Cat in the Dark (20 page)

“I don't know. She's pretty wiry.”

“She might have shot him first.”

“
I
don't think she shot him. I don't believe she would hurt anyone. And where was Pearl Ann? Had she already left when his killer entered the apartment?” She dropped her ears, frightened. “Was Mavity there alone? Did she see the killer?”

“Come on, they're leaving. Let's check the bathroom.”

But the bathroom where Pearl Ann usually showered and changed was spotless. The shower was completely dry, not a drop of water.

Usually when Pearl Ann cleaned up, she left the shower floor wet, with Sheetrock dust or paint or plaster on the bathroom floor where she'd pulled off her work clothes.

“Maybe,” Dulcie said, “she didn't want to pick up any dirt on her clean new clothes. Maybe she mopped up with paper towels, before she got dressed.”

“But why would she dry the shower, too? And there are no paper towels in the bathroom trash basket.” Nor did they remember the police taking any trash from the bathroom.

“And there's something else,” Dulcie said. “Can't you smell it?”

“I do now,” Joe said, sniffing at the shower and grimacing. Over the scent of soap and of Pearl Ann's jasmine perfume came a sharp, male odor. A man had used the shower, and recently. Even a careful wiping-up hadn't destroyed that aroma.

“So Pearl Ann had a man in the shower,” Joe said. “So maybe she didn't go up to the city alone. Is that a crime?”

“Did you ever see her with a date? You've never seen anyone come by here to pick her up.”

“She still could be seeing someone, or maybe living with someone—maybe wants to keep it quiet.”

“Could one of the subcontractors have been here and used the shower?”

“There was no sub scheduled for today,” Joe said. “Have you ever seen one of the subs use the shower?”

She switched her tail impatiently. “We have to call Harper—tell him there was a man in the shower and give him the codes for the computer. This could be the key to the whole puzzle.”

“Before we make any calls and upset Harper, let's have a look at the Davidson Building—check out Pearl Ann's room.”

“Don't you think Harper went over there to search? There'll be cops all over the place.”

“He won't search without someone at home,” Joe said. “You know how he is. Even if he gets a warrant, he won't go in until Pearl Ann gets back. Says it protects the evidence, saves a lot of fuss in court.” His yellow eyes burned with challenge, his expression keen and predatory. “Come on, Dulcie, let's go toss Pearl Ann's place—we'll never have a better chance.”

A
S A BLUE-CLAD
morgue attendant rolled the gurney bearing Winthrop Jergen's corpse into the cooler to await the coroner's knife, as Captain Max Harper sat at his desk in the Molena Point Police Station filling out his report on Jergen's death, and as Joe and Dulcie padded along the top of the fence behind the Davidson Building where Pearl Ann Jamison rented a room, along the lighted village streets Mavity's worried friends searched for her. Charlie, driving slowly past the crowded shops and cottages, stopped frequently to shine her flashlight among bushes and around porches, thinking she might find Mavity wandering confused and frightened. She kept picturing Mavity standing in the shadows of Jergen's hall watching some faceless assailant stab and stab him—then running, terrified.

She was aware of Wilma searching high above her up the dark hills; she caught frequent glimpses of Wilma's car lights winding back and forth along the narrow streets and the beam of her flashlight sweeping the houses and the open meadows.

But next time she glanced up, Wilma's lights had stopped—they were stationary, seemed to be somewhere above the apartment building.

Had she found Mavity?

But then the light swept slowly across the houses and grassy verges as if Wilma was walking the area, searching it again, though they had looked above the apartments earlier, thinking that Mavity might have run up there to escape Jergen's killer.

 

Wilma, leaving her car, moved among a tangle of gardens and slipped up driveways to shine her beam in through garage windows; she peered into cars parked on drives or in streets to see if they were empty, hoping no one saw her from some darkened house. She didn't need anyone calling the station, reporting a prowler. She couldn't stop thinking that Mavity, having witnessed Jergen's murder and able to identify the killer, had hidden up here.

