Cat Cross Their Graves (16 page)

Genelle smiled. “You remember the correct way to say Celtic. I hear Cora Lee coming with breakfast; she'll be happy that we have company.” Reaching for her walker and pulling it to her, the old woman rose unsteadily, leaning into the metal cage. Lori wanted to steady it as she had for Mama, but the old woman seemed so self-sufficient that she was shy about offering help. And the old woman moved slowly to the table.

“Cora Lee lives down the street,” Genelle said as she swung herself from the walker into the wicker chair, shoving the walker aside. “She's my neighbor, one of the four ladies who come to help me out. They've been very kind.” She hadn't touched her oxygen cart. Mama, when she was so sick, if she got the least bit excited she had to put on the oxygen mask. “Cora Lee's a singer, she's with our Little Theater. She's quite wonderful.”

Cora Lee appeared on the terrace carrying a tray. The smell of breakfast, of bacon and pancakes and syrup, wrapped around Lori like warm arms. Made her long for Mama and for their little pine kitchen in
Greenville where they'd been so cozy. Lori knew Cora Lee, too, knew this tall woman, knew her from the library when she, Lori, was little. She was the first lady with darker skin that Lori had ever seen; she used to come in the reference room and talk with Mama. She was so beautiful with her close-cropped curly black hair and her dusky complexion, with her creamy silk dresses and long legs. Lori hoped Cora Lee wouldn't remember her. She kept very quiet, and she breathed easier again when Cora Lee went back to the kitchen for another plate and silverware and a glass of milk.

“When I die,” Genelle said, “I'm leaving the household things to Cora Lee and her three friends to help pay for their new home. Oh, they know about it, it's no secret.”

Lori squirmed and stared at her hands.

“Child, one can talk about death. Death is a natural thing. At my age, I have a special license to talk about anything I choose—I can say what I wish!”

That made Lori smile.

“I figure if the four ladies have an estate sale of my things, they can clean up. There are some fine old antiques and paintings, and my jewelry. The house and some other property I own go to the library. I have no one else.” Genelle looked at her, gently amused. “I'm quite matter-of-fact about death, it doesn't scare me anymore. Now I'm more curious than afraid. Like Reepicheep, I keep wondering what exactly does come next. What that world will be like.”

“
Does
something come next?” Lori whispered. “How can you know that? How could anyone be sure?”

Cora Lee sat down at the table where she could see the garden, and served Genelle and Lori's plates from a huge stack of pancakes. She took two small cakes for herself, passed the bacon around, and poured two cups of coffee.

“You can't doubt that there's more after this life?” Genelle said softly to Lori. “Sometimes, don't you sense your mother nearby?”

“Maybe,” Lori whispered, glancing uneasily at Cora Lee. “I want to.”

Genelle put sugar and cream in her coffee, looking over at Lori as casually as if they were talking about the weather. “Someone once said that this world is a nursery for souls.”

“Like school lessons?” Lori said with dismay.

Genelle laughed, and slathered butter on her pancakes. “No, I don't think of it like that.” Lori had already buttered her pancakes and poured on syrup; she tried to eat slowly, but they were so good. She couldn't get them and the hot crisp bacon down fast enough. “I think we just dive into this world,” Genelle said, “and start swimming—among all its splendor and its pain. That we make the best strokes we can, swim the best we can. That we make a little glory around us, or we don't. Does that make any sense to you?”

Lori nodded, chewing. She wasn't sure. A picture came in her head of Mama diving down through green water to be with her, but then turning and flying away again too soon. Genelle looked up at Cora Lee. “You look tired, my dear.”

Cora Lee nodded. “I guess we're both tired, grieving for Patty. Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes, my dear. I slept. My grieving is partly a cel
ebration of Patty's life and what she did. It…it's the shock of how she died that's so hard.”

Cora Lee nodded.

“But you did not sleep well,” Genelle said.

“There…there was…some excitement at our place. We were up late.” Cora Lee's voice was soft as velvet. Instead of saying more, she opened the morning paper that she had brought on the breakfast tray and handed it to Genelle.

Large on the front page was the picture of a skull and part of a skeleton. A man in a white coat knelt over the small bones half buried in the dirt with weeds growing around them. The bones of a child. Shivering, Lori rose and stood behind Genelle where she could read over her shoulder.

The picture of the child's skeleton shocked Lori so that she backed away. Cora Lee reached to take her hand. “It scared me,” Cora Lee said. “Reminded me of something that happened when I was a little girl. The police came—Captain Harper and both detectives and then the coroner. And later a forensic anthropologist. But the paper says that.” Cora Lee did not talk down to Lori, like in juvenile hall where
some of the case workers had talked down to her because she was twelve. Like if you weren't grown up, you couldn't understand anything.

