Cat Deck the Halls Read online

  Cat Deck the Halls

  Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  The cats who saved Christmas…

  The charming seaside village of Molena Point, California, leads one to expect a quiet traditional Christmas surrounded by family and friends-but not this holiday season. Instead of singing carols and climbing into Christmas trees, Joe Grey, feline P.I., is faced with his most difficult case yet-and that's saying a lot for a wily tomcat who for years has been solving crimes the police can't even crack.

  At midnight in the deserted gardens of the shopping plaza, a stranger lies dead beneath the village Christmas tree; the only witness to the shooting is a little child. But when the police arrive, summoned by an anonymous phone call of feline origin, both the body and the child have disappeared. As police scramble for leads, the grey tomcat, his tabby lady, and their tortoiseshell pal, Kit, launch their own unique investigation.

  Together Joe Grey, Dulcie, and Kit face their most heartbreaking case yet as they care for the child who may be the killer's next target. Trying to sort out perplexing clues amidst the happiness of the season, they shadow a cast of colorful characters. But neither the police nor their unknown feline assistants are aware that they might have stumbled over the murderer and never known it, until an electrifying final scene when the killer's identity is revealed.

  For years Shirley Rousseau Murphy has written tales that have delighted readers and critics alike. With her lyrical prose and fast-paced plotting, Murphy has created another delightfully absorbing trip to a magical place populated by unforgettable characters whom readers have come to think of as friends.

  Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Cat Deck the Halls

  Book 13 in the Joe Grey series, 2007

  For Patrick

  I think, you know, it is the innocence. A violent dog-eat-dog world, a murderous world, but one in which the very young are truly innocent. I am always amazed at this aspect of creation, the small Eden that does not last, but recurs with the young of every generation… We lose our innocence inevitably, but isn’t there some kind of message in this innocence, some hint of a world beyond this fallen one, some place where everything was otherwise?

  – Loren Eiseley, All the Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life

  1

  H E REACHED THE village half an hour before midnight, cutting over from San Jose to Highway One, on the coast, the child tucked up warm in the seat behind him. She slept soundly, her faded doll clutched close to her, one of its angel wings tucked beneath the seat belt. He had made a wide nest for her, had filled the floor well with the cheap pillows he’d bought in the first drugstore he came to, and with their two duffel bags. With the blanket laid over, the backseat of the rental car was just like a regular bed. She had a new drawing pad and crayons and a picture book back there, but she hadn’t touched them much. Any other six-year-old would be raging for action, bored out of her mind, wanting to run and work off steam-as she once had, he thought sadly, seeing a sharp picture of her when she was smaller, laughing on the park swings and chasing a ball in their walled garden.

  Above the highway, the night sky was black, he could see no stars, no moon. The only illumination came from flashing car lights racing north on the freeway as he and the sleeping child headed south from the airport. The car was rocked periodically in bouts of wind and rain, the storm raging and then easing off only to return every few miles. He was worn-out from the trip, from the long waits going through security, the delayed schedules and plane changes. He’d made the call from San Jose but had to leave a message, said the flight was delayed, that he’d just swing by and if he saw no light he’d get a motel and they’d be there in the morning. It was too late, tonight, to get anyone out of bed.

  He was hungry, though. Their simple supper seemed ages past. He hoped the child would be hungry-if she woke at all. At last, heading downhill into the small seaside village, he left the heavy traffic, passing only three cars, all coming uphill as if maybe going home to the hillside houses behind him. The streets were slick from rain. He rolled his window down and could smell the sea. With the wind easing off, he could hear the surf, too, crashing half a mile ahead; that would be at the end of Ocean Avenue, he remembered from the map.

  Driving halfway through the village, he turned up into gentler hills among close-set cottages. Molena Point had no street lamps, its narrow streets were dark beneath the trees. Shining his headlights on street signs, he found the house he wanted, but not by an address, there weren’t any house numbers in the village. He wasn’t able to see much on the dark streets, but he found his destination by its description and he slowed, looking. Yes, everyone was in bed. He started to get out, to see if there was a note on the door, but something made him pause.

  Parking for just a minute, studying the house, he thought he saw movement in the shrubbery, something dark and stealthy. Puzzled, he watched uneasily, then decided it was nothing, just shadows. What was wrong with him? Tired. Tired from the trip, and from tending to the child. Her malaise dragged him down real bad. Though the shifting of shadows was not repeated, still he felt edgy, and did not leave the car; he didn’t feel right again until he’d moved on, made a U-turn in the black, empty street and headed back down to the village.

