Cat On The Edge Read online

  Cat On The Edge

  Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  "It's me, your cat. I had to split. I witnessed a crime and someone is following me. Trust me. When I get this sorted out, I'll be home. I am still your cat, and I guess I miss you…" Joe Grey jumped down to the floor without hanging up the phone. He was trapped in an unfolding nightmare. First he found he could understand human speech (who would have guessed they had so little to say?). Then he found he could talk (useful for scaring dogs) and even read. He got worried when he found himself feeling human emotions like guilt and sympathy. He even caught himself planning his day! All that, Joe Grey could have handled. If only he hadn't found himself in the alley behind Jolly's Deli the night Beckwhite was murdered…

  Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Cat On The Edge

  The first book in the Joe Grey series, 1996

  For those who wonder about their cats. And for the cats who don't need to wonder, for the cats who know.

  1

  The murder of Samuel Beckwhite in the alley behind Jolly's Delicatessen was observed by no human witness. Only the gray tomcat saw Beckwhite fall, the big man's heavy body crumpling, his round, close-trimmed head crushed from the blow of a shiny steel wrench. At the bright swing of the weapon and the thud of breaking bone, the cat stiffened with alarm and backed deeper into the shadows, a sleek silver ripple in the dark.

  The attack on Beckwhite came without warning. The two men entered the brick-paved alley, walking side by side beneath the dim light of a decorative lamp affixed to the brick wall beside the window of a small shop. The men were talking softly, in a friendly manner. The cat looked up at them carelessly from beside the concealed garbage can, where he was feasting on smoked salmon. The men exchanged no harsh word; Joe caught no scent of anger or distress before the smaller man struck Beckwhite.

  Though the evening sky was already dark, the shops along the alley were still open, their doors softly lit by the two wrought-iron wall sconces, one at either end of the short lane. The stained glass door of the tiny tearoom reflected the lamplight in round, gleaming patterns of blue and red. The narrow, leaded glass doors leading to the antique shop and the art gallery glinted with interior lights warped into circular designs against the darkness. The closed door to the bistro presented a solid blue face, but there were lights within behind its small, leaded windows, and the easy beat of a forties love song could be heard. The golf shop lights reflected out around the edges of its half-closed shutters, and the shopkeeper could be glimpsed deep within, toting up figures, preparing to close up and go home. The soft thud of the wrench could not have reached him; he did not look up. There was no sound from the alley to alert anyone to the murder which had just occurred within that peaceful lane.

  Between each pair of shop doors stood a large ceramic pot planted with a flowering oleander tree. The pink-and-white blossoms shone waxen in the dim light. All Molena Point's alleys were small, inviting oases designed to welcome both villagers and tourists. At the near end of the lane, where the tomcat was eating, one ordinary, unremarkable wooden door shut away the kitchen of the delicatessen. The busy front door was around the corner. The trellis, and the sweet-scented jasmine vine which climbed it, concealed behind its lower foliage the delicatessen's two garbage cans, and now concealed, as well, the astonished cat.

  Here in the alley, Jolly's employees received deliveries and brought out their discreetly wrapped trash to discard, carefully saving back the nicest delicacies, which they put down on soggy paper plates for the village cats.

  The cats of Molena Point were not strays-most were blessed with comfortable homes-but every cat in the village knew Jolly's and partook greedily of its rich offerings of leftover broiled chicken, pastrami, a spoonful of salmon salad from an abandoned plate, a sliver of brie or Camembert, or the scraps from a roast beef sandwich from which mustard must be scraped away with a fastidious paw. Joe ate well at home, sharing his master's supper, but Jolly's menu ran more to his tastes and less to fried onions, fried potatoes, and hamburger, and he had only to chase off an occasional contender. He had, at this time in his life, no aversion to eating after humans. And he liked George Jolly; the soft, round old man in his white clothes and white apron would come out sometimes and watch the cats eating, and smile and talk to them. If George Jolly had been in the alley at that moment, the murder very likely would not have occurred. The two men would have walked on through. Though the killer might simply have waited for his next opportunity; it was not a crime of sudden passion.