Lori read with more interest, her fear subsiding. No one knew how old the body was, or if it was a boy or a girl. Couldn't they tell? The child was about nine,
Younger than me,
Lori thought. The police and anthropologists were still digging, as if there might be more bodies, when the paper went to press. As she read, Lori glanced up the garden at the cat among the boulders. It was still watching them, staring so hard that it almost seemed to be listening. And it
did
look like Dulcie. Same black, curving stripes, same tilt of its head. Beside Lori, Genelle watched the cat, too. When Lori thought about dead children, she thought about throwaway children in the foster homes. That was what the cook in juvenile called them, throwaway children that no one wanted. She watched Genelle pull her oxygen mask to her, and breathe deeply. She didn't realize she was pressing against the old lady until she felt Genelle's arm around her. She hoped she wouldn't be afraid to walk back down the hill to the library now, after seeing that picture.

She'd be safe once she was inside, though. He
wouldn't dare come in there after her, would he? Had
he
killed that child, years ago? How long had that body been there? When she went into the library, if she put the screws back in the window lock, maybe he couldn't get in. The rest of the library was locked tight. When she looked up, Cora Lee was watching her almost as if she knew what Lori was thinking—and as if she really cared.

I
nsistent fingers of icy dawn wind crept through
the thinnest crack beneath the closed tearoom door, and across the pine floor, and rattled the windows; but bright flames snapped on the stone hearth, pressing back the dark, reflecting across the little table that was set before the fireplace. The welcome blaze warmed the faces of Detective Garza and dark-haired Dorothy Street, and warmed the gray tomcat, too, where he crouched above them, unseen, atop the tallest china cabinet. Firelight danced across the brightly flowered curtains and braided rugs, across the hand-rubbed blue walls and the flowery-papered walls, turning the small room into a retreat as cozy as a quilted cat basket. The brown wicker tables and wicker chairs gave the tearoom a homey charm that, Joe knew, Dulcie had always loved, an ambience that, until the tomcat had known Dulcie, he would never have thought about. Before both cats' perceptions warped so inexplicably into a vastly wider view
of the world, he'd had no eye for beauty, homey or otherwise.

Peering down at the two lone occupants of the quiet tearoom, he commanded, as well, a clear view through the leaded windows to the lighted patio and gardens and across them to the far wing of the inn. To the third-floor windows of the Greenlaws' penthouse. But the kit's bay window remained empty, nothing but cushions leaning against the glass, no dark little shadow to tell him the kit had come home.

Below him, Dallas Garza poured sugar in his coffee, his muscled bulk and square shoulders dwarfing the slight woman. Dorothy Street was maybe in her early forties. As far as Joe could tell, she wore no makeup. She had short, dark hair curling casually around her face as if she had given it a swipe or two with the brush, then let it find its own way. She was delicately built, fine boned. A pretty, athletic-looking woman whose jeans and sweatshirt gave off the cool aroma of salty sea and pine boughs, scents that must have clung to her clothes even during her absence. She looked up when a waiter came through the door of the little kitchen, a thin, gray-haired man bearing a tray of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls. As he set down the tray, Dorothy laid her hand on his for a moment in a gesture of mutual grieving for Patty. Patty's employees had been more than friends, they had been like family. After a moment, the waiter left, quietly shutting the door, proffering the needed privacy.

Dorothy's eyes were red, and she clutched a damp tissue. A packet of tissues lay in her lap. Garza, beneath his relaxed demeanor, was tense and watchful.
The smell of sugar and cinnamon made Joe lick his whiskers. Dorothy took a cinnamon roll and split and buttered it. They had been talking about Dorothy's long friendship with Patty, since Dorothy was a little girl.

“Her daughter, Marlie, used to baby-sit me,” Dorothy said, “when she was in college. West L.A. was nicer then.” She looked at Dallas intently. “There was a man hanging around the inn, Detective Garza, for a few days before I left. I feel terrible about him, now. That I didn't call you, call the station. Something about him bothered me. Patty was aware of him, and I asked her about him. She said she'd keep an eye on him. She said nothing more. Left something unsaid, I thought. That wasn't like her, to be less than open with me.

“She said at first that she hadn't seen him. When I pressed her, she said she guessed maybe she had seen him, that she hadn't paid much attention. She wanted to let it drop, didn't want to talk about him. I said nothing more.

“Now I wish I'd checked on him myself. Do you know who he was? Did anyone see him that night? A really small man, like a boy.” She cupped her hands around her warm coffee cup. “I guess that's why he didn't really frighten me, because he was so small. I could—if that's the man who shot her, I might have prevented what happened.” She looked up at Garza. “She might be alive if I hadn't let that pass.”

