Cat Under Fire (15 page)

Dragging the paper into the living room, onto the thick rag rug, she nosed it open to the front page. She read quickly; her tail began to lash.

SURPRISE WITNESS IN LAKE TRIAL

Observers predict that new evidence which has come to light in the trial of Rob Lake may be so important that Judge Wesley will call a new trial. A new and unidentified witness is scheduled to testify this week. Neither defense attorney Deonne Baron nor the county attorney would release the witness's name. Neither would speculate as to the nature of the impending testimony. Ms. Baron was not available for comment…
Dulcie rolled over, laughing.
Mama did it, that old lady did it. Mama really came through
—
even if she was scared into testifying by the sudden interference of attorney Joe Grey
.

She wondered if Joe had seen the paper.

The article speculated endlessly about the identity of the new witness, and recapped old facts just to make copy. A blurred photo of Rob Lake and a larger picture of Janet took up half the page.

Maybe I blew it with Harper, but we pulled this off. And maybe
—
maybe Mama's testimony can free Rob
.

And maybe after tonight there would be more evidence, maybe there would be forty-six of Janet's paintings for evidence.

Carefully she folded the paper, carried it back through the kitchen, and pushed it out her cat door. She didn't want Charlie to come home before Wilma and wonder how the evening paper got in the house. Quickly dragging it across the garden, she left it at the curb, then slipped back inside, and cuddled up again on her afghan. She'd just have another little nap, then go to meet Joe.
Mama did it. Hope she doesn't change her mind, get cold feet at the last minute
. And she closed her eyes, smiling.

Moonlight touched Jolly's alley; a little breeze fingered between the small shops, stirring leafy shadows; the potted trees shivered; the glow from a wrought-iron lamp mingled with moonlight washing across the many-paned shop windows, brightening the rainbow colors of a stained-glass door. The brick paving was warm beneath the cats' hurrying paws.

Intent on their destination, neither cat spoke. Dulcie was all nerves. Joe was edgy with a need to run—to climb—to fight. They found it hard to stay focused, their spirits, their cat souls, wanted to be elsewhere. This was not a good night for measured discipline. The windy moonlight pulled at them, sought mightily to draw them away. They were filled with ancient hungers, with the moon's wild power, with mysteries surfacing from a vanished past.

Just as the hills above them, so ordinary in daylight, changed under the moon to dangerous veldts and tangled black jungles, so the cats' souls were changed. Ancient yearnings rode with them, drawing them like addicts toward lost times where medieval shadows fled.

Dulcie glanced at Joe and shuttered her eyes, trying to keep her thoughts on their mission. Slowing her pace, she padded demurely beside him. Leaving the alley, turning up the sidewalk, they put on civilized faces. Bland, kitty faces. With effort they returned to the domestic, became simple wandering pets, idle, dawdling.

Curving gently around planters and benches, duly sniffing at the shop walls, they stopped to investigate a bit of paper dropped at the curb. They scented mindlessly along a row of flowerpots. They meandered, working their way aimlessly in the direction of the Aronson Gallery, pretending vague inattention—but watching intently the gallery's broad bay windows and glass door. The Aronson, occupying a quarter square block, was the most prestigious of Molena Point's fifty galleries.

At the curb opposite the wide, low windows, Joe nosed at one of four huge ceramic pots planted with pink flowering oleander trees. Leaping up, he stretched out on the warm, potted earth; below him, Dulcie rolled on the sidewalk, both cats feigning empty-minded boredom as they studied the brightly lit interior, a montage of angled white walls and jagged, multicolored reflections more familiar to Dulcie than to Joe. A medley of colliding surfaces as intricate as the interior of a kaleidoscope, its maze of short, angled walls provided dozens of pristine white recesses flowing from one to another. Each niche accommodated a single painting, much as a jeweler displays one perfect emerald or ruby on a bed of velvet. The viewer could see each canvas or watercolor in isolation, yet had only to turn, perhaps take a step, to be immersed in the next offering. The snowy spaces blended so smoothly that gallery patrons seemed to wander in an open and airy world, surprised at each turn by a new and bright vista.

Now from deep within, three figures moved, approaching the front, their progress broken into crooked shadows. They seemed to be the gallery's only occupants. Sicily floated theatrically toward the door, her loose, drifting garments almost ethereal beside the staid figures of the couple who accompanied her. The middle-aged man was nicely attired in a raw silk sport coat and pale slacks, the thin woman elegant in a sleek black cocktail suit, her shining black hair pinned into a chignon, her huge silver earrings dangling and flashing in the gleam of gallery lights. The three paused in the open doorway, stood dis
cussing painting prices. The cats listened and watched narrowly, pretending to nap, but tensed for the moment when backs would be turned, and they could dart inside. The couple seemed undeterred by the cash sums Sicily was mentioning, money enough to keep the entire cat population of Molena Point in gourmet abundance for the next century. One of the paintings they were discussing was Janet's, a canvas the cats could see inside on the gallery wall, a painting of dark, rainswept hills.

