderly at Pan. “You miss Kit this morning,” she said, licking his ear.
Kit might have been restless,
she thought
, but maybe that
was
a loving gesture, too, to slip away at dawn, to leave father and son alone together, just the two of them.

Mary had set Wilma's dozen little bowls in the refrigerator to keep cool. “Misto does so love your custards. I make little stews, I make soups, but your custards are the real treat.” She looked at Misto, then back at Wilma. “We talked about Ben,” she said softly. “I told him about Ben.”

Misto lowered his ears and put out a paw to Wilma. But as she reached to stroke him she saw behind his grieving look that staunch certainty, too, in his golden eyes. “Where Ben is now,” the old cat said, “he is safe, he is beyond human cruelty.” He licked Wilma's hand. “Ben is loved with a strength the living cannot imagine, he is free in joy now, he flies weightless.”

They talked about Ben and about the attacks, Misto stoic, in his own way removed from the deepest pain. It was nearly noon when Wilma and Dulcie left the Firetti cottage, Misto napping again, and Pan still close beside him. Riding home, Dulcie thought about the street crimes, about new police reports, new intelligence coming in, about Joe at the station, and she looked up forlornly at Wilma.

Wilma sighed. She hadn't worked in corrections for all her career without knowing how these present crimes drew Dulcie. “You want to be with Joe, putting the pieces together.”

Dulcie sighed.

“I'll take you to the PD if you'll promise to wait there. To let me pick you up later, not come galloping home alone over the rooftops. You might not go full term, Dulcie, you might . . .”

“I promise,” Dulcie said.

Reluctantly Wilma dropped her off in front of the courthouse, watched her disappear into the bushes to wait for a chance to slip inside the station. Wilma lingered for a few minutes, and then a few minutes more, but no one came or went through the glass door. She could see action inside, could see Max and Detective Kathleen Ray; she could just see Joe Grey in a corner of the holding cell, and she glimpsed a fluff of tortoiseshell fur; Kit was there with him. She could see that brittle temporary clerk, Evijean, behind the counter. And was that the Bleak ­couple in there? That was curious, what was that about?

She watched Dulcie peering out, watching intently from the bushes. She watched the tabby move beneath a camellia, closer to the glass door where she could see in better. Wilma waited a few minutes more, got an angry scowl when the tabby reared up to look back at her. Whatever was happening had Dulcie's full attention. At last Wilma left her. Joe Grey and Kit were there if the tabby needed someone. Dulcie had a loud yowl if she found herself in trouble.
As many times as I've worried over her, I
have
learned to trust her. I'm not going to rein her in completely, even now.

I
t was earlier,
just after Sam Bleak's fake attack, that Joe and Kit slipped into MPPD behind Kathleen Ray and Sam and Tekla, the two cats sliding into the shadows of the holding cell. Surely Evijean hadn't seen them, there had been no cry of outrage. Beyond the reception counter among the computers, radios, and office machines they couldn't see even the top of Evijean's head. When Joe reared up for a better look, he was sure no one was minding the counter—­though the clerk's area was never left unmanned.

As he watched, Detective Ray moved toward the counter, alert and wary. She had switched on her radio when Max pulled up outside, swung out of his truck and in through the glass door—­and as Evijean emerged from the conference room, slipping out with a guilty look.

Max watched Evijean, frowning because she'd left her station. He looked down the hall at the door she had closed. “Are you keeping that room locked?”

Evijean set a cup of coffee on her desk. “Detective Davis moved those . . .” She glanced at the Bleaks. “That material that was on the table. She moved it to her office,” she said with more finesse than Joe would expect. “Detective Garza is with her and the boy.” Joe thought she might have the courtesy to call Billy by name.

Max looked at the Bleaks, then back at Evijean. “How long has Billy been here?”

She looked confused.

“How long has he been in the station this morning? Since what time?”

“Maybe two hours,” Evijean said. “Since Detective Ray brought him in with . . . Since around nine when she brought him back to your office.” She watched the chief, frowning. Her finesse just went so far. Over in the waiting area, Tekla and Sam had come to full attention. Both had begun to fidget.

“Evijean,” Max said, “ask Detective Davis, Detective Garza, and Billy to come up front. And hand me two complaint forms.”

Evijean frowned uncertainly and looked down into the shelves beneath the counter.

“Those forms in the box at the end,” Max said impatiently. Joe knew what he meant. These were the sheets the chief had made up for previous incidents where he wanted the complainants' statements in their own handwriting; they were not the usual documents that an officer himself filled out. Evijean found them, inserted the forms in two clipboards, and handed them to him. Even she knew this was unorthodox, that a complaint was filed verbally to an officer and the complainant only signed the paperwork.