Garza sat waiting for her to collect herself. At last she leaned forward, still cradling her cup. “After I saw him, I kept wondering about that terrible time in
L.A. It was the only time in Patty's life that there was any ugliness. Until now.”

Garza was quiet. Not, Joe knew, simply from courtesy, from wanting to give Dorothy time and space. If the interviewer was silent, didn't respond, the interviewee experienced a powerful need to keep talking, a natural compulsion to fill the empty spaces.

“How much do you know about that time in L.A., Detective Garza? About what happened to Patty's grandchild, and then to her daughter?”

“The child's father was convicted for the murder?”

Dorothy nodded. “Yes, and for some of the other Sepulveda church killings.” She pushed back her short hair. Despite her healthy good looks, there were smudges under her eyes, and stress lines creased her forehead. “The murders filled the L.A. papers. Patty always found it hard to talk about it. But then sometimes she needed to talk.”

Listening to Dorothy's version, Joe glanced out through the window, watching for the kit. Nothing in the third-floor window had changed, except that the sky was growing lighter so that it reflected a silver sheen across the glass. Not only had Patty helped Marlie get out of L.A. after the trial, after Craig Vernon was convicted, but she continued to have Vernon's friends watched. She thought that Craig might send someone to hurt Marlie. She didn't want him to know where Marlie had gone, didn't want anyone snooping around.

“Patty was headed for France, on a short film shoot. When Marlie was safely out of the country, Patty flew on to Paris. She…It was all she could do
to finish that film, the hardest thing she ever did. Marlie had insisted she go, had convinced her it would look better, might draw off anyone who meant to follow Marlie. They tried to make it look as if Marlie had gone with her mother, a plane reservation in Marlie's name, a double for Marlie, a film stand-in.

“Marlie's little boy had been just six, and so very bright. He…I loved that little boy. Those last weeks before…before he died, he'd started avoiding his father. Didn't want to be alone with Craig, was nervous and cross with him. That was what first puzzled, then alerted, Marlie.”

Dallas poured fresh coffee for them from the carafe the waiter had left.

“That was what had prompted Patty to first hire a private investigator, have Craig followed. That was how they found out about the boarded-up church, the meetings there. The other people who slipped inside, same faces every night. The investigator never did see a child, only adults, but in the preceding weeks, several children had gone missing.

“Patty always felt that if she hadn't had Craig followed, he might not have taken Conner there, that Conner and Marlie might both still be alive, that it all might have turned out differently.” Dorothy folded her hands together as if trying to keep them still. She was quiet for a moment, looking at Garza. “Think how that made Patty feel, that she had failed them.”

Crouched atop the china cabinet, Joe Grey thought about those murders, and about the small graves in the seniors' backyard. The L.A. children were apparently all exceptionally bright. As were all the miss
ing children in the reports from the Seattle area. But, cases thirty years apart, more than a generation apart, what did that mean? That was stretching for it, to assume that those thirty-year-old L.A. murders could have any connection with the two bodies in the seniors' garden. And yet…

“Silly,” Dorothy said, “but I had the feeling, even when I was so young, that Fenner wanted those children dead out of some kind of, oh, jealous resentment. Some sick rage that, when I watched him during the trial, I really thought I felt. I went to part of the trial, against my mother's wishes; she thought that was terrible. Well, my feeling was just a child's reaction. He
had
killed Conner, and I loved Conner. The whole thing affected me terribly. I was only about ten, but I had such a sense of evil about those events. I thought, not just from what happened but from watching Fenner, that I was seeing pure, dark evil.” She lifted her cup in both hands, looking up at Garza.

Caught in Dorothy Street's description, Joe stared almost unaware across the patio at the empty windows where still no small shadow looked out, no lamp was lit against the dim morning. Above the penthouse the dawn sky was as gray as the stormy sea. When he heard scrabbling on the roof above the tearoom, he thought at first it was leaves or twigs blowing.

This wing of the inn, tearoom, dining room, and kitchens, was just one story, its sloping red tile roof a handy route that the cats often took when crossing the village. When the sound came again, a hard thud, then sharp scrabbling on the tiles, Joe stared hard up
at the ceiling. The next moment, he saw through the window a dark small shape race across the garden and up a bougainvillea trellis and in through the Greenlaws' third-floor window. Her fluffy tail lashing, she disappeared inside. Joe's heart was thudding so hard with relief, it felt like kettledrums. She was home. The damn cat was home. He stared around the tearoom searching for a phone, looked off toward the little kitchen pantry trying to remember if he'd ever seen a phone in there. He wanted to call Dulcie, to tell Dulcie.