But at last the man and woman stepped onto the street, and as Sicily turned back into the gallery the cats streaked through behind her. Racing for the shadows, they crouched between the zigzag walls. Looking out, they could just see Sicily as she moved away toward the back, unaware of intruders. Above them in the alcove hung a stark painting of a tilting San Francisco street, a work too austere for Dulcie's tastes, and seeming to Joe hard and ugly.

And now, though Dulcie knew the gallery well, confusion touched her. As she peered away among the alcoves, searching for a better place to hide, she was riven with uncertainty. The gallery spaces seemed different tonight, the vibrant colors of the paintings seeming to shatter and converge in strange new convolutions beneath the dizzying lights.

They heard Sicily pick up the phone and punch in a number, listened to her arrange late dinner reservations for four at the Windborne, Molena Point's most luxurious restaurant. This distracted Dulcie. She was able to calm herself with visions of a lovely, leisurely meal at a linen appointed table, waited on by liveried servers as she gazed down through the glass wall to the rolling sea below. Dreaming, she began to relax.

And at last she licked her paw and smoothed her whiskers, preparing for the night's work.

As they crouched in the shadows, Sicily returned to the front wearing a wrap, an African-looking shawl thrown over her shoulders, and jingling her keys. She
swept past them, carrying a briefcase and a string handbag, pausing at the door to turn out the lights.

The gallery dimmed to a soft glow from the streetlamps. Through the open door a cool breeze fingered in, then abated as Sicily pulled the door closed.

She locked the door with her key and swept away down the street; in a moment they saw her white van go by, and realized they had passed it a block away.

She was gone; the gallery was theirs. They came out from the shadows to prowl the pale recesses, studying each canvas, each glassed and matted watercolor, searching for Janet's work, but by the time they reached the back of the gallery they had found only five of her paintings. And none of these was new; Dulcie had seen them all in the gallery, long before the fire. In the dim light, the life and color of the work was nearly lost. Only the strong dark and light patterns remained, as if the paintings had turned into photographs of themselves.

Deep in the interior, beyond Sicily's desk, four closed doors were half-hidden among the oblique walls. They pawed each open. One led to a rest room smelling powerfully of Pine Sol, one to a closet with a red sweater dangling among a row of empty hangers. The third door opened on a cleaning closet: broom, mop, various cleaning chemicals in assorted spray bottles. The fourth door, to the storeroom, was open, as if perhaps Sicily left it ajar for air circulation.

And at the very back a fifth door, a broad, metal-sheathed loading door leading to the alley, was sealed by a bar and a padlock. Uneasily, Joe looked up at it.

This door was impassable. And Sicily had locked the front door with a key. There was no other way out of the gallery. The realization that they were trapped made him feel as helpless as when, as a kitten, he'd been chased into San Francisco's dead-end alleys by packs of roaming dogs or by nasty little street boys.

He shivered as they slipped into the storeroom. “You said there were no windows?”

“None. If we can throw the light, it won't be seen. The switch is there…” She peered up, then pawed the door closed behind them, so light wouldn't be seen from the street.

Joe paced, tightening muscles, staring up. He leaped.

On his third try, scaling up the wall, his paw hit the switch. The lights blazed, three sets of long fluorescent bulbs burning in a white, blinding glow.

Four rows of open racks marched away, bins made of slats to allow for air circulation, and filled with standing paintings. But Joe, shut in, felt his paws grow damp. His brain kept playing the same theme. No way out of the storeroom except this one door. No way to escape the gallery. And this storeroom was like a coffin. In his heart, he was four months old again, cowering away from attacking boys, clawing up restraining walls.

He turned away, so Dulcie wouldn't see his fear.

Hey, get a grip. This is not the behavior of a macho tomcat
. But his paws were really sweaty, and he was beginning to pant.

He got himself in hand sufficiently to move with Dulcie up one corridor and down the next, looking at each canvas, searching for Janet's work. They couldn't move the big canvases out of the racks, but each group of paintings leaned against a slatted divider. As Joe pulled a painting back, Dulcie could slip in between, take a look. Their paws were soon abraded, scraped nearly raw by the rough linen canvas and cut where the raw ends of picture wire had nicked them. They found only four of Janet's paintings, all without frames, the raw edges stapled. No thumbtacks. Two were of village streets done from some high vantage.

