Cat Pay the Devil (24 page)

L
illy and Violet Jones, sitting stiffly side by side in
Max Harper's office, looked so rigid they might have just been formally charged and their rights read instead of simply invited down to the station for a few questions. Perched on the edge of Max's leather couch, the two dry, pale women looked Harper over as if his invitation to stop by and have a chat had been a summons from hell itself.

The courteous young rookie who had knocked at their door and then chauffeured them to the station had been meticulously polite; Harper had offered the sisters coffee and a plate of George Jolly's homemade cookies, both of which Lilly and Violet refused. Max had made it clear that neither sister was suspected of wrongdoing, but that didn't stop their scowls at Harper and at Detective Garza, who sat in the leather armchair. The only observers the two women didn't frown at were the two they didn't see.

They sure don't like being hauled into the station
, Joe thought, watching from beneath the credenza.
Well
,
Lilly
doesn't like much of anything. Mad at the world. And it isn't only anger—there's fear in that woman's eyes
, the tomcat thought with interest.
Harper sees it. So does Dallas. Does Lilly fear for Cage
,
lying so close to death? Or is it something more?

“Cage
is
better,” Lilly was saying stiffly in response to Harper's question about her brother's condition. “It's a wonder, the way that woman shot him—to shoot him in the face like a—”

“If my wife hadn't shot him,” Max said coldly, “he would very likely have killed her, and might have killed me, too.
That woman
saved her own life and possibly her aunt's life, and mine.”

“And since when,” Dallas asked Lilly, “have you grown so concerned about the welfare of your brother? When we talked a few days ago, you said that if he went to jail that was what he deserved.”

“Jail and that terrible shooting are two different fates,” Lilly said pitifully. “The one what the law dictates. The other so unnecessarily gruesome.”

“Is there,” Max said, “a more humane way to stop a killer who has a gun pointed at you and his finger tight on the trigger?”

Dallas looked at Violet. “Do you feel the same, Mrs. Sears?”

Violet looked down at her lap and said nothing, and the cats glanced at each other. Was she silenced by the proximity of her older sister, or by her inability to give an honest answer? If Joe read Violet Jones correctly, she would find happiness only if both Cage and Eddie were to disappear from the face of the earth.

“As soon as Cage is well enough to be released,” Max said, “he'll be in jail, here, with follow-up medical visits.
We asked you to come in today hoping you could help us understand why Cage and Eddie kidnapped Mrs. Harper and Ms. Getz, and why Cage shot Mandell Bennett.” Max's voice was softer again, quietly friendly.

“Cage is fortunate,” Max said, “that Mandell Bennett is recovering. He could be facing first-degree murder charges.” He studied Lilly. “He seems to think Ms. Getz stole something from your home. Do you have any idea what that might be?”

Lilly pressed her lips together. “I don't know what Cage ever left in that house worth stealing. I have seen nothing worth the trouble. Those masks he brought from South America, I can't imagine who would want those. Anyway, they're right in plain sight for any thief to take. I wish someone would take them.” She fixed cold eyes on Max. “If there was something in the house I don't know about, it's surely gone now, or Cage wouldn't be so upset. Someone took it,” she said accusingly.

Max remained patient, sternly reining himself in. Dulcie put out her paw, wanting to touch him, then hastily drew it back before it might be seen under the credenza. She had longed to comfort Max when he thought Charlie might have been murdered, he'd been so alone and hurting.

The women remained quiet as Max described the indictment and bail processes Cage would face. A flicker of sudden eagerness in Lilly's eyes, when Max said bail might be denied, made Joe and Dulcie look knowingly at each other. Joe thought, watching the two women, that they were both afraid of Cage's release.

Joe could understand Violet's fear. If Cage and Eddie were both out, no matter how unlikely that was, she might think she couldn't escape from Eddie, that Cage would force her to stay with him. But why would Lilly fear Cage's freedom?

When the dispatcher buzzed Max, and he picked up, he suddenly became very quiet, listening. Immediately, Dallas made small talk to distract the women, speaking softly, complaining about the excessive heat. He received only terse answers.

At his desk, Max was intently taking notes. Joe, peering up, could see the excitement deep in the chief's eyes. The tomcat was ready to leap into the bookcase behind Harper to cadge a look at his notes, when Dulcie nipped him on the shoulder, her green-eyed glare saying clearly,
Don't
,
Joe. Don't
think
about it!

