Cat Under Fire
Authors: Shirley Rousseau Murphy
Shirley Rousseau Murphy
For those who wonder about their cats.
And for the cats who don't need to wonder,
for the cats who know.
And, of course, for Joe Cat
.
The night was cool, and above the village hills theâ¦
The Molena Point jail stood across a narrow alley fromâ¦
A slash of morning sun careened across the kitchen tableâ¦
Clyde stood at the living room window watching the catsâ¦
Where Charlie's ancient van stood two feet from the curbâ¦
The cats careened uphill streaking through blowing grass, racing againstâ¦
The cats could hear from the apartment below a seriesâ¦
The cats narrowed their eyes, bombarded by sunlight. Sun blazedâ¦
Beverly stepped up onto Janet's deck, pulling her skirts aroundâ¦
“Suck in your stomach, try to look hungry.”
Defense attorney Deonne Baron today called three additional witnesses inâ¦
It was poker night at the Blankenships'. Frances served anâ¦
As Frances opened the back door, airing the kitchen ofâ¦
The cats fled down the black, burned hills, down intoâ¦
The back lawn of the decrepit old house was brownâ¦
Late-afternoon sun slanted into the Damen backyard, warming the chaiseâ¦
High above the alley, as Dulcie crouched to leap, theâ¦
Moonlight touched Jolly's alley; a little breeze fingered between theâ¦
Spotlights hit the desk, focusing on the open drawer aboveâ¦
The cars that were parked along the curb hulked blackâ¦
Her paws hardly touched the ground, skimming over the mattedâ¦
Under the hill, deep within the dark and slimy drainpipeâ¦
Kendrick Mahl's apartment occupied the third and highest floor ofâ¦
Shorebird Lockers was a complex of twelve concrete buildings, eachâ¦
Moreno's Bar and Grill was a small, secluded establishment tuckedâ¦
The county animal pound stunk of dog doo and catâ¦
Leaving her old van parked in front of the Aronsonâ¦
The night was cool, and above the village hills the stars hurled down their ancient light-borne messages. High up on the open slopes where the grass blew tall and rank, a small hunter crouched hidden, his ears and whiskers flat to his sleek head, his yellow eyes burning. Slowly he edged forward, intent on the mouse which had crept shivering from its deep and earthen burrow.
He was a big cat, and powerful, his short gray coat sleek as velvet over his lean muscles; but he was not a pretty cat. The white, triangular marking down his nose made his eyes seem too close together, as if he viewed the world with a permanent frown. To observers he seemed always to be scowling.
Yet there also shone in his golden eyes a spark of wit, and a sly smile curved his mouth, a hint that perhaps his interests might embrace more of the world than simply the palpitating mouse which awaited his toothy caressâa clue that this big gray torn saw the world differently, perhaps, than another cat might see it.
Crouching low, he did his best to keep his white paws and white chest hidden, keep his white parts from shining out through the dark grassy jungle. He would have preferred to have been born solid gray in colorâthat would make hunting far easierâbut one did not have a choice in these matters. And he did favor his neat white paws.
The mouse moved again, a quarter inch, watching warily for any presence within the blowing shadows.
Quivering, it stretched farther out from its shelter, its eyes gleaming black and quick as it strained to see any foreign movement. Its ears twitched, alert to any threatening sound upon the hushing wind, and constantly its body shivered with the habit of fear, every tiny muscle tensed for flight, ready to vanish again among the heavy roots.
The cat's eyes didn't leave his prey; they blazed with hunger and lust for the kill, bright as yellow coals. He drew back his lips over gleaming incisors as he tested the mouse's musty smell, his pink tongue just visible tasting that irresistible aroma. His shoulders rippled in anticipation, and he licked his nose as if he was already licking warm and succulent mouse flesh. The small rodent was damnably slow about leaving its cover. Joe remained still with great effort.
Below him down the grassy slopes the village of Molena Point slept snugly at this predawn hour, the cottages protected from the sea wind by the giant oaks among which they had been built, and by the surrounding hills into which the homes and shops were tucked like a tangle of kits snuggled against their mother. In the center of the village the courthouse tower rose tall against the dark sky, as pale and lonely as a tombstone. The Mediterranean building housed two courtrooms, various city offices, and, at the far end, the Molena Point Police Department. The ongoing murder trial which would resume this morning in the courtroom was, despite the tomcat's irritation about the matter, of great concern to him.
For weeks the quiet village had talked of nothing else but Janet Jeannot's murder and of the fire in which she had died. There was heavy speculation about the young man who had been indicted for her death. Prurient excitement about these events had transformed Molena Point's usual calm ambience into an emotional bedlam. Gossip and conjecture seethed through the village shops and cafés so that Joe, prowling the village streets catching
snatches of conversation, was aware of little else. Though his own interest did not stem so much from village gossip as it did from a far more personal concern.
