Mae Rose looked at Harper. "Strange that Renet would hit on the idea of calling herself The Cat Burglar. I had a friend once who used to joke that if she ever became a professional burglar, that was what she would do. Pretend to be looking for her lost cat."
She stroked Dulcie, watching Harper. "You said Renet worked in wardrobe, in Hollywood? So did Wenona. I wonder…" The little lady frowned. "It would seem strange, wouldn't it, if they knew each other? But Wenona lived in Molena Point when she was younger. She was forty when she moved to L.A.
Renet would have been about twenty then, doing those early films."
The little woman cocked her head, thinking. "Wenona used to go down to the wharf to feed the stray cats. She liked to feed them, but she was afraid of them, too."
Harper tried to keep a bland face, but Mae Rose's words hit home. When they locked Renet up, she kept shouting, It was the cats. It was those damn cats that put me here. No one had asked what she meant, she was in a violent temper. He hadn't asked, and he hadn't wanted to know.
Harper shivered. He didn't look up, but he felt, from the tree above, the yellow stare of the tomcat. And on the pink afghan, Wilma's cat didn't wiggle an ear, didn't open an eye, yet he could sense her interest as sharply as if she watched him.
And later, as Harper drove Clyde back to the village, he couldn't help glancing down at the gray tomcat. The animal lay stretched insolently between them, across the front seat of his squad car. Clyde said taking a cat in the car was no different than taking a dog, and Clyde was so argumentative on the subject, you couldn't reason with him.
Everyone knew that dogs were fine in cars, dogs stuck their heads out in the wind, hung their tongues out and enjoyed. But cats-a cat was under the gas pedal one minute, then trying to jump out any open window. Cats weren't meant to ride in cars; cats were more attuned to creeping around in the shadows.
Besides, he wasn't keen about cat hairs in his squad car.
Though certainly Clyde's cat was obedient enough, it didn't make a hiss, didn't leap around clawing the upholstery, didn't go crazy trying to get out the window. It napped on the seat, purring contentedly. It looked up at him only once, a blank, sleep-drugged gaze, dull, ordinary, unremarkable, making him wonder what he thought was so strange about the animal.
If he thought this dull-looking cat had anything to do with events at Casa Capri or at the Prior estate, maybe he needed a few days off, a vacation.
Pulling up before Clyde's white Cape Cod, he watched Clyde swing out of the car carrying the cat and set it down on the lawn. The cat yawned, glanced up blearily, and wandered away toward the house. Just a dull-looking, ordinary tomcat.
The tomcat, the minute Harper let him and Clyde out of the squad car in front of their cottage, headed for his cat door. Walking slowly, trying to appear stupid, he was nearly choking with amusement.
Pushing in through his cat door, leaving Clyde leaning on the door of the squad car talking, he moved quickly to the kitchen, where he might not be heard, leaped up onto the breakfast table, and rolled over, laughing, pawing the air, bellowing with laughter, working himself into such a fit that Clyde, coming in, had to whack him on the shoulder to make him stop. It took three hard whacks before he collapsed, gasping, and lay limp and spent.
"It's a wonder he didn't hear you; you were bellowing like a bull moose. You really have a nerve, to laugh at Harper."
Joe looked at him slyly. "Harper gets so edgy. Every time we wrap up a case, hand him the evidence, he gets nervous, starts to fidget."
"Just where would the case be, Joe, without Harper? You think Adelina and Renet would be in jail? You think you and Dulcie would have made a citizen's arrest? Hauled Adelina and Renet and Teddy into jail yourselves?"
"I wasn't laughing at Harper. I was laughing because of Harper."
Clyde looked hard at him. "You're not making sense."
"Harper's a great guy, but he's letting us get to him.
How can I help but laugh? He's developing a giant-sized psychosis about cats."
Silence. Clyde snatched the dish towel from its rod, folded it more evenly, and hung it up again.
"You can laugh at Harper," Joe said. "So why can't I? There he is, a seasoned cop with twenty years on the force, and he's letting a couple of kitty cats give him the fidgets."
Clyde sat down at the table, looking at him.
"In the squad car-he could hardly keep from staring at me. He knows we were up to something, and he can't figure it out. So we helped nail Adelina, so does he have to get spooked about it? We scare him silly. Can I help if he breaks me up?"
Clyde put his face in his hands and didn't speak.
But it was not until later, when Joe had trotted up through the village to meet Dulcie in the alley behind Jolly's Deli, that he realized the full import of what he and Dulcie had done and how their maneuvers would affect Harper. Why wouldn't Harper be upset? The man was only human.
"Three murderers are behind bars," Dulcie said. "A rash of burglaries has been stopped. And, best of all, now that those old people are free of Adelina, they're not afraid anymore. They're safe now, and looking forward to enjoying life a little, in their remaining years."
She looked at him deeply, her green eyes glowing. "And we did it. You and me and Dillon and Mae Rose."
"And Max Harper," he said charitably.
"Well of course, Max Harper." And she began to grin.
"What?" he said. "What are you thinking?"
"Renet in her underpants and bra, with that wrinkled old witch face." She rolled over, mewling with laughter, and soon they were both laughing, crazy as if they'd been on catnip. Only a sound from the deli silenced them, as George Jolly came out his back door bearing a paper plate.
They could smell freshly boiled shrimp, and the aroma drove out all other thoughts. They looked at each other, licked their whiskers, and trotted on over, smiling. As they began to eat, old Mr. Jolly stood looking up and down the alley, wondering how those laughing tourists had disappeared so quickly. Only the two cats knew that there had been no tourists, and even for old George Jolly, they weren't telling.
SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.
www.joegrey.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