“From the tower of the courthouse,” Dulcie said. “That's Monte Verde Street below, those red blooming trees and the red roofs. And this other one, that's the Molena Point Inn. Look, she's put in a little cat asleep on the inn roof, a little black cat.”

She sighed. “You should come up the tower with me,
it's lovely. Up the outside steps to the second-floor balcony, then along the open corridor and up into the tower.”

Her eyes glowed. “You can pull the tower door open, they don't lock it. Up the tower stairs to that open place near the top and there you are, a little jump up onto the stone rail, you can see all the town below, see the hills in one direction and the sea in the other. You can…”

“Could we hurry this a bit?” Her description of those seductive open spaces wasn't helping; he hungered for space and air. “It's about time for the patrol.”

The Molena Point police not only conducted tight street patrols, but they carried passkeys to most of the shops. Joe had seen, as he prowled the night-dark rooftops, uniformed officers entering restaurants and galleries, perhaps because they heard some noise or saw an unfamiliar light. The department provided a high degree of security for the small village; you wouldn't find this kind of attention in San Francisco.

When they found no more of Janet's work, when they had flipped off the light and fought the door open, Joe sat in the middle of the open gallery calming himself, getting himself together again; but only slowly did his heartbeat gear down. Beside him, Dulcie sat dejected. “I was so sure the paintings would be here.”

He washed diligently, soothing his tight muscles and shaky nerves, he'd never felt so edgy. The phrase
nervous as a cat
had taken on sudden new meaning. “Maybe they're in a warehouse, maybe one of those around the docks.”

“Possible. There are plenty of warehouses down there. Remember the fuss in the paper about turning them into restaurants and tourist shops? That's what defeated the last mayor. No one wants Molena Point to be so commercial.” She rubbed her face against his shoulder. “Yes, we can go down to the wharves, take a look. Sicily…”

She stopped speaking, her eyes widening. “Or a stor
age locker.” She stared at him, her eyes black as polished obsidian. “There are storage lockers north of the village. Charlie keeps her tools and ladders there, all her repair and cleaning stuff. Wouldn't the paintings be safer in a locker than in a warehouse? And at two in the morning, would Sicily go down into that warehouse area alone?”

“If Sicily has them.”

“If they're in a locker, there should be some kind of receipt. Charlie got a receipt for her locker. I saw it on her dresser, stuck into her checkbook.”

“You just happened to be passing.”

“Actually, I was looking at her art books. She doesn't care if I prowl.”

Trotting across the gallery, she leaped to Sicily's desk, began to nose through the papers in an in-box, then through a little basket containing a tangle of small, handwritten notes and postcards.

She clawed open the file drawer. And as she searched, Joe prowled the perimeters of the gallery, nosing along the bay windows, hoping one would open.

When he turned, all he could see of Dulcie were her hindquarters and tail as she peered down inside the files. “Look for a duplicate key, a spare for the front door.”

 

She raised her head, watching him. His kittenhood must have been terrible. He couldn't bear to be trapped though he would seldom talk about it.

Sicily's files were filled with brochures and announcements of one-man exhibits, with newspaper clippings and reviews. Some contained, as well, glossy, full-color offprints of magazine articles featuring the artist's work. In the front of each file was clipped an inventory listing by title, the medium and size of each painting received by the gallery, the date received, the dates of exhibits entered, and whether the work was accepted or rejected. There were notations of awards won, and of reviews.

The listing also contained the date a painting was sold, the price, and the name and address of the buyer. All the inventories were handwritten in small, neat script. There were three J folders.

Janet's folder contained a list of her work taken by the gallery, but the dates were all months old. Two-thirds of the works had been sold. Dulcie could find no indication that a large number of paintings had suddenly been added to Sicily's inventory—unless the dates had been altered. And when she clawed open the smaller desk drawers she found only office supplies—a stapler, pens, blank labels, stationery, and envelopes—and in one drawer, beside boxes of paper clips, a tangle of bracelets and a lipstick.

She was patting some restaurant receipts back into order when suddenly the burglar alarm screamed.

She shot off the desk straight into Joe, the siren vibrating in waves, exploding, shaking them.

Joe pushed her toward the back, into darkness away from the windows. Her fur felt straight out, her heart pounding.

“They'll send a patrol car,” he said. “I was looking for an escape route and I broke the beam.” They stiffened as police sirens screamed up the street and Dulcie spun around toward the storeroom.