Cat in the Dark Read online

  But, pulling out into the slow traffic, he continued to watch the antique shop. Now he could only catch a glimpse of the couple. Behind him, the traffic began to honk. Damn tourists. Moving on to the corner, he made a U-turn and came back on the other side, driving slowly. He was glad he had put the top up, so he was less visible. Passing the shop, he caught a clear look at the woman.

  My God. It was Dora Sleuder. Or her exact double. And then Ralph moved into view-the heavy chin, the receeding hairline and protruding belly.

  This could not be happening.

  What earthly event could have brought those people here? Brought those two bucolic hicks across the country? No one knew he was here. He had taken every precaution to cover his trail. He drove on by, trying to pull himself together, very aware of Bernine watching him, every line of her body rigid with, curiosity.

  Someone once said that wherever you traveled, even halfway around the world, in any group of a hundred people you had a 50 percent chance of meeting someone you knew, simply by coincidence, by the law of averages.

  Surely this was coincidence. What else could it be?

  But the worst scenario was that the Sleuders had come here to find him.

  So? What could they do if they did find him?

  Circling the block, he tried to puzzle out who could have sent them to Molena Point. Who, among his acquaintances, might be linked to them?

  So far as he knew, only one of his clients had any ties to the east coast, and that was Mavity Flowers, whose niece came from one of the southern states. Mavity hadn't mentioned the niece's name and he hadn't any reason to ask.

  What a nasty coincidence if Dora turned out to be Mavity's niece.

  But no, that was too far-fetched. That sort of concurrence didn't happen, would be quite impossible.

  However, the fact remained that those two dull people were here. He had to wonder if, despite their simple rural set of mind, they had somehow tracked him.

  Whatever the scenario-happenstance or deliberate snooping-the reality was that if he remained in this small, close town where everyone knew everyone's business, the Sleuders would find him.

  He began to sweat, considering what action to take.

  Beside him, Bernine was growing restless. Smiling, he laid his hand over hers. "The couch in that antique shop, that dark wicker couch. It's exactly what I've been looking for. I want to go back after lunch. If it's as nice as it looks, it will fit my apartment perfectly-just the contrast I want to the modern leather."

  Bernine looked skeptical.

  "Imagine it done up in some kind of silk, perhaps a Chinese print. You know about that kind of thing; you have wonderful taste. Would you have time, after lunch, to take a look?"

  He could see she wasn't buying it but that she appreciated the lie.

  "I'd love to. Maybe we can find the right fabric in one of the local shops."

  He liked the speculative way she watched him, trying to read his real purpose, almost licking her lips over the intrigue. Strangely, her interest calmed him. Perhaps, he thought, Bernine could be useful, if he needed help with the Sleuders.

  But as the Mercedes turned off Ocean, picking up speed heading down the coast, neither Jergen or Bernine had seen a woman watching them from an upstairs window as they slowly circled the block.

  14

  FROM THE FRESHLY washed windows of her new apartment, Charlie, taking a break from cleaning, watched Bernine Sage and Winthrop Jergen leave the library across Ocean looking very handsome, Bernine in a short-skirted pink suit, Jergen wearing a tweed sport coat and pale slacks. The couple, in less than a week, had become an item. And that was all right with her.

  She had come to the window for the hundredth time, she thought, amused at herself, to admire her brand-new view of the village rooftops and of Ocean's tree-shaded median and the library's bright gardens. Now, watching Jergen lean to open the passenger door for Bernine, she saw him suddenly go rigid, straightening up and seeming to forget Bernine as he stared across the median at something on the street below her.

  Craning to look down, she could see nothing unusual, just window-shoppers, two shopkeepers hurrying by, probably on their way to lunch, and a meter maid marking tires. Directly below her, lying on a bench in the sun, a huge black cat was stretched out, ignoring the people who surged around him, in a most uncatlike manner. Most cats didn't want to sleep anywhere near strangers, but this one seemed to think he owned the sidewalk. Winthrop Jergen was still staring but then he seemed to shake himself. He turned, handing Bernine into the car.