Yet Mavity could have been struck down by the killer and dragged away, dumped anywhere—the far foothills, the bay…

Or had Mavity, driven by hurt and rage because Jergen cheated her, hefted that ridiculous weapon and flung herself at him with enough force to drive the blunt instrument into his soft flesh?

Before she left home, Wilma had examined an ice tray divider from her refrigerator, hefting it, trying to imagine killing with it.

She had put it down again and turned away sickened, appalled at her own lack of faith in her friend.

Earlier this evening as she walked the streets looking for Mavity, she had met Sue Marble closing up her Latin American Boutique, turning out the lights, dimming the window spots that shone across the display of
native art. Sue hadn't seen Mavity for over a week. Wilma didn't stress the urgency of her search, didn't mention the murder.

Sue was full of friendly energy, her complexion rosy, her bobbed white hair gleaming. “I have something for you.” She had unlocked her shop again and hurried inside, returning with two signed petitions in support of the library cat, her apple face alight with the accomplishment of having gotten fifty more signatures.

“Don't you tell Freda I did this. I'm supposed to be Freda's friend. She'd pitch a fit if she knew I was getting signatures. But I just can't agree with her about your little library cat. The way she's acting almost makes me want to drop her—except she's the only friend I have who likes to play Scrabble. I don't know why she's so down on cats.

“That black cat that visits me, he's such a handsome fellow. Comes right on in the shop, so regal.” She laughed. “I'm a sucker for a friendly kitty. I thought at first he was a stray, but he was too sleek and well-fed. And then his master came in, that nice Greeley Urzey, and…”

“When was this?” Wilma asked.

“Oh, a couple of weeks ago.” Sue colored slightly. “Greeley comes from Panama, so we had a nice visit. Would you believe we know some of the same people?” She pulled the door to, locking it. “I told him I'll be off on another buying trip, as soon as I can find an apartment and get moved.”

“I didn't know you…”

“I can't stand the noise another minute, Wilma—that trumpet player next door practicing all the time and now a friend has moved in with him, and
he
plays the
drums.
Can you imagine the noise? The police can't be there every minute. And I can't bear the thought of
swearing out a warrant—the idea of starting that kind of battle is just too much—I would really rather move. Dear me, is it urgent that you find Mavity? Is anything wrong? I could help you look.”

“Nothing at all, of course not. Did you know that Clyde's apartments will be ready soon? He might be willing to hurry one up for you.”

“Oh, yes, the girl who draws the wonderful cats—she's doing them up, isn't she? Charlie Getz? Well, of course, she's your niece. I remember seeing her van up there. Are the apartments nice?”

“Lovely big rooms,” Wilma said, “and a wonderful view down over the village.” She didn't mention that Winthrop Jergen's apartment might be for let soon. Sue would hear that on her own. Tucking the petitions into her pocket, she thanked Sue and went on her way searching for Mavity.

 

The brick walls of the Davidson Building were black with grime, its closed windows caked with years of accumulated dirt. The plain, two-story building was constructed in the shape of a long U; a garbage-strewn alley separated its two parallel wings, closed at one end by the building itself, and at the other end by a board fence, atop which the cats now crouched looking up at the impenetrable two floors rising above them.

No window was lighted on either floor to indicate human presence save, at the upper level, halfway down, one window reflecting a weak, greasy glow barely visible behind the dirty pane.

Padding along the top of the fence, the cats studied the metal fire escape that hung above them, folded against the bricks. They could see, just above it, a row of narrow, jutting bricks running the length of the building at the base of the upper windows, apparently a half-
hearted attempt at architectural detail—otherwise, the structure was as plain as a prison. Nor was the little ledge much of a walkway, maybe wide enough for a broad-shouldered mouse.

They had already circled the building from the sidewalk. The front door was solidly locked, and there was no other way in. They had swung from the door's latch, pressing and pawing, but nothing gave. Now there was nothing left to try but the fire escape.

Crouching, Joe sprang high, grabbing the metal with his claws, fighting to gain purchase on the rusty steel. Dulcie followed him, and together they twisted and raked at the bars until they had pulled themselves up into the center of the folded tangle then onto the brick ledge above.