When Evijean had called back to Juana's office and relayed the chief's message, Max said, “Has Billy left the station since Kathleen brought him in this morning?”

“No, sir.”

“Not at all, for any reason? Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, I'm sure.” Her look was sharp, keenly puzzled.

In the waiting area, Tekla had risen and stood scowling at the chief. “You
would
stand up for that boy. Isn't he your ward or something? Of course you'd say he was here, you wouldn't want—­”

Max looked hard at her. “Mrs. Bleak, there's a law against false accusation.” Whether he meant false accusation of Billy as the attacker, or false accusation of Max himself for lying to cover for Billy, his words made Tekla back off, and made Joe and Kit exchange a whiskery grin.

Max had turned to Sam. “You can have a good look at Billy Young now. If you're sure it was Billy who attacked you, you can file the complaint and we can move on with the matter. Maybe we can put him in juvenile hall until we get this sorted out.”

Beneath the bunk, Kit's yellow eyes widened but Joe Grey only smiled. There was no way in hell Max would do that. They heard a door open down the hall, footsteps approaching, and Billy and the two detectives came up to the front. At the sight of Billy, Tekla moved behind Sam's wheelchair as if to remain in control, to wheel Sam on out of there to safety. Billy, looking puzzled, came to stand beside the chief. Max put his arm around him and turned him to face Sam.

“Is this the boy who attacked you, who tipped over your wheelchair?”

Billy stared at up at Max and then at Sam, uncomprehending.

Sam wouldn't look at Billy. Nor did he look at Max Harper. “Maybe . . .” he began, “Maybe . . . maybe that boy's jacket was gray, not tan. Maybe . . .” He frowned at Billy as if seeing him for the first time, this boy he saw nearly every day working on the remodel.

“I think,” Sam said, “I think that boy's hair was darker. Yes, a darker brown, and longer, down around his neck. Hard to remember,” he said, “when I was sprawled there dizzy and hurt, and he was running away . . .” He looked down at his hands, at the scuff marks that the medics had bandaged.

“I guess,” Sam said lamely, “I guess I could be wrong. I was so frightened and confused when I was knocked over, the sidewalk seemed to be whirling under me, so dizzy . . .”

Max and the detectives watched him with interest. Had the Bleaks thought, with the crime scene cleared at the remodel and the yellow tape removed, Billy would be cleaning up there now as Tekla had demanded? Had they, this morning, seen Scotty, or maybe Ryan or both off in the village running errands, maybe picking up material? Assuming Billy was working alone as he sometimes did, thinking there would be no witness to the boy's whereabouts, had they jumped at the chance to stage their little ruse, to lay the crime on Billy? A spark of inspiration that went bad? Joe and Kit, looking hard at them, wished they could stare the truth right out of that pair of liars.

“Even if you're not sure of the identity,” Max was saying, “if you file a complaint describing the attack, that will help us. That would be considerable assistance in finding whoever did attack you. You needn't mention Billy at all, if you're not sure he was involved.”

He handed Sam a clipboard with a complaint form. Sam took it with his right hand, laid it carefully against his hurt left arm. The chief handed a second form to Tekla. Joe watched Max pick up one of the folding chairs and settle Tekla across the room. “You need to each do your form separately, without discussion,” he told her.

The chief and Kathleen had already taken their statements, that
was
the complaint. Now Max was poker-­faced. Joe had seen him at the card table with that look, running a bluff.

“Describe only what you remember,” the chief told Sam. “Tell what happened as best you can, just as you told it to me and Detective Ray. You're the only witnesses we have. Your statement is of great value.” Max's demeanor was smooth as silk. As Sam filled out the form, bent earnestly over the clipboard, Evijean came out from behind the counter carrying her purse. One of the rookies came down the hall to take her place, relieving her for an early lunch, a blond young man brushing a speck of lint from his uniform. Evijean had hardly left when Kit stiffened, peering out the glass door.

Joe barely caught sight of Dulcie as she slid past the station following Evijean. The next minute, as two civilians came in, Kit slipped out and fled down the sidewalk, to follow Dulcie. Why was Dulcie out of the house where Wilma had meant for her to rest and act matronly? And what the hell was she up to? Joe remained still, his ears back, watching them. He wanted to follow her, too, but his questions swung so sharply back to the Bleaks that he stayed put.