  Pulling away from the curb, he crept along slowly, still looking, until irate drivers behind him began to honk. He speeded up only a little, and when he reached the corner where Ocean Avenue stopped at the beach, he made a U-turn and came back up the northbound lane, pausing just below her window and tying up traffic again before the bleating horns drove him on. The cat, on its bench, stared irritably at the noise. Charlie left the window to resume her cleaning, to finish scrubbing the kitchen alcove. A new home was never hers until she had dug out the crevice dirt and scoured and burnished every surface.

  She finished cleaning just after one and headed for Wilma's to pick up her clothes and tools and meager furniture, thankful that Bernine wouldn't be there watching her pack, making sarcastic comments. She'd had enough of that this morning. When Clyde picked her up for an early trip to the plumbing supply houses, he had come in for coffee and of course Bernine was up, looking fetching in a tangerine silk dressing gown.

  "A breakfast date," Bernine had purred smugly. "Now, isn't that romantic." She had looked them over as if she'd discovered two children playing doctor in the closet. "And where are you two off to, so early?"

  "Plumbing supply," Clyde had said gruffly, gulping his coffee. "Come on, Charlie, they open in thirty minutes." Turning his back on Bernine, he had gone on out to the truck. Charlie had followed him, smiling.

  They had had a lovely morning prowling through plumbing showrooms looking at showers, basins, at elegant brass faucets and towel racks. Not everyone's idea of fun, but the excursion had suited them both. She had been back in Molena Point in time to pick up the key from her new landlord and get her studio ready to move into.

  Now, parking in Wilma's drive, she let herself into the kitchen, went down the hall to the guest room and began to fold her clothes into a duffle bag. As she was hiking her stuff out to the van, Wilma pulled up the drive beside her.

  "Short day," Wilma said, at her questioning look. "I took off at noon." She looked angry, as if she'd not had a pleasant morning. Little tabby Dulcie sat hunched on the seat beside her, sulkily washing her paws. Wilma looked at Charlie's tools and bags piled on the drive, looked at Charlie, and her disappointment was clear.

  "I found an apartment," Charlie said softly.

  "Is it nice?" Wilma smiled, doing her best to be pleased. "Where is it?"

  "Just across from the library-I can run in anytime, and you can run over for lunch or for dinner." Charlie reached to touch her aunt's shoulder. "I love being with you. How could I not, the way you spoil me? It's just-I feel a burden, coming back again after being here so long."

  Wilma grinned. "It's just that you like your privacy-and detest being stuck with Bernine."

  Charlie shrugged. "That, too. But…"

  "Ever since you were a little girl," Wilma said, "you've valued your own space. I'm going to make a chicken sandwich. You have time for lunch?"

  "Sure, I do."

  Charlie finished loading up and went into the kitchen where Wilma was slicing white meat off a roast chicken. She sat down, stroking Dulcie who lay curled up on a kitchen chair. Wilma said, "I hadn't much choice, about Bernine."

  "I know that. You have enough problem with her at the library. No need to antagonize her any more-until the petitions are in. She's a troublemaker." She got up to pour herself a glass of milk. "But maybe she'll be in a nicer mood for a while, now that she's dating Winthrop Jergen. I saw them coming out of the library at noon,
like they were having lunch."

  "Who knows how that will turn out?" Wilma said. She set the sandwiches on the table. "Tell me about your apartment."

  "It's one big room-fresh white paint, a wonderful view of the village, and there's a garage off the alley, for storage. The stairs go down to a little foyer between the antique shop and the camera store; you can go from there to the street or back to the alley. There's a deli down at the corner, but not as good as Jolly's, and… But you know every shop on that street."

  Wilma nodded. "You'll enjoy living there."

  "You and Dulcie are invited to dinner as soon as I get settled." She finished her sandwich quickly, petted Dulcie again, and headed back to her new apartment to unload her boxes and tools. Seemed like she'd spent half her life lately carting her stuff around. After hiking her duffels and folding bed up the stairs, she put fresh sheets on the bed, slapped new shelf paper in the cupboards, and unpacked her few kitchen supplies. By three o'clock she had stored her tools in the garage and was headed back for the job to check on the plumber, see if he'd finished roughing in the changes to the ground-floor bathrooms.

