Cat Pay the Devil (22 page)

F
ollowing the smell of sugar doughnuts, Joe padded
silently into Molena Point PD on the heels of Mabel Farthy, who was carrying a bakery box. Behind the dispatch counter, a thin, redheaded young officer Joe didn't know looked over at the tomcat and raised an eyebrow.

“It's all right,” Mabel told him. “The cat has clearance.” The officer laughed and rose to leave, going off shift, turning the electronic domain back to Mabel. He reached out tentatively to pet Joe, stood stroking him as he filled Mabel in on late night's events.

Last night's excitement had all happened on Mabel's eight-to-twelve shift. The after-midnight calls had been tamer: a few drunks, a loud teenage party, and two domestic disturbances that made Joe prick up his ears, though both had been settled peaceably. When the officer left, Mabel sorted through the faxes, yawning. Her dyed blond hair wasn't quite as neat as usual, and her uniform was a little
mussed. She hadn't had much sleep, having been on duty last night and then doubling back this morning. She yawned again, came out from behind the counter, and went down the hall with the doughnut box. Joe could hear her filling the big coffee urn. From the counter, he watched her move on to Max's office, heard her fill his smaller coffeepot from the bottle of water on the credenza, and the special brand of coffee he liked. Outside the glass front door, cars were pulling into the parking area that the PD shared with the courthouse offices. Soon, among other arriving officers, Harper and Dallas came in, heading down the hall, and turned into Max's office.

Dropping soundlessly off the counter, Joe slipped along behind them and inside, under the credenza. Maybe they knew he was there, maybe they didn't. Harper poured two mugs of freshly brewed coffee, handed one to Garza, and sat down at his desk. He turned on the computer, then opened the three hard-copy files that lay on his blotter. Garza sat down on the leather couch and removed a clipboard and file from his briefcase. Beneath the credenza, on the Oriental rug, Joe curled up, so full of omelet he didn't even hunger for a doughnut.

The third murder, having occurred last evening, just before Max learned that Charlie was missing, hadn't received much of the chief's attention. Among the papers Dallas took from his briefcase was a copy of the coroner's report on Peggy Milner.

“It was the next-door neighbors,” Dallas said, “the Barbers, who made the call.” He rose to refill their coffee mugs. “Bern says the knife we found didn't kill her, though very likely it was used on her. Apparently, no prints, it was wiped clean. I sent it to the lab to see what they can do. There are flecks of dried blood between the blade and the handle.
Bern says a wider, heavier weapon killed her, struck her in the throat.”

Max made a sound of disgust. Beneath the credenza, Joe shivered. The older he got and the more he learned about humans, the better he liked his own feline cousins.

“Milner is an insurance representative,” Dallas said. “Got home late, said he'd had three evening appointments. I took the information off his client files and time sheet, and we've talked with two of the three. Third guy, a builder, is up the coast this morning picking up some plumbing, should be on his way home by now. The first two check out okay. The builder was Milner's first appointment last night, just about the time his wife was killed.

“Bern thinks the killer wore leather gloves; he found flecks of something like leather in the wound, maybe from an edge of rough-cut leather. Waiting for the lab on that.” Dallas sipped his coffee. “Again, like the other two cases, no sign of a break-in. The front door was unlocked. Milner said she often forgot to lock it.” Dallas shook his head. “No sensible woman, in a house alone, leaves the door unlocked.”

“Unless she's expecting company.”

Dallas nodded. “There's no indication, so far, that she had an outside interest.”

“Nothing from the Milners' other neighbors?”

“Only the Barbers. They can see the Milner kitchen window from their kitchen. Mrs. Barber saw Peggy in there preparing her dinner. Ten minutes later Mrs. Barber was watching TV, and when she saw there was a movie on that Peggy liked, she phoned her.

“There was no answer. She tried again in a few minutes, tried three times. The light was still on in the kitchen, but now the blind had been pulled. She said it was unlike Peggy,
not to answer. Told her husband she was going over to see what was wrong. He said not to do that, told her to call 911. She told him that was silly, and she went on over. Walked in the unlocked front door, found Peggy on the kitchen floor, bleeding. Ran home, and her husband made the call.”

Dallas looked down beneath the credenza where Joe Grey lay curled up pretending to sleep. “You might as well come out of there, tomcat, make yourself at home.” He looked up at Max. “Cat's staying out of the way this morning. Funny, he almost seems to know when things are real busy.”

Joe smiled to himself, rolled over beneath the credenza, and appeared to go back to sleep.

