Cat Telling Tales (11 page)

Joe had taken a good look at those transformed blobs of glass, smoky and milky and as weird as artifacts from an alien planet. The pots and pans, too, the knives and forks, all were melted into misshapen monstrosities that might have been turned out by some misguided, first-year art student.

As for the wood alcohol that had killed Hesmerra, that was as common as bargain brand cat food; a person could buy the stuff anywhere, any grocery or drugstore. Slip into Hesmerra's cave, ease off one of the little plastic cap covers, remove the lid. Pour out some of the whiskey, replace it with denatured alcohol. Slip the plastic back on, and wait for her to retrieve that particular bottle and suck it down. The hitch was, the killer couldn't be sure of the timing; it might be months before she picked up the poisoned offering—unless he'd doctored all the bottles.

Or had the killer slipped into the shack, maybe when Hesmerra was sleeping or passed out? Added the wood alcohol to her already open whiskey?

Davis said, “Billy told you that Erik Kraft and Hesmerra were friends?”

Max nodded. “Billy thought that was because Debbie, herself, never went to see her. Neither sister did, Billy said it's been like that since his mother died. Greta was the youngest, maybe her sisters felt protective, felt Hesmerra was remiss in letting her go out in the storm that night. Though that doesn't really explain such rigid, long-standing anger.”

“Doesn't explain a lot of things,” Davis said. “Doesn't explain Hesmerra's maneuvering for jobs that gave her access to the Kraft offices, and to Alain Bent's house.”

Max said, “I asked Emmylou Warren to come in for prints, I want to talk with her, maybe she can fill us in. Up at the burn this morning, she was pretty nervous. Billy said she and Hesmerra had a falling-out when she was evicted.”

“You want a BOL on her?”

“Not at this point. If she doesn't show, have the patrols watch for her, give her a little nudge.”

Of course she was nervous,
Joe thought,
if she lifted that file box from the crime scene.
It had sure smelled, and looked, as if it had been buried in the earth beneath the fire. Question was, would she bring the box to the chief? And, a more worrisome question, how much had Max seen in the backseat of her car when he grabbed one guilty tomcat and tossed him out?

Joe thought he must have seen the box. But before he grabbed Joe, did he see the letterheads that were barely sticking out, had he seen enough so that when he did have the box, he'd focus right in on the gray tomcat pawing through the evidence—if that
was
some kind of evidence?

Or would Emmylou decide to keep those papers to herself, maybe hide them, and not get involved? He was wondering if he should make a call, fill Max in on the letterheads in case she didn't give the papers to him, when a woman's querulous voice cut loudly down the hall. “I'll see him now! He left three very curt calls on my machine, when one polite message would have done, and I don't expect to be kept waiting.”

The dispatcher mumbled an answer Joe couldn't make out. The woman said, “I've been out of town. Now that I'm home, I have better things to do than waste my time in this place, with the implication that if I don't show up I'm under some kind of arrest. I'm not in the habit of being summoned by the police, by a public servant, and then kept waiting.”

With a look of sorely tried patience, Max rose from his desk and headed up the hall. Davis was slower to rise. Limping, she moved out close behind him. Silently Joe followed them, his claws itching for action. MPPD was his second home, and he didn't take kindly to rude humans throwing their weight around.

13

T
hree hundred miles north of Molena Point, the red tabby tomcat sat in the cab of a U-Haul truck as it roared down Highway 101. Perched comfortably atop the driver's duffel bag, he watched the pine-wooded hills race by, broken now and then by green pastures. For most of the trip, the sky had been clear, the sea to their right sparkling blue, but then as they neared the Oregon paper mills they'd hit that area's overcast, as thick as curdled milk, the sky hanging low and gray, the sea as unappealing as a smear of mud.

Whatever the weather, though, hitchhiking was a blast—if you chose your mark with care, if you didn't hook up with some nutcase who had no respect for a lone tomcat. Lazily washing his paws and whiskers, he glanced at his hefty driver. She was a big, square woman dressed comfortably in faded jeans, a khaki shirt, a soft brown leather jacket, high brown boots that could stand a good polish if one cared about such matters. Her U-Haul rental agreement, tucked carelessly into the visor above her head, gave her name as Denise Woolsey. She was maybe sixty-some, though he had trouble discerning the exact age of a human. Cats were easier, advancing age providing the clear signs, lengthening chin, graying muzzle, spreading toes and dropped belly; and of course the changing smell of old age.

Denise had told him, conversationally, that she was moving house; she talked to him as she might to any hitchhiker, and he liked that. She was hauling her furniture, all her worldly goods, from Astoria to her new home in Stockton. She said she'd given away half of what she owned, meaning to simplify her life. She seemed hungry for conversation, even if it was one-sided. Maybe she'd taken him aboard simply for someone to talk to, imagining that he couldn't repeat any of her shared secrets. She hadn't a clue he could have contributed to the conversation, could have entertained her, himself, with tales of his own travels. The cab smelled of ancient dust, fresh coffee from her thermos, and the stink of the southern Oregon paper mills, the sour, acid smell of ground-up wood pulp trapped beneath an increasingly heavy fog that hugged the coast.