  Parking before the building, coming in through the patio, she glanced up at Winthrop Jergen's windows and was surprised that they were open-this wasn't his regular cleaning day, and he never opened the windows, only the girls did. Then she saw Pearl Ann through the bathroom window, working at something, and remembered that he'd wanted some repairs done. She hoped Pearl Ann would close up when she left or they'd all hear about it. Heading across the patio into the back apartment, she saw that Pearl Ann had finished mudding the Sheetrock in those rooms, and had cleaned her tools and left them dry and shining on the work table, had left the container of mud well sealed. Pearl Ann was always careful with her equipment.

  Many women didn't like to mess with Sheetrock, partly because the drywall panels were hellishly heavy for a woman to handle. But Pearl Ann was good at the work, and she used a specially made wedge to lift the panels without straining so she could nail them in place. And her taping and mudding was as good as any full-time professional. She used the big float, giving it long, bold sweeps; she said she had learned from her dad.

  Charlie was in the kitchen of the back apartment, which they used as an office and storeroom, when she saw the two cats come trotting into the patio from the hills below. It always amazed her how far and how quickly cats could travel. Less than two hours ago, she'd been feeding Dulcie bits of her chicken sandwich in Wilma's sunny kitchen.

  But these two roamed all over the hills; according to Clyde and Wilma, they were excellent hunters. She could imagine Joe Grey killing most anything, but it was hard to think of soft little Dulcie with blood and gore on her claws. Now, watching Dulcie roll on the sun-warmed bricks, she could almost feel in her own body the cat's deep relaxion and well-being.

  But soon Dulcie rose again, looking around eagerly-as if all set to rout a colony of mice. She looked secretive, too. As if, Charlie thought, she was about to embark on some urgent clandestine mission.

  I have too much imagination.

  Maybe I never grew up-still carting around my childhood fancies.

  But the two cats did bother her. So often they appeared bound somewhere with intense purpose-bound on a specific errand, not just wandering. Cats not aware only of the moment but focused on some future and urgent matter.

  These, Charlie Getz, are not sensible thoughts you're having. You ought to be making a building supply list.

  Yet even as she watched, the cats rose and trotted purposefully away across the patio in a most responsible and businesslike manner.

  Maybe they knew it was nearly quitting time. Maybe they were waiting for Clyde; he usually showed up about now. A dog would go to the door at the time his master was due home, so why not a cat? A dog would show up at the bus stop to escort his kid home from school. Certainly cats were at least as smart as dogs-she'd read some startling things about the abilities of cats. She watched the cats cross the patio, looking up at Winthrop Jergen's windows as if watching the flashes of Pearl Ann's polishing cloth. Sweeping across the glass, it must look, to them, like some trapped and frantic bird.

  But suddenly they glanced back and saw her looking out. They turned away abruptly to sniff at the edge of a flower bed. Turned away so deliberately that she felt as if she'd been snubbed. Had been summarily dismissed.

  Amused by her own imaginings, she opened the kitchen door and told the cats, "Clyde's not here yet."

  They looked around at her, their eyes wide and startled.

  "He's bringing some kitchen cabinets. If you're looking for a ride home, just wait around, guys."

  The cats gave her a piercing look then closed their eyes, in unison, and turned away-as if the sound of her voice annoyed them. And when, half an hour later, Clyde arrived with the cabinets, Joe and Dulcie had disappeared.

  "They'll come home when they're ready," he said.

  "Don't you worry about them? Don't you wonder where they go?"

  "Sure I worry. They're cats. People worry about their cats. Every time some village cat doesn't show up for supper, you can hear his owner shouting all over Molena Point."

  He looked at her helplessly. "So what am I supposed to do? Follow Joe around? I can't lock him in the house, Charlie. Do that, and I might as well put him in a cage."

  He seemed very intense about this. Well, she thought, Clyde loved his cat.

  They unloaded the kitchen cabinets and set them in the front apartment; this was the only apartment to get new cupboards, thanks to the last tenant who had painted the old ones bright red. The new units were pale oak and prefinished. When Clyde was ready to head home, the cats were nowhere to be found, though he shouted for Joe several times. If the tomcat was around, he would usually come trotting to Clyde's summons, as responsive as any dog. Clyde called him again, waited, then swung into his truck.