“Thanks for last night,” Max said, “for putting the horses up and fixing supper with Ryan. You two could have stayed and eaten with us.”

Dallas laughed. “We ate half the chili while we were putting it together. You two needed time alone.”

“Charlie wasn't too worn out to spoil her appetite. She ate almost that whole pot, and half a dozen tortillas.”

Dallas smiled. “I have to admit, my half-Irish niece makes pretty good Mexican soul food.”

“Charlie drank one beer with supper, fell into bed. I'd hardly put out the light and she was gone, snoring in my arms.” He looked a minute at Dallas. “That dog, last night. I never saw an untrained dog track like that. He went wild when he saw Charlie down there; Ryan had put my lariat on him, and he was jerking and fighting to get to Charlie.”

“Ryan and I talked about that. I think Rock's worth training.”

“Could be. He had a bad start in life, but he has plenty of potential. What about the neighbors on the other side of the Milners'? Anything there?”

“No one home. That's a second residence. Karen and
James Blean. Gone most of the time. Peggy Milner takes—took—care of their yard and watered it for them, and she had a key to their garage.”

Max looked at Dallas with interest.

“I got the key from Milner last night, took a look. Not much in there, a few garden tools, a small workbench, a new roll of hose. No cupboards, nowhere to hide a weapon.”

Max nodded.

“No attic access. Some paint cans stacked under the workbench, and one of the cans had been opened recently. I asked Milner about it. He said his wife had borrowed a bit of white paint to touch up a scratch on their kitchen wall; he showed me where.

“There was no paintbrush. Milner said she'd probably taken a little on a tissue, then flushed it, that she didn't like to clean paintbrushes. Looks like it could have been dabbed on with a tissue.”

A bit of paint surely amounted to nothing, had nothing to do with the murder, but the officers' interest brought Joe alert. Maybe he'd have a look, himself, at that garage.

“I left the door unlocked, put one of our locks on it, in case we want in again.”

The tomcat, rising, yawning as if he'd had enough of their boring voices, sauntered away into the hall; he slipped out of the PD on the heels of a sleazy attorney with a beard and a battered briefcase, some crook's mouthpiece; he headed for the Milner house, making no attempt to gather his two accomplices. Dulcie would be snug at home with Wilma; and Kit needed Lucinda and Pedric just now. As bold and brash as the tortoiseshell was, she was tender inside and easily upset by the rough treatment of those she loved.

 

It was three in the morning when Greeley, crouched down behind Lilly's sofa, listened to the front door open, and close, and a woman's soft step head for the kitchen. Too light a step for Lilly, and anyway, she ought to be asleep upstairs. He stayed where he was when the light went on in the kitchen.

He had tossed most of the main floor, had been deciding whether to slip on upstairs when he'd heard the key in the door. He hated to give up the search now. The thought of walking away from that kind of money galled him, even if he did have that much already salted away. It had been tiresome, the effort it took to open three puny checking accounts, getting fake social security numbers and drivers' licenses, just so he qualified for three safe-deposit boxes. But he didn't trust nowhere else short of a bank box, nowhere the IRS wouldn't come nosing, before he got the cash out of the country.

Two million in Mexico'd buy all he ever wanted, a little place down the coast where it was warm and the living was easy—and buy a knife in your back in a damn minute, too, if anyone knew what you had. And, the way customs was now, it would be hard to get that kind of money down across the border. Feds in your way, no matter what you did.

He could smell coffee from the kitchen, and toast. Who the hell could this be? She had a key, he'd heard it in the lock. Rising from behind the couch, he slipped down the hall, stopping in the shadows. She hadn't heard him. She was sitting at the table, a cup in her hand. Young and skinny and pale as a ghost.

“Violet?”

She stared up at him, frightened.

“You're Violet?” He went on in, sat down across from her. He'd known her when she was a teenager, just as flesh
less and bony then. Hadn't seen her since she'd married Eddie Sears, still in her teens—likely to escape living with Lilly and Cage. Probably it wasn't no better with Eddie.

Had she been here last night, when he'd searched the basement? Might she have watched him? Woman looked like she could slip around silent as a ghost and you'd never know she was there. He looked at her for a long time. She pointed to the coffeepot.

“There's plenty,” she said softly. “I thought Lilly might be up.”

“I didn't know you were living here.”

“I'm not. Well, maybe I am now. From this morning. Is Lilly still asleep?” She didn't seem interested in who he was. Maybe she knew, though, maybe she remembered him from years back. But she sure didn't seem interested in what he was doing there, now.