The mouse moved again, creeping farther from cover, half an inch, then an inch, bravely and foolishly leaving its grassy blind, drawing so close to Joe that Joe had to clamp his jaws to keep from chattering the age-old feline death murmur. He oozed lower, slipping silently toward it through the grass, disturbing no blade, every fiber of his being honed in on that sweet morsel.
The mouse froze.
Joe froze, his heart pounding with annoyance at his own clumsiness.
But no, it hadn't seen him. It had paused only to gather itself for a dash across the bare earth. It stared across, fixated, toward another stand of heavy grass, where a tiny path led away, a quarter-inch lane vanishing between the green stalks. Joe's muscles tightened, his lips drew back, his yellow eyes gleamed.
The mouse sped, streaking for its path, and Joe exploded across the little clearing. With one swipe of scimitar claws he raked the creature up into his waiting teeth, it fought and struggled as his fangs pierced the wriggling morsel.
The mouse knew a moment of apocalypse as it hung skewered and shrieking in the cage of teeth clamped through its body. Joe bit deeper into the warm, soft flesh, the sweet flesh. The mouse screamed and thrashed, and was still.
He crouched over it tearing away warm flesh, sucking up sweet, hot blood, crunching the mineral-rich bones, then the surprising little package of stomach contents. The stomach usually contained grass seed or vegetable matter, but this morning he was rewarded by a nice little hors d'oeuvre of cheese from the tiny mouse stomach.
Camembert
, he thought, as if the mouse had lunched on someone's picnic. Or maybe it had gotten into the kitchen of one of the houses that dotted the hills. He
could taste a bit of anchovy, too, and there was a trace of caviar. Joe smiled. Its belly was full of party food.
How fitting. The mouse had taken its final repast from the silver trays of a party table. Molena Point's cocktail crowd had supplied, for the little beast, an elegant last meal, a veritable wealth of pre-execution delicacies. Joe grinned, imagining the small rodent up in mouse heaven, gorging for eternity on its memories of anchovies, beluga, and Camembert.
He tried to eat slowly and enjoy every morsel, the rich taste of the tiny liver, the so recently pulsing heart, but the mouse was gone before he could slow himself.
When nothing was left but the tail, he licked a whisker and settled down to wash. He never ate the tail. His purr was deep and contented. This was living; this was what life was about. Forget the complications of that other life that had, some months ago, so rudely infringed upon his normal feline pleasures. It was quite enough at this moment to be no more than an ordinary cat. Insolently he cleaned his paws and whiskers, then gazed up at the star-strewn sky. Titillated by the vast night and by the spinning universe, warmed by the rich, nourishing mouse gracing the inside of his belly, he savored the perfect moment. To be alive and healthy, to roam the wild hills freely and take from the earth what he wanted, this was life's answer to cat heaven.
The dawn wind rose stronger, tweaking his fur, teasing and exciting him. And from above him in the vast sky came the far, high
chshee chshee
of a nighthawk wheeling against the stars, diving and circling as it sucked up insects invisible even to the tomcat's keen eyes. Joe stretched and yawned.
Only one thing could improve the night, only one presence could add to his pleasure.
Licking his whiskers, he rose on his hind legs to look down the hill. Perusing the lower slopes, studying the faintly lit gardens beneath the softly glowing streetlamps, he watched for any quick flash of a small, swift creature
leaping up through the shadows, watched for one small cat racing up the dark hills beneath the sprawling oaks.
But the shadows lay unmoving. He looked and looked, and disappointment filled him. She wasn't coming. Maybe she'd overslept. She'd had some strange dreams lately, dreams that wakened her and made her prowl restlessly, destroying sleep.
He was about to turn away when he saw, far down between two cottage gardens, a large patch of darkness moving, and he stiffened, watching.
That was not his hunting companion; that shadow was too big. Now it was still again. Maybe it had been only dark bushes shaken by the wind. When he saw no sign of Dulcie he hunched down, feeling lost and lonely. She almost always joined him on such a perfect hunting night, with the wind not too fierce. And the sky, as she would say, as beautiful as black silk strewn with spilled diamonds. He reared again, searching disconsolately, studying the narrow village streets that wound and lost themselves and appeared again, climbing higher up the grassy hills. She could have spared a few moments to join him, even preoccupied as she was.
Though he did wish, if she came to hunt in the predawn dark, that she'd keep her mouth shut about the trial.
I'm sick of hearing about the damned trial
. These last weeks Dulcie had been interested in nothing else, she seemed able to think only of the fire in Janet Jeannot's studio and of Janet's terrible deathâand of Rob Lake, who was being tried for the murder. Dulcie was so sure that Lake was innocent, and so damnably intent on proving she was right.