The ­couple had finished up their complaint forms, signed them, and were handing them to Captain Harper. Something about the look they exchanged as they headed for the door held Joe.

They left the station quickly, Tekla determinedly pushing Sam's wheelchair as if wanting to be swiftly away from MPPD and Max Harper. As Max turned to the desk with the forms, Joe leaped up beside him, rubbing chummily against his arm.

Max looked down, laughing at him. Joe was happy to lighten the chief's mood, and as Max stroked him, he got a look at the forms with the Bleaks' rental address.

Molena Point did not have house numbers. Sam identified the street and cross streets in the usual way, then the name of the house, Daffodil Walk, with an added note, “the guesthouse in the back.” Joe knew the house, a two-­story frame painted butter yellow. Joe had never seen a daffodil in the yard. Giving Max a nudge and a purr, Joe dropped down from the counter, galloped to the glass door, and yowled stridently for the chief to let him out.

“Spoiled, worthless tomcat,” Max said, sounding too much like Clyde.

Smiling, Joe slipped through the open door, skinned up the oak tree as Max turned back inside, and scorched away over the rooftops. He wanted to arrive at Tekla and Sam's rental before they did. He wanted to slip into the apartment behind them and hastily conceal himself.

 

23

D
ulcie was already
gone from in front of the PD when Joe Grey went racing out, headed for the Bleaks' rental. Watching the busy lobby, she had drawn back when Evijean came out and headed along the street. A few doors down stood Effie Hoop in her red sweatshirt, smiling, waiting for Evijean. What was this? Did these two know each other? Curious, Dulcie followed, slipping along in the shadow of the building. She watched the two women hug in greeting. They glanced toward the police station, then quickly entered the new little tearoom that stood between two larger shops.

The leaded front windows were low to the ground, looking out on a row of ceramic pots planted with red geraniums. Dulcie stood half hidden among these, looking in. The tiny restaurant was charming, was most attractive to tourists. It was handy to the department, too, for a quick snack. But a cop wouldn't be caught there with its fluffy flowered curtains, its décor as overdone as a dollhouse. It was perfect, however, for lunch for the two ladies. Dulcie wondered where Effie had left her husband, Howard. This was sure not his kind of place. And how
did
they know each other, Effie, with her strange remarks about San Francisco, and sour, bad-­tempered Evijean? They looked as easy together as old, dear friends as they were led, laughing and talking, to a frilly corner table, its ruffled cloth printed with a tangle of daisies.

When Kit appeared suddenly pushing in beside her, Dulcie nuzzled her in greeting; both cats were so focused on Evijean and Effie that when another two ladies entered they slid inside at once and under a padded window seat.

The tearoom was small, its decorative windows framed by ruffled curtains. Though the day was warm, a tiny stone fireplace sheltered an equally tiny but welcoming flame of miniature logs. The women, only glancing at their menus, were already deep into a discussion. Dulcie crouched, listening. Hadn't Effie Hoop or Howard mentioned a sister, that morning in the café patio over breakfast? But Effie was saying, “It doesn't make sense. Seven attacks, three of them jurors. Those jurors dead, plus the two killed in the city. But what about the others, those here in the village that had no connection to the trial?”

She went quiet as the waitress came to take their order, setting down a pot of hot water and a selection of teas. Both women ordered a small salad and scones.

“Those other attacks,” Evijean said, “may be a diversion. The department thinks that's what it was.”

“I suppose that's possible. What did you find out this morning?”

“They have more photographs. They took shots this morning, too. And they have some kind of new evidence, Detective Garza came in with a box full of evidence bags. I didn't get a look, he took them on back to his office. As for Herbert Gardner,” Evijean said, “as far as anyone knows he didn't have any connections. No family anywhere.

“But someone's out to get the jury that convicted him.”

“Maybe some slimy friend of his,” Effie said, “that the investigators didn't find.”

“Whatever,” Evijean said, “Marilain's dead, that can't be undone. It's not surprising,” she added. “The girl was no better than a streetwalker.”

“No matter what she was, she
was
our niece! Our own brother's child. It's not his fault she went bad.”

Dulcie and Kit glanced at each other. The two women, despite their difference in size and bulk, did look alike, their pale coloring, their long noses. Effie's brown hair had started to go gray. Evijean was some years younger, but her hair was so faded that, under the strange blond coloring, it must be graying, too.

Evijean stirred sugar into her tea. “Well, she had a poor start, fell into bad ways herself.”

“
Don't you
care
that she's dead?”

Evijean shrugged. “Gardner will die for it. However this turns out, that's the consolation.”

