Cat Telling Tales (8 page)

“Wait,” Dulcie said. “Maybe we don't want to tell him.” She scrolled down through a number of articles about the red tomcat, pausing at a headline that silenced Kit.

Did Nursing Home Cat Die in Fire?

The remarkable red tabby cat who began, on his own, to visit infirm patients at Green Meadows Nursing Home nearly a year ago has not been seen since a midnight fire burned the complex to the ground . . . “We haven't seen him since three hours before the fire broke out. . . . He came to us as a stray . . .”

They read it together, crouched on the edge of the desk. At the last words, Kit sat silent, her ears down, her tail hanging over, limp. “What if he is Misto's son? What if he's dead? Oh, we can't tell Misto . . . But he so misses his son. If he is dead . . . Oh, fire is a terrible thing. I don't understand. All at once, that woman dead in a fire, and now this fire . . .”

Dulcie said, “No speaking cat would get caught in a fire, he'd have gotten out, he'd be too clever to get trapped.” She looked to Joe, begging him to help ease the tortoiseshell's distress.

“That tom would have saved himself,” Joe said. “If he is Misto's son or maybe grandson, you can bet he's smart enough to get out of there, one way or another.” He pressed a paw on Kit's paw. “He's somewhere in Oregon, Kit, right now. And you can bet he's safe.”

“But what if he was hurt in the fire, what if . . . ?” Her yellow eyes blazed at them. “We have to find him, we have to go and find him.”

“Then we have to plan,” Joe said patiently. “Do you know how many miles it is to Eugene? Do you remember how long it took Misto to get here, months, hitching with truckers and tourists? And then, when we get to Eugene, what? How do we find one lone cat in all that city? He could be anywhere.”

“Maybe,” Kit said, “maybe Misto would know where he might have gone. Misto knows Eugene and he—”

Dulcie said, “What if that is Misto's son? What if he did die in the fire? You want to tell Misto that?”

“We can tell him we think we've found his son but not tell him about the fire.”

They both looked at her.

Dulcie sighed. “He'll want to see the pictures. If we pull up those articles, he'll read about the nursing home and about the fire. Maybe he'll try to call them. If the nursing home burned down, does it even have a phone?” Dulcie dropped her ears, giving Kit a stern look. “We can't tell him, not yet, we need to find out more.”

But, watching Kit, she knew Kit would tell Misto, that they couldn't stop her. Or, if she didn't tell him, and as flighty and irresponsible as the tortoiseshell could be, would she take off alone for Oregon in a fit of goodwill and passion and not much common sense?

Or would she and Misto go off together, an old cat too frail to survive a second journey halfway up the California coast and up into Oregon, and the flighty young tortoiseshell? Again, Dulcie looked at Joe for help. They'd backed themselves into a corner. Now, either they distressed Misto by telling him before they knew enough, or they abandoned Kit to her wild and headstrong passions.

“We'll tell Misto,” Joe said softly. “We'll show him the pictures. Tell him the whole story. We can't tell him only half.” Maybe, Joe thought, Misto would show better sense than Kit and wouldn't go racing off with no plan, no notion where the red tomcat might be.

“There are all kinds of animal rescue groups,” Dulcie said, “Humane Society, SPCA, Animal Friends. Maybe they can find him. Or maybe he's already chosen a home, maybe he's already settled in with someone, is rolling in luxury lapping up cream and he has no need of our help.”

“But he'd want to find Misto,” Kit said indignantly, “he'd want to find his father, he doesn't know where Misto's gone, he might be worried about his dad, wandering all over Eugene looking for him.”

Joe just looked at her. Kit could get pretty worked up.

“First thing in the morning,” Dulcie said, “I'll call Eugene. Maybe I can find out if anyone at all saw him after the fire, or saw him escape the fire. Maybe by this time, someone has come forward, called to say he's all right. If I can't locate anyone from the nursing home, Wilma can, that's what she does. She spent her whole career running investigations. Missing humans, missing cats, what's the difference? Wilma can find out what happened to the red tomcat.”