“You wouldn't catch me living in this stink,” Denise told him. “Bad enough to have to drive through it. I guess if you have to make a living, though, if you have a family to feed, some folks don't have a choice.

“Me,” she said, looking over at the tomcat, “you won't catch me tied down. Any more than you, right? Single, footloose, a little money in the bank, and I go where I want, when I want.” She didn't seem to consider that cats don't have money in the bank. Maybe she thought mice in the fields took the place of hard cash.

She'd picked him up early that morning at the rest stop, a long way from where he'd left his last ride. From the minute he'd approached Denise's U-Haul, she'd been kind to him. When he hopped in the cab waiting expectantly for her to head out, she hadn't even done a second take. She had simply laid a folded blanket atop the duffel, so he could be comfortable and enjoy the view. They had shared her burger and fries in equal portions, and her remarks to him were direct and comfortable—making him wonder what she
would
do, if he answered her.

But he'd never find out, his commitment to secrecy was way too deeply embedded. Caution was bred irrefutably into his every cell, passed down for thousands of generations, and reinforced by parental discipline. The occasional transgression of some individual cat, they all knew, was recklessly dangerous.

While beyond his partially open window the sea lay flat and gray, the sluggish waves smothered by the fog, on their left they passed an occasional small lake that, despite the fog, gleamed blue and clear against a background of dark pines, lakes with no houses around them, the surrounding forest dense and wild. He watched an osprey arrow down into the fresh water; a violent splash and it rose again with a fish gleaming in its talons. The great bird's powerful flight made him dream of soaring high above the hills, effortlessly winging the long, long miles, high above the killer wheels of speeding cars and trucks—made him wish he could dive down out of the clouds with such power as that bird, drop straight down onto his destination. And the photographs from Debbie's album filled his mind, the little seaside village with its sheltering pines and cypress, its white beach and fishing dock, the ocean bright and clear, so very like the home his pa had described for him, when he was young. That was the first place Pa could remember, from his lonely kittenhood.

He couldn't be sure he was headed for the same place. For that one spot, on this vast coast, where Misto, facing old age, might have gone, in the way so many animals longed to do. He could only pray Misto had returned there, and that he could find him.

He had left Eugene three days earlier in the backseat of a 1992 Toyota Camry, sweltering in the lap of a fat old lady who smelled of mothballs and pee. Even when he lifted an armored paw and growled at her, she couldn't stop petting and hugging him. He had stayed in the car because they were headed south, the woman's daughter and son taking turns driving. And because they seemed a harmless threesome, didn't seem like people who would hurt a cat. A prime path of learning, in a young cat's life, was to listen to his own instinctive fears, to go with what they told him—or not, and learn a hard lesson.

He had picked up the little family just outside Eugene, just two miles west of the burned-down nursing home. Their car had been parked at a lunch stop. The family had sat nearby at an outside picnic table eating hamburgers, studying an unfolded Oregon map, discussing where to stay for the night. It was already late in the day, they had come down Highway 5 from Seattle, were headed over to the coast, to Coos Bay. He'd bummed some hamburger by charming the old woman, and then conned them into a ride. He hadn't counted on the woman's overheated lap and her endless petting. At Coos Bay, where they pulled into a motel with a lighted
VACANCY
sign, he'd streaked out of the car the minute the old woman opened her door, had vanished among a tangle of shops, small gardens, and garbage cans. Had sat among the overgrown bushes listening as they called and called him, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” He'd watched them set a half sandwich torn in small pieces, and a used Styrofoam bowl of water, outside the motel door. He'd slept hidden in the bushes ten feet from their door, listening to their blaring television tuned to an old sitcom, and to the frequently opening door as they looked for him, and to their annoyed and worried calls.

“Maybe this was his destination,” the old woman had said querulously, just before they turned out the light, “maybe he didn't want a home at all, maybe he was just hitching a ride.”

“Cats don't hitch rides, Mama. Go to sleep,” and the room went dark, leaving only the faint sounds of covers rustling as the three got settled.

They called him the next morning, too, before and after partaking of the motel's free breakfast, but at last they gave it up. Leaving a torn-up sweet roll for him from the motel's free continental breakfast, they went on their way. As the car grew smaller and then merged onto the highway, he'd eaten the sweet roll then settled down among the bushes just at the edge of the parking lot, waiting to cop another ride south. His dreams filled with pictures from Debbie Kraft's photo album, shots taken when Vinnie was small, before Tessa was born, apparently before Debbie and Erik began fighting and carping at each other. Pictures of a shore that blended exactly with the tales his daddy had told him, pictures of a rocky cliff above the white beach, the blue and roiling sea, the white-crested waves.