She'd told him that he did that too often, leaped into the chief's bookcase to read over his shoulder, she'd told him more than once that Harper would begin to wonder, and that he should be more restrained. Now, both cats stiffened as Max said, “Thanks, Wilma. I sure will.”

Max hung up, trying to suppress a smile, and sat looking steadily at Lilly and Violet, studying them until Lilly began to fidget. “I think, for the moment, ladies, our conversation is concluded.” He waited, then, “Unless you have something to add.”

Neither woman spoke.

“I can only tell you there is a formidable prison sentence for withholding information or evidence. In this case, one would be facing both state and federal sentences.” Max watched them for a moment more, then he rose, pushing back his chair.

The sisters looked blankly at him, and stood up. Lilly Jones had gone parchment white. Violet looked even more frightened and uncertain than usual. “There is no need for a driver,” Lilly said stiffly. “We prefer to walk home.”

As the Jones sisters departed, Max shoved his notes across the desk to Dallas. “You want to get on the com
puter, see what you can find? This is a real long shot, but…Wilma thinks Greeley and Cage might have brought in contraband from Central America—it's all in my notes.” And Max moved quickly away to the dispatcher's desk, where he talked with Mabel for a moment, then headed out the front door.

From beneath the credenza, Joe looked up at Dallas, wanting to get a look at the notes. Dulcie whispered, so softly no human could hear, “I'm going home. Come on. We can find out quicker from Wilma!” And Dulcie slipped away, down the hall, the tip of her tabby tail flicking, and out the wide glass door, behind Violet.

Joe didn't follow. Sauntering out from under the credenza, he rubbed against Dallas's ankles.

Dallas stroked the tomcat absently as he read Harper's notes. Joe was crouched to leap to the back of his chair when the detective folded the notes, and slid them in his pocket. “Well, tomcat! Maybe we have some teeth in this case, after all.” Giving Joe an absentminded pet, he hurried down the hall to his own office and flicked on the computer. Joe paused, uncertain whether to follow Dallas and get a look at the notes and see what he brought up on the computer. Or whether to beat it over to Wilma's, where Dulcie would be getting the full story.

But then he thought about Violet and Lilly. Whatever Wilma had told Harper, he'd soon hear it from Dulcie—but whatever those two women talked about while walking home could be lost forever. And quickly he headed for the front door, racing out when a rookie came swinging in. Belting out onto the hot sidewalk, he raced to catch up with the Jones sisters, then padded along behind them, keeping out of sight among the long morning shadows, dodging behind planters and steps, feeling like Columbo without the trench coat.

The women were slow, they had no interest in striding out swiftly, as Wilma or Charlie would do; there was no joy in their steps. It would be hard to live with such a dour pair. Their voices were without inflection, too, featureless, and so low he had to push close on their heels to hear some of their mutters; Lilly was still coldly angry.

“What nerve,
Unless you have something to add!
What did he mean,
withholding evidence?”

Violet turned to look at her older sister. “Do you know what Cage had, Lilly? What was stolen?
Do
you know what they were talking about? There had to be something, Cage was so angry…”

Lilly stared at her and didn't answer; they were silent now as they moved on through the village and started up the long hill.

“And what was that Greeley person doing in our house?” Violet asked at last. “When I came in and saw him…Lilly, why did you let him stay there?”

“He was trying to trade on his friendship with Cage to get a free room. Cheap. And pushy. He kept banging at the door. I got tired of it, and let him in. Then I got tired of his whining, gave in to shut him up, just for the one night.” Climbing the hill, the women had slowed even more, but at last Joe could see the dark old house rising up ahead, smothered by its pine and eucalyptus trees.

“He could have murdered you,” Violet said.

“That little runt? I locked my bedroom door.”

“You could have called the police.”

Lilly looked at her and laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. “Cage would like that. He'd be wild if there were any more cops in the house. Twice was bad enough. Anyway, he's gone. Guess he's at the Seaview Bed and Breakfast. He made a call there, this morning. I wish he'd pack up and leave town, him with his ugly gold devil—”

“A gold devil? Cage has…What was it like?”

“Some kind of trinket from South America, had it in his pocket. Ugly as those masks. What
about
Cage?”

“I…He has a devil thing like that, a dangle on a key chain. Could there be two? Eddie says the one Cage has is real gold and worth a lot.”