  There was nothing Joe could have done to prevent Beckwhite's murder even if he had so desired, the action coming down too fast. As the men talked softly, strolling along, the shorter man, with no change of tone or expression, no shifting of pace, suddenly produced the chrome wrench in a whirl of motion describing a bright arc. His swinging weapon hit Beckwhite so hard that Joe heard Beckwhite's skull crack. Beckwhite collapsed to the brick paving, limp as an empty rat skin.

  At the far end of the alley, behind the last oleander tree, a shadow moved, then was still, or was gone, impossible to know; but neither the killer nor the crouching tomcat saw it-their attention was on the deed at hand.

  No question that the victim was dead or swiftly dying. Joe could sense his death, could smell it. The sharp grip of death shivered through him like a sudden winter chill.

  Joe knew who the dead man was. Samuel Beckwhite owned the local auto agency, and he was Joe's master's business associate, the two shared a large, handsome establishment at the upper end of the village. Joe had at first supposed the other man was a customer for one of Beckwhite's mint condition BMWs or Mercedeses, or maybe he worked for Beckwhite and the two were taking a shortcut back to the car agency. He found the smaller man offensive, his walk unnaturally silent, his voice and accent too soft, too artful.

  But then, there weren't that many humans Joe liked, nothing to cause alarm; until he saw the bright wrench swing up. Swiftly the deed was done. Beckwhite fell and lay still. The damp breath of the sea and of eucalyptus trees scented the alley, mixed with the perfume of the jasmine vines. Above the love song's soft, nostalgic melody an occasional hush of tires could be heard on some nearby street; and Joe could hear the sea crashing six blocks away, against the rocky cliffs. The evening had turned chill.

  Behind Joe, beyond the alley, the small seaside village was quiet and unheeding. It was a charming, unpretentious town, its shops sheltered by broad old oak trees. The shops mingled easily among a few bed-and-breakfast establishments and private cottages and between the newer, larger structures of the library, and of the courthouse and police station. Many of the stores and galleries, in fact, occupied remodeled cottages dating from a time when Molena Point was a mere speck on the map, a tiny seaside retreat. Now its residential area climbed the hills crowding ever higher up into California's dry, rugged coastal range.

  And the lights scattered across the hills picked out the half-hidden rooftops of new homes among the masses of pines and oaks. The larger homes were downplayed, well hidden among the trees. The population of Molena Point was divided between artists and writers, tourists, and a handful of famous names, many of whom were connected with the film industry centered 350 miles south; though Molena Point itself had little in common with Hollywood. It was a slow, easy environ, where doors were often left unlocked, and violent crime was uncommon.

  At the moment of the murder, the tomcat was aware of no traffic on the two adjoining streets, and no foot traffic on the sidewalks which passed the alley. Across the herringbone-patterned brick the body was not touched by lamplight, but lay in a deep patch of darkness, shadowed by an oleander tree and by a jutting wall. During the murder and directly afterward no one entered any shop door and no one left.
Only Joe saw the killer: he was a thin, stooped man, maybe five-ten, though it was hard to tell a human's height from Joe's low vantage point. He was round-shouldered, and dressed in a plain, dark sweatshirt, dark jeans, and dark running shoes. He stood looking down at his victim, then suddenly looked up, straight at Joe.

  He looked puzzled.

  Staring at the cat, his expression shifted to startled recognition, then to cold fear.

  And suddenly rage sliced across his face and he lunged at Joe, swinging his weapon.

  Joe spun around, but the trellis blocked his escape. Hissing, he backed along the wall of the building until his rear pressed against the door to the delicatessen. But now he was blocked by a large, potted tree. When the killer swung the metal bar he dodged again, feinting and ducking, praying the door behind him would open, praying to escape inside the deli among friendly, white-trousered legs.