There was no picture of the man his daddy had told him about, who brought food to the feral cats, who talked to them as if they could understand him. Misto had been only a kitten when he was part of that feral band, but he'd known enough not to answer back to the man. How could it be, that Misto had been a kitten in the same village where Debbie Kraft grew up, where her husband still spent part of his working year? How strange was that?

For months after he abandoned the Kraft household, after Erik threw one too many shoes at him, he had searched Eugene for his sisters and his daddy. He'd gone to the house he remembered, from when he was a kitten, but Misto's scent wasn't there. Even after he went to live in the nursing home, he'd go rambling at night searching for Misto, but he never found his scent; he hadn't seen Misto now for well over a year.

Once, after the fire, he'd returned again to the Krafts' house, imagining Erik might indeed have abandoned his wife and children as he'd sometimes threatened, imagining he could be with Tessa again. But, lingering in the overgrown yard and then leaping up a tree to peer in through the dirty windows, he'd seen and smelled the emptiness, the abandoned trash, the discarded clothes, and knew they would not be back. And he'd gone away again, missing Tessa.

After the “mothball woman” and her family departed Coos Bay, he headed south again, traveling on the berm and through the tall grass of pastures that bordered Highway 101, warily crossing the occasional side road. It was late afternoon when he'd come at last to a rest stop set beside the highway among the pine woods. He was paw weary. The clearing was deserted save for two cars parked together near the restrooms, beyond a cluster of picnic tables. A dusty willow tree sheltered the cinder-block building, while a second willow provided shade for a half dozen picnic tables with attached benches, all bolted to concrete slabs buried in the earth. Could you trust humans with nothing? The dusty earth was embossed with numerous tire marks crossing over each other, and these were dissected by lines of long, thin paw prints that stank of coyote. He'd backed away from these, and looked the two cars over, wondering about a ride.

But both were muscle cars, an old fishtailed Chevy painted red and white, and a low-riding orange roadster with the top down; and he could hear the bantering voices of several young men echoing from the restrooms. Moving into the bushes at the edge of the clearing, he'd settled down, listening, wanting to know where they were headed and to assess their character, see whether it would be safe to try to make nice and con a ride—he was feeling desperate to move on—but already their strident voices made his skin twitch.

The voices grew louder and more raucous, then two young men emerged laughing and idly shoving each other, scruffy-looking fellows, a Caucasian and a Latino, long hair hanging down their backs, black jackets and baggy black jeans sagging wrinkled over dusty black boots. Ducking down, Pan remained still as they swung into the Chevy, watched the driver race the engine with a heavy foot and take off in a storm of dirt and gravel. With his eyes squeezed closed, he'd felt gravel pepper his face. Soon three more guys followed. Laughing loudly, they didn't bother to open the doors of the roadster but swung in over the top, took off with a roar, another shower of dirt and rocks and blast of exhaust.

Then, blessed silence.

Pan came out of the bushes. The rest stop was deserted once more, the sun low, the only sound the hushing of the sea. Heading for the willow tree beside the restrooms, he scaled its rough bark through its lacy fronds, leaped to the warm metal roof, and curled up in the willow's late shade. On the roof, safe from dangerous humans and coyotes, he slept. The coyotes yipped and yodeled all night.

He dreamed he was crouched, not beneath the willow tree, but in an oak outside the nursing home. In his dream, the night was red with flames, his elderly friends were being led out, or wheeled and carried out to safety from the licking flames. Then the flames were mixed with other fires: hearth fires, bonfires, blazes from other times, ghostly flames echoing from past centuries. He heard bits of conversation that were not of this time, saw strangers' faces tangled together without order. Only when a late car pulled into the rest stop did he wake.

The wind was up, the night growing cold. He looked the driver over, but didn't like what he saw. Between midnight and dawn only three cars came, stayed a little while as the drivers used the restroom, then left again. Pan remained where he was, on the tin roof. Dawn broke late, beneath dark clouds, the sky heavy, the wind icy. He watched a U-Haul truck rumble in off the highway and park at the edge of the pine grove just beyond the picnic tables—and that was how he met Denise Woolsey.

The driver got out, sat down at one of the tables and opened a brown bag that apparently contained her breakfast. A large woman in jeans, flat-heeled boots, soft leather jacket over a faded khaki shirt. Interested, Pan had slipped to the edge of the roof to look her over, had watched her feed a nervous squirrel a portion of her sandwich, watched her fill a paper cup of water for the little beast, and knew she'd be his next ride.

He rode with Denise as far as the San Francisco Bay Bridge, where she meant to head inland for Stockton. He tried not to think about getting out of the safe and cozy cab when she stopped for gas and to use the restroom, he didn't relish going it alone on the mean and windy streets of the city. But he'd find his way. He always did. Somehow he was always able to sniff out an accommodating soul to carry him. In the world of concrete and fast cars he didn't have much choice, it was either con some softhearted human, use all his charm and panache, or perish.