Effie looked at her sister, her round face disapproving. “You dated him once, didn't you? Before Marilain met him, when you lived in the city?”

“Not dated, he was a generation too young,” Evijean said sourly. “Marilain was only seventeen, a child. I just had dinner with Gardner a ­couple of times, after work. Then when he met Marilain, of course he had no time for anyone else, even a friend. I think he hung out with me to meet her. I
thought
he was a friend. I had no idea what he was, what he might do,” she said bitterly.

“Well,” she said, “that was a long time ago, before I worked for the sheriff's department and then moved down here. I might never have gotten this temp job if I hadn't been cleared, back then, for the sheriff's office.

“But now . . . it's the jurors,” she said, “
they
had no need to die. How did the killer get their names? All that is sealed. But you were there in the courtroom, in the gallery. Did you notice anything strange, or anyone you knew? Did you know any of the victims?”

“The only victim I know is Betty Porter, and she wasn't
on
the jury. I know her from earlier visits, from talking with her in the drugstore.

“Well, in the courtroom, I did see that other woman, Bonnie, who was nearly mugged right here in front of the station.
She
was on the jury—­but it was her husband who was killed. I recognized her from the San Francisco paper.
She
was the juror, and he died for it.” She paused as the waitress brought their order.

Evijean said, “So strange that the San Francisco investigators, the county attorney, knew so little about Gardner's background.”

“They found enough to prosecute him,” Effie said. “They didn't need to know his life story. That defense attorney,” she said with a smile, “his heart wasn't in saving Gardner.”

“You have to give him that,” Evijean said. “No one wanted Gardner to go free.”

“Except the stalker,” Effie said. “Didn't Gardner ever say anything to you about his background, his family?”

“Nothing. He was so closemouthed. That in itself should have alerted me. Marilain never said anything about his past, either, and by that time, I didn't care. And then I moved down here and didn't see her anymore. She might have been our niece, but I didn't like her much. She wasn't much good,” Evijean said.

Effie poured more tea for herself. “Well, someone was close to him, cared about him. Someone is killing innocent jurors because they did their job.” She set down the teapot. “Marilain did come to see us a time or two when we lived on Grant Street—­wanting to borrow money. She said Gardner had no family, that his mother would have nothing to do with him, that he hadn't seen her in years, that she'd moved to the East Coast somewhere—­maybe as far away from him as she could get.”

“Well, it couldn't have been her,” Evijean said. “If his mother hated him for how he'd turned out, maybe knew about earlier crimes, why would she come back here and go after innocent jurors for convicting him? She should celebrate.”

Effie shrugged. “Some women are like that. Hate their kids when they turn bad, but then they go all defensive when the kid gets caught and has to pay for his sins.” She settled heavily back in her chair, buttering a scone. “And the police here, they don't have any background on Gardner?
They
don't know who might be connected to him?”

“Not that I can find,” Evijean said. “But now, this morning, they're working on new evidence, something's going on in there.” She sipped her tea, looked up at Effie; she went quiet as the waitress brought their check.

When Dulcie looked at Kit, Kit looked sly and smug. A look of triumph, as if she had her paws in the cream. “What?” Dulcie whispered. But the women had paid the bill and risen. With no more useful information forthcoming, and with not much traffic in and out of the tearoom, the two cats hurried out the door behind them.

Evijean went on into the station. Dulcie and Kit waited in the bushes until they could duck through, unseen. “What?” Dulcie said again. “What did you do?”

“The shoes,” Kit whispered. “I found thrown-­away shoes. Dallas has them.” Quickly Kit told her about Sam's “accident,” about the Bleaks' charges against Billy. “And Joe,” Kit said, “Joe was mad enough to . . . I didn't know what he'd do.” She peered in through the glass door. “Looks like the Bleaks are gone. They . . .” She hushed as Officer McFarland pulled up in his squad car. As he got out, they slipped up to the door behind him. Seeing them, McFarland grinned, his boyish brown hair mussed under his cap, and he held the door for them. They trotted through, glanced up at him with a flick of their tails, and hurried past the counter out of Evijean's sight, quickly down the hall, to the safety of Max Harper's door.

His office was empty, the door cracked open but no one there. They could hear voices from Juana Davis's office. They crossed the hall and slid inside, halting inches behind Detective Davis's black shoes and the chief's western boots where they stood at a long, folding table. Kit slid in first. She knew at once by the smell that the shoes were there, the shoes she'd found in the Dumpster; the smell of pine pitch was so strong that she had to hide a grin.