Scowling, Lilly looked at Violet for a long moment, then turned and moved quickly up the steps, fishing her house key from her pocket. They disappeared inside, slamming the door nearly in Joe Grey's face.

Not that he wanted to enter that house and be shut in with those two. Turning away, he galloped down through the neighborhood's overgrown yards, and scrambled up a cypress tree to the hot rooftops, heading for Dulcie and Wilma's house—thinking about Greeley in South America, and about Greeley's little gold devil and that Cage had one like it. Wondering if those trinkets were solid gold, and what they might be worth, and if there were more, and who had them? He had reached Wilma's block and was about to come down the pine tree beside the stone cottage when Dulcie came flying out her cat door. She stared up at him, her green eyes bright, and clawed her way up the pine between its tangled branches.

“I was coming to find you. Wilma—”

“Come on,” he hissed, “tell me on the way…”

“But—”

“Greeley's in a motel,” he said. “A bed and breakfast. He has—” Seeing her impatient stare, he stopped. “What
did
Wilma tell Harper? Come on, tell me on the way!” And before she could answer, he took off across the roofs in the direction of the Seaview Bed and Breakfast, Dulcie close on his tail, bursting with her own news.

“B
e still one minute, can't you!” Racing across the
roofs, Dulcie careened against Joe and took his ear in her teeth, pulling him to a halt. “Just listen! Mavity told Wilma about some kind of gold devil Greeley carries, and Wilma got some library books and showed Mavity pictures. They found one the same as Greeley's, just a tiny figure, among all kinds of idols, some huge. All solid gold, and worth a fortune. Wilma went online and found that a lot of them were stolen, never recovered…some about the time Greeley and Cage were there—and every piece worth enough to keep us in caviar for a lifetime.”

The shingles were too hot to stand still. They moved on again, trotting. “Could they have pulled off a theft like that?” Dulcie said. “Is that what Cage claims went missing, and Greeley was looking for? They stole something worth a fortune, and then someone stole it from them?” She paused in the shadow of a chimney. “Or did Greeley…? Where is Greeley? Which bed and breakfast?”

“Seaview, on Casanova.” And Joe took off again running flat out, Dulcie close behind him. “There,” he hissed, flying along the edge of a steeply shingled slope, “that green roof with white dormers.” And with a wild leap, he dropped down into a shingled valley between the two rising dormers of a rambling old frame building.

Crouching on the scorching shingles between the steep roofs, they looked down into the inn's tiny patio. A cooler breeze rose up from freshly sprinkled bricks, where a gardener was watering. They were discussing how best to find Greeley's room when the old man himself appeared out on the sidewalk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as if he'd just come from breakfast. He had a large, greasy stain on his pants leg. As he headed for a room directly below them, they drew back against a chimney.

They heard his key turn in the lock, heard his door open. When they didn't hear it close, they peered over.

The door stood wide open, as if to catch the cooler air that lingered in the small patio. From within the room, they heard Greeley open a window, then apparently drop a handful of change on the dresser, maybe emptying his pockets, meaning to change pants—though a grease stain had never before seemed to bother that old man. They heard an inner door close, then water running in the bathroom basin.

“Now!” Dulcie said, flying backward down a trellis, knocking off clematis blooms; ducking into a mock orange bush beside Greeley's door, they looked into the dim room—and moved inside, searching for the best hiding place. They might have only a minute. And Greeley knew them. To that old man, they were not simple neighborhood cats, he knew very well what they were capable of, and that their sympathies lay not with cheap crooks like Greeley, but with the law.

The room was small, dim, dusty smelling, and overfurnished. Huge, dark mahogany dressers, big unmade bed. Wildly flowered, faded draperies left from another era, striped upholstered chair crowding one corner. On an upholstered bench stood Greeley's wrinkled leather duffel. They hopped up beside it, and Dulcie disappeared halfway inside, searching, as Joe leaped to the dresser behind her, among the tangle of small items from Greeley's pockets.

Greeley's billfold smelled of old leather and old man and was well stuffed with cash. Beside it, a fall of loose change, a little penknife, a wadded-up handkerchief that Joe didn't want to touch. A ring of five keys, including three safe-deposit keys, flat and smooth, without ridges. And a little flashlight and the tiny periscope that Greeley favored for cracking a safe. But no gold devil.

