Kit looked at her questioningly, and when Charlie gave a tiny nod, Kit flicked her tail and surged down the stairs and fled through the café, dodging table legs and children’s feet, then padding diffidently between the seated children.
“She’s my little model,” Charlie said as the children reached to stroke her. “A friend of mine trained her, and she’s a very smart little cat.” The children shrieked with delight when Kit leaped onto the table beside Charlie, and they all rose and flocked around, reaching to pet Kit.
“Is the story real, then?” said a blond little boy.
“It’s a made-up story,” Charlie said. “Made up from what I imagined a homeless kitten’s life would be like. But it’s based on this little cat, she is indeed my model.” She smiled at the children. “I had to imagine how she would respond to the things that happened to her. No two cats are alike, you know, any more than are people.”
“But how did you know what happened to her, if it was all made up?” asked a solid-looking little boy.
“I did a lot of research into the habits of stray cats. Into things that do happen to them, and how they are able to survive. Often the strays live in colonies, for companionship and safety. Made up is sometimes best when you base your story on fact, on what really could be. I tried,” Charlie said, “not to put anything in that could not have happened, that would be impossible. You take all the facts of what could happen, and then you weave stories around them. Does that make sense?”
The children thought about this, and nodded that it made sense to them. They talked about imagination, and where it came from, and then Charlie began to sign their books. And Kit thought, as dozens of little hands stroked her, that she didn’t mind these little strangers petting her. Not like strange grown-ups on the street. And she thought, watching Charlie, She’s signing my story! She’s signing Tattercoat. And Kit nearly burst with joy.
But as the little nameless girl rose to pet Kit, Detective Davis rose, too, and stood directly behind her, carefully watching the room. The gallery and café were filling up now with adult guests, and Davis was growing edgy. And Kit realized that cops in plain clothes were mingling with the crowd, that there were maybe two dozen officers she knew, wandering around like ordinary villagers. She hadn’t seen them come in, she’d been so engrossed in Charlie and the children-and in her own starring role-that she’d missed this vital infiltration.
Beside her, Charlie, signing books, was watching the officers, too. Kit thought Davis must have told her that the killer might appear, because Charlie was as alert as Max’s people. She was ready to move, to get the children out of the way. Oh, my, Kit thought. What will happen? What will happen now? Oh, but Davis won’t take risks. She wouldn’t…These officers wouldn’t… Kit stood on the table beside Charlie, shivering so hard she barely felt the children’s hands smoothing her fur. Was this the only way? When she’d told Davis what she’d seen, did Davis think this was the only way to trap the killer?
Trying to watch the whole room at once, Kit was so shaken she didn’t realize that Joe Grey and Dulcie had slipped in and were watching, too. Not until she caught a movement from the far balcony, where Joe and Dulcie were now looking out between the rails-at her, at the cops, at the children gathered around Charlie’s book table, and at the little silent little girl.
B ELOW THE TWO cats, waiters were carrying trays of champagne among the crowd; and in the gallery, already five pieces had “sold” stickers fixed to their title cards. One was a drawing of Joe standing on a rock above the sea looking as big and powerful as a cougar, and Dulcie was sorry to see that one go, she had longed to have it for her own, to see it in their living room hanging just beside Wilma’s desk. But then Joe nudged her, and she realized something was happening. A tension radiated from Charlie and Kit, and from Juana Davis. All three looked wary, and ready to move. And when Kit looked up to the rail at them, she looked so alarmed that Dulcie and Joe tensed, ready to run-or attack. And there were so many officers in civilian clothes mingling with the crowd, every one of them on the alert. Dorothy Street and the teachers were rounding up the children to head for the school’s buses, hurrying them along. And Officer Sand and several more officers had moved closer around Davis’s silent little charge.
Then, as the Patty Rose children streamed out to the street, Cora Lee and Mavity came in with young Lori Reed; and behind them came Gabrielle and Donnie, Gabrielle overdressed as usual, in a green satin gown spangled with glitters and a tangle of mirror-bright necklaces draping her low décolletage, and a pale fur wrap around her shoulders. She held her left hand up to her throat, where her diamond engagement ring would not be missed. Donnie was more tastefully turned out in a dark sport coat and dark tie, pale blue shirt, and cream slacks.
The silent little girl, standing with Davis at Charlie’s table, looked up between the officers who surrounded her-and suddenly she spun around, trying to pull away from Davis. Davis held her tight, pressing the child against her. The child’s face had drained of all remaining color. Her little body was rigid.
“Poor little…” Dulcie began.
But Joe Grey was racing for the stairs.
Dulcie sped after him, dodging between high heels and polished oxfords, between pant legs and long silk skirts. Ahead there was such a crowd of officers they could see nothing but pant legs. Sneaking through behind the crowd, they crept beneath Charlie’s table.
The room had gone silent. Officers crowded around Donnie French, harshly pushing Gabrielle back. The little girl, backing against Davis, was staring at Donnie, trying hard to speak.
“Tell me,” Juana said softly, kneeling, holding the child close. “Who are you afraid of?” The child pushed harder against her. “Tell me,” Juana said. “It’s important. Did someone frighten you? Who are you afraid of? What did he do?”
The crowd was silent. Not a whisper, not a sound.
The child clutched Davis as if she could hide herself. “Please,” Davis said, turning her gently around to look into the crowd again. Most of those surrounding her were officers, only a handful of civilians. The child, pushing back against Davis as if she could vanish, looked up at the wall of faces, and swallowed. Then, softly, she whispered, “Him.” Her little voice was faint. “Him,” she whispered, pointing into the circle of officers-pointing at Donnie French. Donnie’s face changed from quizzical to cold, to an expression that was icy with fear. He spun around, seeking a way out. As Davis picked up the child, two officers jerked Donnie’s arms behind him. Moving swiftly, they cuffed him. Shielded by other officers, only a few guests could see what was happening. Across the bookstore, the guests who had turned away from the cash register were held back by Officers Brennan and McFarland.
Detective Davis, carrying the child, approached Donnie. The little girl fought to tear herself away, out of Juana’s arms.
“Tell me why you’re afraid,” Juana said clearly, “and then we’ll get away from him.”
“Gun,” the child whispered. Her dark eyes were filled with fear-but then suddenly with something more. Suddenly the little girl looked around at the officers who confined Donnie, at the encouraging looks on their faces, and she seemed to take heart. Eleanor Sand nodded at her. Jimmie McFarland gave her a thumbs-up and a wink, and the child seemed to come more alive. Now, as she faced Donnie French, her dark eyes blazed not with fear but with a rage far stronger than fear.