  She stared at him.

  "They'll come home when they feel like it." He searched her face for understanding. "I can't keep him confined, treat him like an overcontrolled lap dog. What good would Joe's life be, if I told him what to do all the time?"

  She watched him turn the truck around at the dead end and pull away toward the village, his words resonating strangely. What good would Joe's life be, if I told him what to do all the time?

  A puzzling turn of phrase. For some reason, the question, thus stated, left her filled with both unease and excitement.

  Tossing some tools in through the side door of the van, she went back inside to get a ladder. Slipping it in on top of the tools, she pulled the door closed. She wanted to hang some drawings tonight and put up bookshelves. As she locked up the building, she called the cats, checking each apartment so not to shut them in.

  She didn't find them. No sign of the little beasts. She didn't know why she worried about them. As Clyde said, they were off hunting somewhere.

  But when she slid into her van, there they were on the front passenger seat, sitting side by side, watching her as expectantly as a taxi fare waiting for the driver, urging him to get a move on.

  15

  JOLLY'S ALLEY was no longer a pretty retreat for either tourist or village cat. Beneath the darkening sky where the first stars shone, the cozy brick lane with its little shops looked like a garbage dump. The light of its two wrought-iron lamps shone down upon a mess of greasy paper wrappers, broken eggshells, sandwich crusts, and chewed chicken bones. Wadded paper napkins and broken Styrofoam cups spilled from the two overturned refuse cans, and the smears of cold spaghetti and slaw and potato salad were stuck liberally with tufts of torn-out cat fur-a dozen colors of fur, telling the tale of a huge battle.

  Joe and Dulcie, pausing at the alley's entrance, surveyed the mess with amazement, then outrage. Dulcie's ears went back and her tail lashed. Joe crouched as if to spring on whatever feline culprit remained.

  But no culprit was visible, the battling cats had fled. Only the tufts of fur told the story, and their pawprints deep in the pota
to salad-and the stink of fear that lingered, as sharp as the smell of gunpowder after a frontline skirmish.

  And, stronger even than the fear-stink, was the odor of the perpetrator-the belligerent reek of the black tomcat.

  Sniffing Azrael's scent, Joe and Dulcie padded across the greasy bricks, peering into the shadows beneath the jasmine vine, searching for him.

  Suddenly above them a shadow exploded between the rooftops and dropped down within the jasmine vine, dark and swift.

  The black torn sauntered out of the foliage, his bullish shoulders swaggering, his amber eyes burning. Looking around at the devastation, he smiled and licked his whiskers.

  Joe's growl was deep. "I suppose you waited until all the cats congregated for an evening's snack, then attacked them. Did you trap the smallest ones behind the garbage cans, so you could bloody them?"

  Azrael widened his amber eyes. "And what business is it of yours, little cat? What are you, keeper of the village kitties?" Crouching, he circled Joe, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing.

  Joe leaped, biting into Azrael's shoulder, raking his hind claws hard down Azrael's belly. Azrael clawed him in the neck. They spun, a tangle of slashing and screaming, then Azrael had Joe by the throat, forcing him down. Joe twisted free and bit him in the flank as Dulcie lunged into the fray. Together they pinned the tomcat. Under their violent double assault, he went limp. When they drew back, he fled to a safer position.

  Now suddenly he was all smiles, waving his tail, curving and winding around a lamppost, the change swift and decisive. Chirruping and purring, he fixed his gaze on Dulcie.

  "If I had guessed, my dear, that you would be here this evening, we could have feasted together-after I routed that rabble, of course. Or perhaps," he said softly, "you would have enjoyed that little skirmish-a little playful challenge to get your blood up. Hold!" he said as Joe moved to attack. "I have news. Information that will interest you."

  But Joe leaped tearing at Azrael's ear and shoulder, and again the two were a screaming whirlwind-until the deli door crashed open and George Jolly ran out swinging a bucket. A cascade of dishwater hit them. Azrael bolted under a bench. Joe backed away, shocked, licking greasy dishwater from his whiskers.