10

I
t was after three in the morning when Joe left Dulcie and Kit, and headed home. As he trotted along above the village streets, the night sky arced clear and vast around him; below him, the streets themselves were deserted, even the late-night party crowd seemed to have packed it in. He sniffed the wind and knew, though the stars shone diamond bright, that weather was on its way, he could smell a storm gathering, could smell cold weather coming down from the north. The shingles, damp from the ocean air, were only slick now, but soon rain would sluice down the steep peaks, rushing into the gutters. Racing onto his own roof, Joe caught the scents from within, the smell of a strange woman's perfume, the unfamiliar smells of people he didn't know and didn't want to know.

But at least he could hear no voices. Maybe, with luck, they were all asleep, Debbie Kraft and her kids bedded down in the Damens' guest room, stuffed like sardines among their ragtag belongings. Stepping to the edge of the roof, he looked down at the old battered Suzuki wagon with its thick patina of road dust, its windows smeared with little handprints, and blocked by the jumble of blankets and cardboard cartons that Debbie hadn't dragged into the house. A skateboard pressed against the glass, and a ragged teddy bear. He could just imagine the smell in the closed car: hamburger wrappers, broken crayons, half-eaten candy bars, the smell of little children shut into a small space for many hours. He imagined the same smells in the rooms below.

Maybe, with great good luck, they'd remain asleep until late morning and he'd be gone again. Or, if the gods really smiled, they'd get up early, collect their possessions, shove everything back in the car, and head on down the coast for some other unfortunate “long-lost” friend.

Or, he thought, Debbie would make up with her sister, after all these silent years, and move on up there to the wooded hills high above the village, where half-hidden and expensive homes stood in self-satisfied privacy. Turning away from the roof's edge, he pushed into his tower and on through into the house to have a look around, to see how the land lay.

Crouched on the rafter, he peered down into the dark study, and into the master bedroom where Clyde and Ryan sprawled, fast asleep, Rock and little Snowball curled safely across their feet. Both animals flinched when Joe dropped down onto Clyde's desk. They looked up at him frazzled, their ears at half mast, their coats bristling from the stress of dealing with a small, rude child, their eyes reflecting a frantic unease that left no doubt Vinnie, the older girl, had been at them.

Joe looked at them with pity but turned resolutely away. There was nothing he could do, just now, to ease their misery. Dropping to the floor, he padded down the stairs, his nose twitching with annoyance at the smell of strangers that rose up the steps. Below, he descended into a chaos of abandoned sweaters, grubby dolls, children's dirty tennis shoes dropped at random down the hall. In the kitchen, a blue plastic cooler stood on the floor dripping water across the tile. The table was strewn with food-crusted paper plates, a package of cupcakes with one bite out of each. Two thermos bottles stood open, smelling of souring milk. He had to guess that Ryan and Clyde, losing patience, had left it all for Debbie to clean up—if she was so inclined.

The guest room door stood open. Despite the fusty smell of sleep, he slipped inside, skirting the two duffel bags, the clothes draped over the rattan and cane chairs and the desk, and the rattan game table. On the handmade Konya rug, an open suitcase lay, revealing a tangle of sweatshirts, big and little, a woman's lace panties, a makeup case, a grubby white brassiere. The room smelled of the same perfume, of unwashed hair and dirty socks. In the queen-sized bed, Debbie and the two children slept tangled together, the girls snuggled up to their mother, their long pale hair strewn into her dark hair, their arms around her as if, at least in sleep, the little family found solace in one another. Looking at the sheer volume of their belongings, he imagined them camping in his home until Christmas, and he backed out again feeling depressed. The only upside to this woman's arrival would be whatever he could learn about her dead mother, about Debbie's relationship with her, and maybe about Hesmerra's interest in the affairs of Kraft Realty. Hurrying back up to his tower in the black predawn, he burrowed deep beneath the cushions, shut his eyes, and listened to the rising wind, its wail as miserable as he felt.

J
oe woke at first light; as he rose up out of the pillows, the sharp sea wind harried and chilled him, blowing in through his open windows. The temperature had dropped. The treetops loomed in dark islands, and in the east above the black hills one finger of light streaked across below the clouds, blushing pink from the hidden sun. He could smell coffee, pancakes, bacon, but this happy greeting was broken harshly by Vinnie's shout, “I won't, I won't! You can't make me!” He heard no word from Tessa. Didn't the smaller child ever talk?