Precariously balancing, they pawed at the first window, but it was stuck or locked or nailed shut.

Padding around the corner on the thin ledge, they clung close to the long wall, leaning into the bricks, stopping at each dirty pane of glass. All the windows were stuck, and they couldn't see much through the grime. Most of the rooms looked empty. They made out the dim lines of an overstuffed chair, and in another room, when they had pawed dirt from the pane, a lone, unmade bed, its graying sheets wadded in a bundle on a stained mattress. The window halfway down the building where the thin light burned was caked with dirt as thick as garden soil. Dulcie pawed at it irritably.

“Lick the window.”

“I'm not licking it. You lick it.” She pressed her face against the glass. “And what's to see? A bunch of dusty boxes stacked up.” She didn't like schlepping along the precarious ledge past blind windows where, behind the dirty film, anything could be observing them. She didn't like looking down at the dark alley, either, with its
jagged cans and broken glass. Contrary to popular human opinion, a cat certainly could fall from high places—or could be pushed. She had the feeling they were being watched, that something was tracking their progress.

Slipping past the light they gained the corner and padded along the short, connecting wall. They had started up the other side when, across the way, the lighted window slid open.

Against the dull glow, a man stood silhouetted. His voice was grainy, thin.

“Come in, you two. Come on in here, if that's what you want.” He shoved the window higher, and the light picked out his gnarled hands and wrinkled leather jacket. “Come on in—or go away and quit snooping.” Reaching down, he fetched a cardboard box from somewhere beside his feet and fixed it under the raised window.

So this was where the old man was hiding. Had he been here ever since they saw him leaning over Dora's and Ralph's bodies? They remained still, not sure whether to run from him, along the narrow ledge, or to go back and step inside.

“Come on, you cats. Get a move on.” He leaned farther, peering across at them. “I know what you are. Do you think I wouldn't know?”

Joe glanced back at Dulcie, where she crouched behind him.

“Who you looking for?” Greeley said. “There ain't nobody here but me—and my friend.” Slyly he glanced around to the shadowed crates behind him.

“Who you looking for?” he repeated. “Or are you just out for an evening's stroll, in this delightful portion of the village?”

“We weren't looking for you,” Joe said coldly. Dul
cie stared at him, shocked, and wanted to slap a paw over his mouth.

But why not speak? Obviously Azrael had told Greeley all about them—thank you very much. And now from the shadows behind Greeley, a voice mumbled, and Greeley laughed harshly.

“Who you looking for, then, if not me?” Greeley said rudely.

There was another comment from behind him, and his eyes widened. “You cats looking for Pearl Ann? Is that it? You come looking for Pearl Ann Jamison?”

They hunched lower, crouching single file on the narrow ledge.

“You two don't want to mess with Pearl Ann. You don't know half about her. What you want with her?”

Joe glanced behind him at Dulcie. She would have to turn around and go first if they were to return the way they had come and approach Greeley.

She flattened her ears, shook her head. She didn't want to do that.

“Go on, Dulcie. Move it. We can't stay here all night.”

She crouched, frozen.

He flipped around on the ledge, seeming to hang in midair, then crouched on the ledge facing her, waiting for her to turn back.

She hunched, staring at him, their noses inches apart, her green eyes huge and uncertain. He had seldom seen her afraid—fear was not her nature. Irritated, he tensed to spring over her along the thin protrusion.

She glared at him but at last she switched ends, flipping around precariously on the thin bricks, holding her breath as her three paws struck empty air then hit the bricks again, and she started back reluctantly toward Greeley. At every step she wanted to beat it out of there.

“Go on,” Joe growled. “Hurry up.”

She padded a trifle faster.

“Move it, Dulcie. What can he do to us?”

She could think of a number of things.

“Go
on.
Show a little spine.”

That moved her. She gritted her teeth and headed fast for Greeley, racing along the bricks, her tail low, her ears plastered tight to her head.

As she reached the window the old man stepped aside, and she warily slipped beneath the raised glass, dropping to the floor and backing away from Greeley. Beside her Joe hit the floor with a heavy thud. Immediately Greeley slammed the window. They heard the lock slide home.