“I expect she's still asleep,” he said. “She let me have a room last night; the motels was all full.” He rose and poured a cup of coffee. Perching on the edge of his chair, he blew on it and drank it quickly. He wanted to ask what she was doing there; she made him real uneasy. But then, later, when he found out Eddie was in jail, and Cage in the hospital, he guessed she'd had nowhere else to go.

Nervously finishing his coffee, he rose again. “Have to be getting on. Tell Lilly thank you.” He went to get his jacket, and within minutes was relieved to be out the front door and away.

Checking into the Seaview Bed and Breakfast, he couldn't get the rate down even on a Monday morning. Whole damn village was the same, take all a man's money and ask for more. Now, with Cage in the hospital, he didn't want to leave Molena Point. He didn't give a damn if Cage cashed it in, but no one except Cage could tell him where the stash
had been, and who else might have taken it, if Wilma hadn't. Only thing he could do was wait till Cage got out of the hospital and away from that police guard—if he didn't die—and then follow him when he went looking.

One thing sure, Cage'd come out of that hospital mean as snakes with his face all shot up, the kind of mean that he'd kill you if you sneezed wrong. And, Greeley thought, smiling, that Charlie Harper who'd shot him, she'd be smart to get out of town before Cage found her.

T
he house next door to where Peggy Milner was
murdered was a charmingly remodeled cottage that had only recently been a shack with an uncertain future. In this village where folks would pay a million for a teardown, the expense of such a renovation was not unusual. The disturbance of the remodeling had sent droves of mice out into the neighborhood, and Joe and Dulcie and Kit had had their share.

The resulting small, cream-toned retreat was now far more appealing than the two-story gray box that loomed beside it, where Peggy Milner had drawn her last breath. The garden had been redesigned to feature low-maintenance lavender and Mexican sage. A narrow side yard was enclosed by a woven-wire fence four feet high topped with a two-by-four crosspiece, meant to confine the Bleans' small terrier when they were in residence. The yard within stunk sharply of dog. Joe, coming up the block, had already endured the sour stink of the neighbors' garbage cans clustered on the street along with plastic recycling boxes of newspapers and
cans and bottles, a miasma of rotten food, wet baby diapers, cleaning liquids, and wet paint.

He had circled the Milner house, making sure there wasn't a uniform or two standing guard, had strolled casually beneath the yellow crime tape, looking up at the windows. When he saw no movement within, he moved on to the Blean house. He circled it, too, though he wasn't interested in getting inside. It was the garage Joe wanted, where Peggy Milner and her husband had had key access.

Leaping to the top of the low fence pondering possible methods of entry, Joe gave a whiskery grin. Right there in the dog yard was just what the tomcat wanted: a small doggy door installed next to the narrow, pedestrian door. Smiling, he had dropped down into the dog yard when he realized that the little door would likely be blocked from inside by one of those sliding panels that people installed when they planned to be away, to prevent the entry of raccoons or skunks—or inquisitive tomcats.

He nosed at the plastic flap, expecting it to stop against a hard surface. Wondering if he could claw that sliding panel to the top of its metal tracks and push in under it, he nearly fell through when the flap gave freely. Quick as a flash, he slipped inside.

The Bleans' garage was nearly empty. It was light and pristine, the white walls finished as nicely as the inside of a house. He caught the scent of fresh paint, from the can that Peggy Milner had recently opened. The space was lit by a long row of high windows looking out on the dog yard. Beneath these stood a small white workbench. No tools hung on the wall behind it. No gardening tools adorned the other walls, and there were none of those tall storage cabinets that people installed to hide clutter. He found, when he leaped atop the workbench, a neat row of small garden implements
laid out beside a rolled-up hose that was still in its package. He dropped down again to consider the shelf underneath.

The paint smell came from there, from one of a row of gallon cans, each featuring its own handwritten label indicating living room, kitchen, master bath, and so on. Talk about neatniks. Clyde could take a lesson here. He could see where one can had been opened, a tiny line of paint still glistening at its edge, from where Peggy had touched up her own wall. Dropping off the low shelf, he circled the garage, not sure what he expected to find. The fact that Peggy Milner's husband had had access to this private and uninhabited space, out of sight of the neighbors, interested Joe just as it had interested Harper and Garza.

Dallas had found nothing, but Dallas didn't have a cat's keen sense of smell. And as Joe circled, the scent of paint followed him, as if it was not all coming from the can beneath the workbench.