Slipping inside, onto his high rafter, he looked down at the empty king-sized bed, the covers tossed back in a tangle. On the leather love seat in the study, Snowball slept curled against Rock, the two animals staying sensibly clear of their houseguests. He froze as childish footsteps pounded up the stairs.

Twelve-year-old Vinnie raced to the top, her curly blond hair rumpled from sleep, her eyes as dark as Hershey bars. Dog and cat watched her warily. Ignoring them, Vinnie looked around the study with a keen and destructive eye.

Stepping to the desk, she picked up a ruler and, turning to the love seat, she began to poke at Rock. The big silver dog looked at her, shocked, and hunched away. When she poked harder, he stood up on the couch facing her, glancing around for a way of escape but unwilling to abandon Snowball. But when Vinnie turned her attention to the little white cat, Rock snarled at her and in the same instant Joe dropped from the rafter to the desk and made a flying leap to the kid's head, his claws out. Snowball exploded over the back of the love seat and beneath it, and Rock gave Joe a grateful look and raced away down the stairs. Joe was still clinging. Vinnie snatched at him and then hit him. He scratched her hand and leaped clear, and she ran screaming down the steps behind the escaping dog, hit the kitchen bellowing that the cat had attacked her. No wonder that red tom had fled the Kraft household. He heard the dog door flap as Rock bolted for the backyard. Smiling, he sauntered down the steps and into the kitchen. When Vinnie saw him she screamed and tried to twist out of her mother's hands. “It jumped right on me! Get it away, it tried to kill me!”

Debbie was busy dabbing at Vinnie's head with a wet paper towel. Turning, she fixed her gaze on Joe, her dark brown eyes blazing, her brown hair tangled across the shoulders of her skintight black T-shirt. Vinnie, cradling her bleeding hand, backed away from Joe. At the table, Ryan and Clyde watched the scene tense and ready to move—Joe had no doubt to protect
him
if the need occurred.

He was glad he'd been there when Vinnie grabbed that ruler; he had no idea how much torment it would take for gentle Rock to turn on her—no idea how badly the kid might have hurt the innocent animals. Ryan rose at last to rummage in a drawer for salve and Band-Aids. All the while, little Tessa looked on from her own chair at the table beside Clyde. Her brown eyes were huge, filled with a different emotion than Vinnie and their mother, and when she looked at Joe her eyes shone with a shy wonder. Tessa liked it fine, that he had nailed her sister, maybe she even envied him, that he had the nerve to do that.

The child was seated on two phone books tied to the seat of her chair, with a pillow over them. Beside her, Clyde grinned at Joe conspiratorially as Debbie doctored Vinnie's wounds, and Vinnie yelled louder. “Hold still,” Debbie snapped, staring at Joe with an expression that made him want to ease away.

Ryan said, “Whatever Joe did, he had good reason. Look at me, Debbie.” Debbie looked up, scowling at her. “You are to leave our animals alone, do you understand? You, and Vinnie both. If you so much as touch one of our animals or torment them in any way, you're out on the street pronto.” She stared at Debbie until Debbie turned away. At the table, both Clyde and Tessa hid a smile, and Tessa reached up and took his hand.

Joe, feeling righteous and smug, leaped onto the table beside them. Ryan took her seat again, returning to her pancakes and bacon. Debbie sat down at her half-finished plate, glaring at them all as Ryan took up the conversation where they had apparently left it. “As to the battered women's shelter, Debbie, you need to contact them this morning, see if they have room.”

“How could
I
get in?” Debbie said, scowling. “You need a judge or a cop to get you in one of those places.”

Joe wasn't sure that was true, but it sounded good. Ryan said, “There's one other option. We have an empty cottage that just closed escrow.” Was she out of her mind? “It needs a good cleaning, inside and out, and the yard needs weeding and trimming. If you want to work for your rent, you can stay there—for a limited time,” she added. Ryan would do almost anything if she thought a person or animal was in need, but she wasn't knuckling under to Debbie Kraft's demands. “The cottage is old and small and neglected. There's no furniture, but the water and electricity are on. If—”

“We don't
have
any furniture,” Debbie said. “You can see we have just what's in the car. All our furniture belonged to that landlord. Erik has expensive furniture in the condo, here in the village, but we didn't see much of it. Expensive clothes and car, too, but nothing like that for his family—he says he has to look well, for business.”