The day Janet died, they had come up the hills as soon as the fire was out, drawn by the activity of gathering police cars, by what appeared to be a full-blown investigation. Concealing themselves above the burn, where the ground wouldn't scorch their paws, watching the police working within the cordoned-off expanse of smoking, blackened rubble, Dulcie had been both
repelled and fascinated. They had watched unmarked cars arrive, watched the forensics people examine Janet's body. But when forensics lifted Janet gently into a body bag, Dulcie had turned away shivering.
And then, when Rob Lake was arrested for Janet's murder, she had gone to watch him in his cell, seething with curiosity.
Observing Lake in his solitary confinement, slowly making friends with him as she crouched at the barred window above his cubicle, listening to him talk out his fears to herâbaring his soul to a catâshe had become convinced of Lake's innocence. Soon she had completely bought Lake's story.
Lake has to be a strange dude
, Joe thought.
What kind of guy spills his deepest thoughts to a cat
â
not even his own cat
? Sure Dulcie was charming, probably she'd given Lake that bright-eyed gaze that enchanted tourists and inspired shopkeepers to invite her right on in among their precious wares.
So she charmed him. So big deal
. But to let the accused charm her, to buy the idea that Lake was innocent was, in his opinion, stupid and dangerous. The grand jury wouldn't have indicted Lake if there hadn't been sufficient evidence. Anyway, this trial was not cat business; it was police business.
But Dulcie didn't see it that way.
And you can't tell her anything; she's going to go right on prying like some hotshot detective until she gets herself in trouble
.
He hissed at the empty night and scratched a flea. She was only a cat, one small cat, but she thought she knew more than a court full of attorneys. Thought she was smarter than twelve court-selected jurors and a state judge. One small, defiant tabby whose arrogance was enough to make any sensible cat laugh.
He did not consider, in his assessment, that they had, together, already investigated one murder this summer and had helped police nail the killer. That case had been different.
Down the hills, wind scudded the grass in long waves,
rolling as the sea. Above him, riding the wind, the nighthawk dived suddenly, skimming straight at him swift as a crashing aircraft. He didn't duck from the bird, though another breed of hawk would have sent him scooting for cover. At the last instant it banked away, sucking up insectsâthe poor bird could eat nothing but bugs. Joe smiled. God had, in his wisdom, designed some mighty strange creatures.
As he turned, looking down the hill again, he started, then smiled.
There she is
. She came streaking up across a patch of lawn, a swift shadow so lithe and free she made his heart leap. He avidly watched her every move as she fled up across a narrow street and disappeared into the tall grass above, watched the grass ripple upward, stirred by her invisible flight.
She burst out of the grass high up the hill, racing up across a last flower bed, then an empty street, and into a tangle of weeds, steeply up, a dark bullet of speed. Halfway up the hill she stopped. Reared up. Stood looking up the hill searching for him. His heart trembled.
She saw him. She stood a minute on her hind legs, her front paws curved softly against her belly, then she sped up again, racing and leaping. When again she vanished, the grass tops heaved and swayed, as if shaken by a whirlwind.
She exploded out of the grass inches from his nose. She leaned into him warm and purring, tense from running, her heart pounding against him, her green eyes caressing him. She was all fire, switching her tail, licking his face. For weeks she'd been like this, a bundle of passion, her tempest generated not by love, though he knew she loved him, but by her fevered involvement with the murder, by the compulsion of purpose that blazed in her green eyes, and in her unexpected bouts of quick temper.
He liked her all keyed up, bright and vibrant, but she worried him. She visited the jail too regularly, listened too intently to Rob Lake, had become totally obsessed. Life had just begun to settle down after he and Dulcie solved Samuel Beckwhite's murder, and now Janet's
death had thrown her into high gear all over again. The passion of her involvements tumbled and shook him like a dog shaking a rabbit. He was beginning to wonder if life with Dulcie would ever be anything but chaotic. He did not considerâdid not choose to rememberâhis own intensity, once his own curiosity was aroused.
And Dulcie was possessed not only with the murder itself, but with trying to discover, as well, what made humans kill so wantonly.
Premeditated murder was quite beyond the normal feline experience. A coldly planned killing was totally different from the way a cat killed. Such destruction had nothing to do with hunger or survival or with practice training, or even with instinct. From a cat's view, Janet's death had been pointless. Insane. And Dulcie kept trying to understand, in one huge gulp, such human folly. Searching for answers scholars have been seeking for centuries.
Who could tell her that this was a task, for one small cat, as impossible as a gnat swallowing the sun?
But he couldn't stay angry with her, she was his love, his gamin, green-eyed charmer. Now, as she snuggled close, her gaze melting him, he licked the soft peach-tinted fur on her darkly striped face, licked her ears. She lifted a pale silken paw and smiled at him, then flopped down to roll in the grass, flirting.