The smell grew stronger near the door that would open into the house. And stronger, still, when he padded toward the corner, following a foot-high, four-inch-wide, oversize baseboard that ran the length of that one wall. He remembered, from slipping in here after mice while the builders were working, that this space had been open, then, with telephone, electrical, and cable lines running through it—an electronic life-support system from the meter and cable boxes into the dwelling.

In the corner, the smell of water-based paint came strongest, and he found a freshly painted area, dry, but still fresh. The smell was faint enough that, he supposed, a human could easily miss it.

Studying the surface at an angle, he could see where the protruding baseboard had been cut and then resealed; and beneath the smell of paint, he caught a faint scent of caulking or patching.

Dragging a paw softly over the barely dry surface, he felt a subtle, raised line beneath the fresh paint. When he looked closely, he saw not only the patch line but brush marks.

He found no paintbrush in the garage, used or otherwise.

Maybe the cable man had been here. Or the phone guy, making some change that necessitated cutting into the baseboard. Maybe they had used their own brush, and had taken it with them?

Or maybe not.

The Milners had had the garage key. If a serviceman were to be admitted, Peggy would likely have come over to let him in, and she would have told her husband. Under the circumstances, wouldn't he have made sure to tell the cops?

Well, Peggy Milner wasn't talking. He stood a moment, considering, his heart pounding hard.
If it was just painted
,
where's the paintbrush? Why would someone…? Where…?

Muttering to himself, he headed out through the doggy door, leaped to the top of the fence and over, and fled up the street to the nearest neighbor's garbage cans, where, among multiple offensive stinks, he'd caught a whiff of paint.

He found no paint can in the recycling box. Leaping atop the closed garbage can, pawing at the handles that fastened the lid in place, he flipped them up as easily as any raccoon could have. But it was impossible to get a purchase on the lid itself and push it off while standing on it. He gave up at last, dropped down, and with a flying tackle threw his weight against the side of the can, praying no one was watching. Over it went, the lid flying, the contents spilling into the street.

Did he hear someone running and shouting? Nosing in panic among the stinking mess, he pawed aside items he didn't care to identify—he'd taste these smells for hours—spoiled food, bleach, and…

Paint! There! Pawing aside wadded paper, he snatched up
a little, damp paintbrush stuck to the lid of a tomato can.

Taking the brush carefully in his mouth, he looked for a tube of patching compound or caulking. Behind him, the running had ceased. He was still looking when softer footsteps approached behind him, making him spin around.

A small boy stood staring at him, a kid of about seven. Short black hair, a red-and-blue baseball jacket. He looked up at the house behind them. “If Mrs. Hallman sees what you did, cat, you'll be cat skin.” He stared at the paintbrush. “What've you got?” Lunging, the kid tried to snatch it…But Joe Grey was gone, scorching into the bushes and behind the houses, into a thorny thicket of blackberries. That should stop the little brat.

He waited maybe twenty minutes while the kid tramped around outside the thicket pawing at the vines. Joe smiled when the kid got hung up and scratched himself good, and then at last wandered away.

Slipping out again and along through the backyards, Joe headed once more for the Blean cottage. But this time, before he went over the fence, he slipped beneath a holly bush, lay the paintbrush against the holly's trunk where it wouldn't get any dirtier, then stood there debating.

He'd been seen doing something very uncatlike. Even a seven-year-old had to wonder why a cat would steal a dirty paintbrush. Who would that boy decide to tell about the weird gray cat? If this kid turned up while Garza was talking with some neighbor, and if the kid opened his busy little mouth…Joe shivered.

But it couldn't be helped. Anyway, who would take the word of a seven-year-old boy? Why would anyone believe that a cat would want a dirty paintbrush? He looked out to the street and, when he didn't see the kid, Joe irritably dismissed him.

He had to find a phone, he didn't want to leave the brush there very long. Maybe he could get into the Blean cottage through the inner garage door and use that phone.

But why would there
be
a phone in there? Why would anyone bother to pay a monthly phone bill when they weren't there very much, when they could just use their cell phones? Even for rich folks coming down once a year on vacation or the occasional weekend, to pay for a landline seemed foolish. He looked next door to the Milner house, wondering if he could get in there, instead.

Rearing up, slipping the paintbrush higher among the prickly branches of the holly bush, he had crouched to make a dash for the Milner house, thinking first to check the windows and then the roof vents, when a patrol car pulled into the Milner drive.