  Even in the small business section, the streets were lit only by the soft illumination from shop windows shining down onto the wet sidewalks, and by the softly colored lights of motel signs reflected on the slick, mirroring surfaces. He saw two motels with their vacancy signs lit, but first he moved on, looking for a café. Each shop window gleamed like a small stage set with its own rich wares, diamonds and silver, expensive leather and cashmere, imported china, Italian shoes, oil and watercolor paintings and bronze and marble sculpture, a feast of riches for such a small village. Windows stacked with children’s books, too, and with toys, and brightly wrapped Christmas boxes to entice a child with imagined surprises. The quaint restaurants were all closed for the night, their windows dark, nor were there any moving cars on the streets, though it wasn’t yet midnight. Just parked cars, maybe left overnight by tourists already asleep in their motel rooms. On this stormy night, even so near Christmas, the whole town had buttoned up early, and he thought of bed with longing. He really was done in after the long flight and then the drive down from San Jose, bone tired and achingly hungry. But most of all, he wanted to get some food into the child before he checked in to a motel and put her to bed. He had not expected all of the village to be closed, not a restaurant lighted, not even a bar, and he passed only a couple of those. Cruising the narrow, tree-sheltered streets not finding what he sought, he parked beside a small shopping plaza and got out. Stood listening, hoping to hear the echo of voices from some unseen café within. He was eager suddenly to hear another human voice, but he could hear nothing but the surf, and the dying wind-as if he’d stepped into some kind of time warp, as if everyone on earth had vanished except himself and the child, as if all the world was suddenly empty.

  No voices. No canned Christmas music. No sound of another car on the streets until one lone vehicle turned on to Ocean and approached, moving slowly toward him and then speeding up and going on, the dark-clad driver invisible within the dark interior. A bicycle swished past, too, and turned left, and that made him feel less isolated.

  But then, only the surf again. And the constant drip of water from the roof gutters and the branches of the oaks and pines that caressed the roofs of the cottagelike shops. Lifting the sleeping child out of the backseat, he tucked her doll in the crook of her arm, knowing she’d wake without it. Snuggling her against him, he turned in to the small but exclusive-looking shopping plaza hoping to find a coffee shop open, catering to late-night tourists. He had hardly entered when h
e saw the Christmas tree.

  He stopped, longing to wake her, longing to see a gleam of delight kindle in her somber eyes. A two-story Christmas tree, brilliant with colored lights and oversize decorations and a tangle of large toys jumbled beneath the laden branches. It stood in the center of the plaza surrounded by flower gardens and brick walkways, the gardens enclosed on four sides by two stories of shops, in a rectangle that must fill the whole block. The colored lights of the lavishly decorated tree cast a phantasm of brilliant reflections across the windows of Saks and Tiffany and the small boutiques and three small, closed cafés. Nothing moved, not a soul was there. Standing among the deserted gardens, he wondered, if he woke the child, if the sight of the wonderful tree would bring her alive, would be enough to stir her blood and excite her, maybe stir her hunger, too? Thin as a little bird, she was, frail and infinitely precious. And there was no medicine that could help this condition.

  Around six this evening, he’d gotten her to eat half a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich and drink half a small carton of milk, and that was a victory; then soon she’d slept again. He longed to see her dark eyes wide with wonder, as they used to be-wonder at the magical decorations and the fairy lights and the brightly painted toys and the rocking horse beneath the laden branches, longed to hear her laugh with pleasure and reach up to the magical tree.

  He looked above him to the upper-floor veranda and additional shops, where an open stairway led up, but there was no little coffee shop tucked in there, either. Turning, he looked back toward the street and his car thinking he’d better go on, get checked in to a motel. With the help of a motel coffeepot, he could heat a cup of the instant soup he carried in his suitcase, something hot if not very filling. Get the child tucked up safe for the night, and then drop into sleep, himself. As he turned to leave the plaza and return to his car, he saw that they were not alone. A man stood behind him, had approached without sound, and light from the tree caught his face.

  “Well, hey!” He laughed, clutching the child tighter, glad to see his friend, but then puzzled. “How did you…? Where did you come from? Why didn’t you…? Is this a surprise? How did you get here? And when?” When the other didn’t speak, he stepped forward, reaching out to clasp his shoulder.

  When the man moved he glimpsed the weapon. “What…?” He twisted away, shocked, ducking and shielding the child, but he wasn’t quick enough. A jolt caught him and light exploded and he felt himself reel off balance. He fell, shielding and cushioning the child. Why? Why would he…? She had awakened, struggling and clutching him, she caught her breath staring up into the face of their attacker then drew back against him, trying to hide herself. She made one gasp, no other sound. He couldn’t see right, couldn’t see at all, felt himself falling into blackness, the child clutching him. He could only imagine her little white face, couldn’t see her, felt her shivering against him as deep darkness swarm over him.

  T HE KILLER BENT over them, pressing the gun against the victim’s throat. The weapon felt awkward with the silencer on it. Well, he didn’t need it now, the man was limp, gone. He was going through the fallen man’s pockets when a cop car passed and slowed, he caught a glimpse of their uniform caps, heard their radio, and he ducked and froze in place as a spotlight shone in.

  But it was just a routine patrol. The white Buick sedan moved on again slowly, the cop in the passenger’s seat sipping coffee from a white Styrofoam cup as he scanned the shop fronts that faced the street, scanned what he could see of the plaza and gardens.

  The minute the law had gone he finished searching, made sure he had the billfold, the airline tickets and rental car keys. The child huddled away from him, staring at him white with shock. He didn’t speak to her. Rising, he rearranged some of the oversize toys so the body wouldn’t be visible from the street, then headed away through the plaza to the back, keeping to the darkest doorways and to the gloom beneath the small, ornamental trees. The cops would be back. Would most likely circle the block, checking again before they went on. He hoped to hell they wouldn’t walk the plaza, walk right past the tree to look in the individual stores. They would if they had any feeling of unease. He’d planned for more time. He’d have to hustle to move the body, he hadn’t planned it this way, and he hated to hurry.