  The door remained closed. And the man stood straddle-legged before him weaving and dodging, blocking his escape. Joe's fear turned him cold and weak. The man lunged to grab him, and Joe struck out fiercely, but his claws missed the thin, pale face. The killer lunged again and snatched at him, and his hands were on him. Joe clawed and fought, felt flesh tear, and he twisted away and dived between the garbage cans and the wall.

  The man closed in, swinging the wrench. Joe leaped over the cans and over his flashing arm and fled from the alley to the street, streaking across the sidewalk and into the street directly in front of a cruising police car. Brakes squealed. He twisted and leaped away to safety beneath a parked car.

  He crouched in blackness beside a tire that reeked of dog pee, and stared out at the street, where the police had pulled to a stop.

  The officers shone a flashlight beam into the alley, its moving glow flashing eerily across potted trees and jutting doorways; but the light did not reach deep enough to pick out the murdered man. Beckwhite's dark-suited body lay indistinguishable from the shadows, his white shirt seeming no more than a twist of discarded newspaper.

  Beyond Beckwhite, against a dark wall, the killer stood frozen, his face averted and hidden by his lank hair, his own dark clothing blending with the brick.

  The police, expecting no trouble in the quiet village, doused their flashlights and moved on, perhaps laughing at the cat that had run through their headlights, nearly getting himself creamed.

  The instant they had gone the killer was after him. The man knelt to look under the car, then circled it as if to drive him out. In a minute he'd kneel again, and reach under.

  Joe thought about it for only a second. He could stay here, dodging back and forth under the car as the thin man circled him; or he could run.

  He fled. If this man would kill a human, he wouldn't hesitate to knock off a cat.

  The question was, why? He was only a cat. What did the man think? That he would run to the police with what he had seen? But, racing away through the dark streets, fleeing for his life, he didn't wonder long; he concentrated on the problem at hand. In this block there was nowhere to hide-the shops were joined tight together. There was no escape between. The man's footsteps thundered behind him: he was fast, dodging and swerving as Joe swerved.

  Panicked, Joe slid around the corner and dived under a wooden porch, the first shelter he could think of, and through a hole in the foundation.

  He knew the house well; he had a sometime lady love here. The old house had found new life as an antique shop. The dark earth underneath, in the low crawl space, was cold beneath his paws and smelled sour, heavy with mildew and cat pee.

  As he raced away from the hole, cobwebs hanging from the sagging floor timbers clung to his ears and whiskers. He felt them pull away, sticky and clinging. He sped through, dodging the furnace and the gas and water pipes and hanging electrical wires, toward an opening at the back.

  Before he burst out into the backyard he turned to look behind him.

  The small rectangular hole he had come through was blocked. No light shone in from the street, only the dark bulk of the killer reaching in, his arm and shoulder filling the little space. Joe could hear scraping as if he was trying to climb through.

  So come on, buster. Crawl on in here. Get yourself trapped under these timbers and pipes, so I can rake you good.

  But on second thought, he fled. Why push it? Get the hell away from the guy.

  Only faintly ashamed at his cowardice he streaked away, out through the hole at the back into the antique shop's backyard. He heard the man running, coming around through the side yard.

  The small, scruffy backyard was empty. Bolting for the sidewalk, he careened along the side street, his ears twitching back, listening behind him. When he heard the man running, he swarmed up a rose trellis that climbed the wall of Julia's French Pancakes, onto the sloped shingled roof.

  He could hear, below, the killer coming along the sidewalk. He crouched at the edge, looking down, trying to keep his weight off the rusty roof gutter.

  The dark figure was searching for him under a line of azalea bushes growing in the parking strip between the sidewalk and the street. Joe backed away from the edge and trotted away over the rooftops.

  Over Julia's, then across the top of the bookstore, then the Nugent Gallery and across the roof of an import place that always smelled of straw and spices-though its roof smelled only of tar. At the end of the row, at another side street, he dropped onto the thick limb of an oak so old and huge that the sidewalk had been built to curve around it, dangerously narrowing the street at that point. The tree covered the entire street to the other side, and was a favorite aerial crossing for the village cats. He'd had some pleasant rendezvous there.