Talk about serendipity. Talk about happy accident and smiling fate! Dallas Garza stepped from the car and headed directly for the Blean cottage, moving carefully through the deceased's flower garden, clutching a key in his hand.

 

At about the time Joe watched Dallas cross the garden, apparently to have another look at the Blean garage, up in the hills in the Cage Jones house Lilly Jones sat at her little writing desk methodically paying the monthly bills and making her phone calls; she was relieved that that Greeley person had left, but not at all happy that her sister, Violet, had moved in on her. And without even a phone call. Well, but the poor thing had nowhere else, the helpless creature never had had any gumption. Lilly supposed she could put up with Violet for the short term. In the long run, what difference?

Nor was she unduly upset that Cage was in the hospital in intensive care; she was not wringing her hands for her
brother. If Cage's wounds to the throat and face and chest were critical enough to seriously restrict his respiratory functions, that was his fault and his problem. Fate would do with Cage what fate would do.

She had spent the hour since her breakfast dusting and vacuuming. If that woke Violet, that was too bad. She hadn't asked Violet to move back home, into her old room. She might feel sorry for Violet, but the girl's presence compounded Lilly's own problems.

Still, in some respects, Violet's proximity might make life easier for her. Thinking about Violet, back again and living there, and then about Cage in the hospital, perhaps dying, Lilly Jones smiled with a dawning contentment, and returned to paying her bills.

 

Watching Dallas approach the garage, Joe snatched the paintbrush from where he'd shoved it up into the bush and, trying not to drool on it, fled beneath the lavender and Mexican sage to the gate of the dog yard that Dallas would have to open to reach the garage side door.

Dropping the brush where Garza couldn't miss it, he fled again, unseen through the bushes and, behind Garza's back, up a pepper tree.

He watched Garza pause before the gate, looking down at the paintbrush. Frowning, Dallas took a tissue from his pocket and carefully picked it up. Then he scanned the yard all around, looking up and down the street. At last he crossed the dog yard, unlocked the garage door, and disappeared inside. Joe's nerves were doing flip-flops.

He knew he should get out of there, but he was unwilling to miss the crucial moment. Skinning over the fence, he crouched beside the doggy door and, lifting a paw, cautiously pushed the flap in a quarter inch and peered through.

Dallas had placed the paintbrush in an evidence bag, which he still held. He stood looking carefully around, then knelt to examine the lower shelf of the workbench and the gallon cans of paint, much as Joe had done. He ran a finger around the lip of the can that had been opened, then held the paintbrush to the can.

Apparently, from the look on the detective's face, the paint matched. Dropping it back in the evidence bag, he circled the garage studying the walls and rafters—and sniffing the air as intently as had Joe himself, and that made the tomcat smile.

It didn't take the detective long to find the source of the scent, to locate the patched and repainted portion of the oversize baseboard. Running a finger lightly over the floor, he examined a tiny spill of white dust on the concrete that Joe himself had missed. When Dallas rose quickly to leave, Joe backed out into the dog yard, squeezing beneath a dog-scented bush as Dallas raced past him—after this caper, he was going to stink of dog pee.

He heard the car door open and slam and thought Dallas would take off, but almost at once the detective was back, carrying a camera. The minute he was inside the garage again, Joe peered in, watching as he photographed the repaired wall and the white dust on the floor. He watched as Dallas, wearing thin gloves and using a penknife, carefully lifted the minute particles of dust and dropped them in a small plastic sandwich bag, which he sealed in an evidence bag. Then with his knife, Dallas pried away a six-by-six-inch section of drywall board. It came out easily, the new caulking sticking to the edges. Shining the light into the end of the small utility tunnel, presumably picking out cable and electrical and phone wires, Dallas smiled.

Again he photographed, this time directly into the hole. Half a dozen shots, then he reached in, nearly to the elbow.
He drew out two leather gloves, handling them by the corners of the cuffs, and dropped each into an evidence bag. He retrieved a small, folding hatchet of the kind that a hiker might take camping.

With the hatchet secured in an evidence bag, he examined the hole again and, finding nothing more, he rose. He bagged the paint can and, with a last look around, he headed for the door. This time Joe was quicker. As Dallas locked the door behind him, Joe Grey was on the roof above him. But when Joe glanced up the street, he saw the nosy kid poking around in the spilled garbage.

Below him, Dallas was heading for his car when he paused in the Milner drive, looking back up the street, watching as the boy happily rummaged.