They heard the toilet flush. Dulcie leaped out of the duffle, the small gold devil dangling from her teeth, and took off fast, out the door, Joe beside her. They had barely made it to the shadows beneath a potted tree when Greeley came out of the bathroom. When he opened the closet door, they were gone, up the clematis trellis to the safety of the roof.

They heard items rattling on the dresser below, loose change clinking, as if Greeley was dropping those small possessions back in his pocket. They wondered if he had changed to clean pants? On the roof above the old man, Dulcie dropped the little gold figure on the dark shingles. It caught the morning sun in a flashing gleam: square, scowling face and large nose beneath an elaborate headdress, its body naked, its maleness boldly explicit. Its entire aspect, as Mavity had said, gave one the shivers.

Joe lifted it by the dark leather string from which it was suspended, widening his eyes when he felt its weight. “Heavy as a wharf rat,” he said, laying the huaca down again.

Dulcie's green eyes glowed; the same triumphant look as when she came tramping across a field dragging a large and succulent rabbit. “It's so heavy, Joe. If it's real, and solid gold…then as sure as I have paws, this is what Cage was after, a stash of artifacts like this.”

“But…I don't know.” Joe shook his head. “That's big-time, Dulcie. To steal from a museum, in a country that will shoot you if you sneeze wrong. Greeley isn't that sophisticated. Is Cage? Just how were those burglaries handled?”

“On the Web, one article Wilma pulled up said the unrecovered huacas from the museum had probably been sold to illegal collectors.” Her green eyes narrowed. “Think about it. If a person had an illegal collection of stolen goods, and then someone stole from him, would he report the theft?”

Joe smiled.

“And now,” she said, “with this information, what will Harper do?”

The tomcat shrugged. “Report it to customs or whatever federal agency deals with this stuff.” He laid his ears back uncertainly, but then he smiled. “Will the feds contact Interpol? Talk about heavy.”

But Dulcie looked uncertain.

“What?” he said, frowning.

“The feds can have Cage,” she said. “Let him burn. But his sister…If he did have a stash of gold, and it was in the house while Lilly was living there, won't they arrest her, too?”

“So?”

“So, if she didn't know, and they send her to prison, that would be too bad. She's just a lonely old woman.”

Joe just looked at her. Here was his beautiful tabby lady, with her delicate peach-tinted ears and her huge emerald eyes, the most perfect cat in the world, feeling sorry for some second-rate, bad-tempered, and probably lying human.

“Dulcie, if Lilly Jones knew there were millions in stolen gold hidden in her own house—if that's what this turns out to be—and she didn't call the police, if she knew why Cage kidnapped Wilma and she didn't tell Harper, if Lilly Jones just sat on her hands, then why would you feel sorry for her?”

“But what,” Dulcie said in a small voice, “if she didn't know?”

Watching his lovely lady agonizing over that stupid woman, Joe Grey picked up the leather cord in his teeth and trotted across the roofs, the gold devil dangling and thumping against his gray-and-white chest.

Where a cluster of chimneys and air vents rose close together, in a little cleft between two steep peaks, several layers of shingles met at odd angles. There, Joe pawed back the shingles, dropped the little gold devil on its leather cord safely beneath them, and watched the asphalt squares flop back over it.

Patting at the shingles, making sure nothing could be seen, he turned back to Dulcie. “How about Jolly's alley? I'm starved.” And the cats raced away toward Jolly's, heading for a midmorning snack—leaving that one small fragment of a vast and ancient culture where not even a seagull or roof rat was likely to find it.

 

For nearly a week, the cats thought about the little gold man hidden among the shingles. Several times a day Joe or Dulcie trotted across the roofs to that aerial hiding place, making sure the treasure was safe; and all week their minds were full of questions yet to be answered. But not until the following Friday, when their human friends gathered at Clyde's for dinner, did they learn more.

The occasion was Mandell Bennett's release from San
Francisco General and his arrival in the village to stay with Wilma for a short recuperation. Wilma wouldn't hear of his staying alone in his apartment with only a handful of coworkers coming in to tend to his needs, though they would have been more than adequate. “What if Jones breaks out again and comes after you? Better to have someone else in the house until you're better. This time, I promise, Mandell, I'm ready—and the department is only blocks away, they can be here in seconds.”

She had made up the guest room for Mandell, had all his favorite foods on hand, had arranged for a visiting nurse to come in to help him with bathing and changing bandages; and in anticipation of Mandell's arrival, she and Clyde had planned a party.