  He’d waited for his quarry beside that house, cold and wet from the storm. When the car appeared at last, and stopped, and he could see the driver’s profile, then it turned around and took off, he’d expected them to head straight to a motel. He’d followed silently on the bike, keeping to the shadows, drew back when his victim went into the plaza maybe looking for a café. And wasn’t this ironic. This was too good. Shot beneath a Christmas tree, his death fitting right in with the season.

  Not that he’d wished his victim any special bad luck. He just couldn’t have him around.

  Watching for the cops, he knew they couldn’t have heard or seen any disturbance, couldn’t have heard the faint pop of the silenced weapon. He waited until they returned, shining their light in again across the lighted tree and the toys and rocking horse but missing the dead man where he lay in the dark behind the big toys. Missing the silent child cringing against him, hidden among the tangle. She was so scared she likely wouldn’t run. And she sure wouldn’t cry out for help. The minute they’d gone he slipped across the wide street, retrieved the old bicycle that was his transportation tonight, and wheeled it toward the empty store, one of a dozen dark retreats that he’d scoped out weeks earlier, scattered around the village.

  He waited inside the dark store until the cops moved on down Ocean. He was returning for the body, entering the plaza, when he heard a soft noise like someone running; he melted into the shadows and was gone again fast, heading for the backstreet.

  T HE BODY WAS discovered only a few minutes after the killer fled. It was glimpsed by a lone and silent prowler looking down from the roof of a plaza shop. By a four-footed wanderer trotting across the steep shingles enjoying the lull in the storm, a lone adventurer out to discover what might be new in the night. By a tortoiseshell cat out on the prowl, to see what she could see.

  Below the darkly mottled cat, the streets were deserted. The only movement was the police unit making its way slowly up Ocean-out on the prowl, too, she thought companionably.

  As she crossed the plaza roof, she smelled blood, and then cordite. Startled, she approached the plaza below her, and was suddenly shaken by the smell of death. Nose twitching, she padded to the edge of the roof’s rounded tiles and looked down into the enclosed gardens.

  Here atop the single one-story shop at the front of the complex she was below the rest of the building, and below the top of the plaza’s Christmas tree, below its crowning star. For a moment the colored lights blinded her. As her pupils contracted, she saw the body under the branches and she hissed and backed away. But then she crept to the edge again, looking.

  The man lay unnaturally twisted, his body angled awkwardly between the tangle of oversize toys, his face whiter than paper except for the dark blood spilling from a wide and gaping wound down the side of his forehead and cheek. He was dead, no question, the sour smell of death filled the night. He was beyond help now, beyond any help in this world-but the little child who clung to him was alive and shivering, a little girl lying curled against the dead man, clutching him tight, her face pressed against him and her little tense body shivering with silent sobs.

  Crouching and still, the tortoiseshell cat looked out to the street. The deepest shadows were pitch-black, impenetrable even to feline eyes. The smell of death was so sharp it made her draw back her lips, her teeth bared, her whiskers flat against her darkly mottled cheeks. She lifted a paw but didn’t back away, she stood watching the dead man and the little silent child with her arms tight around his arm and neck, her face burrowed into his shoulder, her little white sweater soaked with his blood.

  She thought the child might be five, maybe six years old; it was hard to tell with humans. Beneath her bloody white sweater she wore lit
tle blue tights, and little white boots with fake white fur around the tops. Her hair was jet-black, her skin milky. A ragged cloth doll lay forgotten beneath her, a doll that seemed to have little padded wings, a homemade angel doll.

  Kit studied the black shadows of the plaza but did not see a lurking figure. She was crouched to leap down to the child when the little girl choked out a tiny, thin sob, a small, lost sound perhaps too faint for a human ear, and that sob frightened and hurt Kit all the more deeply. This child had been abandoned in a way no child should ever be abandoned, this child should be laughing and reaching up among the laden branches and golden bells and ribbons, not hovering terrified against a dead man, filled with incomprehensible loss; and a terrible pity filled Kit, and an icy fear.

  The dying wind carried the scents of Christmas that lingered from the village shops, of baking, of nutmeg and ginger and hot cinnamon, all mixed, now, with the stink of death. Away across the roofs behind Kit, the courthouse clock struck midnight. Twelve solemn tolls that, tonight, were death tolls.

  This afternoon the village and plaza had been crowded with hurrying shoppers, the park across the street filled with white-robed carolers and with the velvet soprano of Cora Lee French, “…rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay…” And now there was no one but a little abandoned child and, somewhere unseen, a killer with a gun, for surely that was a gun shot wound. What else could it be? Kit was alone in the night with a dead man and a lost little girl, and an unseen killer. Nervously she washed one mottled black-and-brown paw, trying to get centered, trying with calming licks to soothe her frightened inner cat.

  And then she spun around and bolted away across the rooftops racing to bring help.