  He crossed the street within the branches and leaped up to the next line of roofs. Trotting to the end, listening, he heard only silence now. No running footsteps, only the hush of a lone car passing.

  When he was certain the killer had gone he came down warily from the roof of Molena Point Cleaners, clinging among a bougainvillea vine. Dropping to the ground, he galloped two blocks east, then turned back south in the direction of home. Zigzagging through a dozen backyards and across two streets, he could hear nothing following now.

  But fear still clutched at his belly, fear not of the immediate pursuit-he'd lost the guy-but fear of an even more frightening nature. Fear of something far more terrifying than being chased through the night-dark streets by a man swinging a wrench; though in fact, his last glimpse of the killer had shown him no weapon; probably the guy had dropped it in his pocket, against the moment it would be needed to smash one small tomcat.

  Just before he reached Ocean Avenue, which divided the village with its wide, tree-shaded median, he swarmed up into the high, concealing branches of a eucalyptus that hung over the ice-cream shop. If the killer was following, walking softly, Joe didn't want to lead him right to his own house.

  He crouched among the foliage trying to understand what was happening. Why had the killer chased him? He was only a cat. Why would the man think a cat could tell anyone who had killed Beckwhite?

  Though the fact was, Joe could easily finger the killer. He could, in fact, in any number of creative ways, give the police a detailed description of the man.

  But the killer could not know this. No way could he know. How could the thin, hunched man know that he, Joe Grey, could bear witness to the murder?

  He sat shivering on the branches, so upset he didn't even wash.

  And he was not only scared and puzzled, but his mind was filled with other strange thoughts, as well. With decidedly disturbing and uncatlike responses to the immediate events.

  For one thing, besides fear for his own gray hide, of which he was very fond, he was feeling remorse for the dead man. And that was unfeline and stupid.

  Why should he care that Beckwhite was dead? He hadn't even known the man. It was hypocrisy of the highest degree to pretend that he felt sorry for Samuel Beckwhite.

  But yet he did feel sorry, a dark little cloud of mourning hovered over him, sentimental and
totally without basis. He felt sick at the brutality of the premeditated killing.

  The murder he had witnessed had been twisted and sick. It had nothing in common with the way a cat killed.

  Cats killed for food or to keep their skills honed. Mother cats killed to teach their young to hunt. Cats did not kill with the cold deliberation he had just witnessed. That thin, tunnel-eyed man had killed as casually as if he were culminating a financial transaction-paying his lunch bill or buying a newspaper. And it was Joe's very analysis of the event that alarmed him.

  He backed down from the tree and headed home thinking heavy thoughts; crossing the grassy median then padding along the dark sidewalk warily watching the shadows, his whole being was tainted with a philosophical distress belonging, rightfully, only to humans.

  Perusal of the human mind was not a feline concern. Cats didn't think about human perversion. Cats felt human depravity. They knew that human lust and dark human hatred existed, and they accepted those aberrations. Cats did not analyze those warped human conditions. Cats left the philosophizing to men.

  Yet all the time he had been fleeing from the killer, a part of him had been trying to analyze the man. Trying to guess at the man's motives. Trying to figure out his intentions not only at chasing him, but his purpose in killing Beckwhite. Trying to unravel the mystery that had transformed that thin human face into a killer's mask.

  What did he care what drove the man to kill? He wasn't connected to this man's problem, and he didn't want to be. And inside him, alarms were going off. These thoughts were new and terrifying. A gut level signal was warning him that he was in the throes of mental and emotional change. A new facet of himself had awakened, new concerns were surfacing.

  The transformation had been coming on him for some weeks, but it had not been stirred violently alive, not until tonight. Now, some foreign presence within him had come alert. And it was clawing to get out, to break free.