Clyde said, “There are a number of resale stores, sometimes with good furniture. Salvation Army, Goodwill.”

“Oh, I wouldn't buy anything
used
.”

“And why is that?” he asked.

Ryan said, “You can pick up what you need at a bargain, the better charity shops have some really nice things. Or, you could check out the furniture-rental places.”

“Oh, I wouldn't—”

“The place is empty,” Ryan said. “If you want to work for your rent.”

“You don't understand. I wouldn't have time to—”

“We can go up as soon as you finish your breakfast,” Ryan said, “and you can take a look at it. Bring your suitcases and things, and we'll take some cleaning supplies.” She gave Debbie a big smile. “You'll be all set.”

“But I can't take the children into some filthy shack. Who knows what kind of germs they'd pick up. You'll have to get someone else to do your cleaning.”

Ryan rose, fetched a couple of buckets from the laundry room, and began filling them with supplies: Clorox, disinfectants, rags, brushes. She set a broom and mop beside them, looking evenly at Debbie. “Use these. The children will be fine. It's that, or the shelter.”

“You're saying I can't stay here? Why not? You have plenty of room. I could never go into a shelter, it's too degrading. And that's the first place Erik would look. I've always known that. Whenever I wanted to leave him, I knew I couldn't go to a shelter—and then he left me, stranded.” She looked intently at Ryan. “I don't think you understand how cruel he is. There's no telling what he'd do if he found me in one of those places. He wouldn't allow it, that would make him look bad, if anyone found out. And of course I don't have any money to rent a place, Erik took everything. He stripped the checking account that I used for groceries, and that was
all
I had.”

Oh, right
, the tomcat thought.
And why, if she'd ever wanted to leave Erik, or suspected he might leave her, why didn't she set something aside? This woman is all about grabbing everything she can, to provide for her own comfort. There's not a chance in hell she's broke.

Dropping down from the table and leaving the kitchen, he wondered if Ryan had told Debbie about her mother's death. Of course she must have, but Debbie sure wasn't grieving. He couldn't see that she'd been crying, and so far he hadn't heard her mention Hesmerra. Nor did the death of her mother seem to have affected her appetite, he thought, as she greedily shoveled in pancakes. Heading for the guest room, he felt Vinnie watching him. Expecting her to follow, he lay down in the hallway beyond the kitchen door. He heard her sliding out of her chair, and Clyde said, “You follow that cat, Vinnie, I'll take a belt to your backside.”

No one spoke. The silence was profound. When Vinnie didn't appear, Joe fled for the guest room. Slipping in between the open suitcases spread across the floor, he saw Debbie's purse lying on the seat of the little chair that was pulled up to the desk. In a flash he was up there, pawing open the bag and nosing out her billfold.

He made quick work of clawing through the money compartment. Twenty bucks? Come on, she wasn't that broke. He could feel a little change in the side pocket, but that was all. Three credit cards, and those could already be maxed out. Dropping the billfold delicately back into the bag, he concentrated on the zippered side pockets.

Nothing but women's stuff, lipstick, emery boards, Band-Aids, old bills and receipts. Abandoning the purse, he dropped to the floor, and considered the open suitcases.

The children's clothes and Debbie's were all mixed together, most of them none too clean. Carefully pushing each item aside, he searched between them, and looked in the side pockets among panty hose, a dingy bra, children's tattered little T-shirts and panties. In Debbie's makeup case he rummaged among bottles and tubes, wary of meeting a stray safety razor or a pair of sharp scissors, and getting unpleasant smells on his paws. Nothing, no hidden cash, not even loose change.

He went through the second suitcase and into the side pockets, he was losing hope when his reaching paw stroked a thick packet of folded paper with the greasy texture of paper money, and secured with a rubber band. Listening for any movement from the hall, hearing only Vinnie's shrill voice from the kitchen, he pawed out the bundle.