Cat Striking Back Read online

  So what was this new insanity? Joe looked at Ryan. She said nothing, just sat quietly waiting for Clyde to drop this one on him.

  “What?” Joe said coldly.

  Beside Joe, Rock eyed the last bite of Joe’s breakfast. Joe glared a friendly warning at the silver Weimaraner and lifted a daggered paw, for which he received a doggy laugh and doggy breath in his face.

  “What announcement?” he repeated.

  “I’m selling the cars,” Clyde said.

  “You’re what?”

  To some, such a comment might seem of minor importance. People sold cars every day and bought new ones, the world was based on obsolescence. But this statement coming from Clyde was a shocker. He might as well have said he was giving away all his worldly possessions and joining a nudist colony. At last count Clyde had owned eighteen antique and classic automobiles, collectors’ items all, and he loved those cars like his own children. In restoring them, he labored over every detail, as a sculptor labors over every inch of clay in preparing his bronze castings.

  “You’re going to do what?” Joe repeated quietly.

  Clyde took another bite of pancake and sausage, another sip of coffee. “Sell the cars. Except the roadster,” he said, referring to the vintage yellow convertible that sat, pristine and shining and completely restored, in their attached garage.

  “I’m going to sell the cars,” Clyde repeated slowly, as if Joe was, regrettably, growing deaf.

  “You’re selling the cars.” Joe looked at Ryan. Her green eyes, turned to him, were wide and innocent.

  This transaction would include cars both domestic and foreign, ranging in age from eighty years to more recent and overblown fishtail models, and in value from a few thousand into the high six figures, each car either already painstakingly restored, lavished with love, from its wheels and pistons to its new leather upholstery-with love and skill and plenty of cash-or cars in the process of being restored, to a few wrecks still patiently awaiting their turn at Clyde’s skilled automotive rejuvenation, rather as an aging actress awaits her appointment to go under the knife of a highly paid plastic surgeon.

  Ever since Joe had first met Clyde, when Clyde hauled him out of that San Francisco gutter, Clyde’s one huge passion in life, besides charming women, and his dogs and cats, had been old cars and the rebuilding thereof. When they lived in San Francisco, he had collected cars, renting an old garage over in Marin County where he’d worked on them, on weekends and his days off, taking Joe with him. That was where Joe learned to hunt, stalking mice along the bare stud walls and loose building paper of that decrepit old garage.

  When they’d moved down the coast to Molena Point, Clyde had sold his two beautifully restored convertibles, but when he opened his upscale automotive repair shop, he began to collect old models again, ferreting them out by newspaper ad and word of mouth, driving halfway across the state to haul them home on a flatbed trailer. The garages at the back of the space he rented from the foreign-car agency had been largely reserved for his own growing collection of wrecks destined to become collectors’ items. In short, a nice share of their income had been generated by those restorations, besides which, they had had Clyde ’s complete involvement. Joe didn’t think his housemate could exist without those old cars.

  “You mean you’re selling all the restored cars and getting a new batch to work on,” the tomcat said reasonably.

  “No. Selling them all. Finished. Not buying any more cars,” Clyde said.

  “This is some kind of midlife crisis?” Joe said. “A man doesn’t have a midlife crisis while he’s still on his honeymoon, just four months after the wedding.” He looked suspiciously at Ryan. Was she responsible for this sea change? “Are you two having problems?” He prayed that wasn’t so.

  Ryan laughed. “Midlife crises happen to disenchanted, bored men with no positive philosophy, no positive take on life-no burning reason for living their lives.”

  In Joe’s opinion, Ryan Flannery Damen was the world’s best reason for living. Anyway, nothing about that description fit Clyde. The tomcat had never observed any of the bored, flat, jaundiced, arrogant, or dully disinterested symptoms associated with the emotional demise of a human creature. In some ways, Clyde Damen was still twelve years old, enthusiastic about life to the point of sorely trying a cat’s patience.

  “You need the money?” Joe asked, though he could hardly believe that. Clyde had a comfortable savings account, and Ryan was even better off. She had a nice inheritance from her first husband, and her construction firm did very well indeed. Joe turned to look at her. Did she not approve of the cars? Had she talked Clyde into selling them? Joe couldn’t believe she’d be so selfish and unfeeling. He studied her, then eyed his housemate again, waiting.

  Ryan started to grin, her green eyes dancing.

  Clyde said, “We’re going to buy a couple of houses. Go into-”

  “We’re not moving!” Joe yowled, going cold right down to his claws. The thought of changing houses, of losing his happy home as he knew it, hadn’t entered his mind. Talk about life changes. It was bad enough for a human family to move their children around, haul them across the country to a new house, painful enough for the children to have to survive in a new school. To a cat, moving seemed far worse. Territory meant everything, its smells and hiding places and hunting grounds were a large and vital portion of a cat’s life. To be removed from home and domain, deposited without introduction onto foreign soil could, without understanding treatment, disorient and nearly destroy a little cat.

  “We’re leaving our home?” Joe said, unable to control his dismay. He loved his home, he loved the new upstairs that Ryan had built, he loved his own private cat tower, on top of the second-floor roof, that Ryan had built just for him. The thought of moving to another house made his breakfast want to come up, mice and all.

  “We’re not moving,” Ryan said hastily, reaching to take him in her arms. “We’re not going anywhere, we’re buying a house as an investment.” She smiled as Joe relaxed, leaning his head on her shoulder. “If this works out,” she said, “we’re going into business remodeling houses.” She lifted his chin, smiling down at him. “Houses instead of cars. That make sense to you?”

  “Into business?” he said dumbly. “You’re selling your construction firm?”

  “I’m not selling, and we’re not moving. I wouldn’t give up the company! This is just a side venture,” she said, her green eyes searching Joe’s. “We thought it would be fun, working at our own pace-just a few remodeling projects that can pick up the slack for my crews between jobs or when things get slow.”

  “When is the construction business ever slow?” In Molena Point, people waited months, years, for a contractor. “You mean because of the economic downturn?”

  “Exactly,” Ryan said. “We’re hedging our bets. Does this sound okay? You approve of this?”

  Joe grinned. Even with that small hint of joking sarcasm, how many humans would ask their cat about family financial matters?

  “There is something troubling about it,” Joe said, glancing at Clyde then back at Ryan. “ Clyde ’s a wizard with cars, he can turn any old heap into new. But you do know he can’t drive a nail? That it’s an all-day project to change a leaky washer in the kitchen sink?”

  Ryan ignored that. Maybe she thought she could teach Clyde. “We’re going up to look at the Parker house today, it’s just up above the senior ladies’ place. We-”

  Joe stiffened at mention of the Parker house. “You can’t renovate that place, you can’t look at that house, it’s a crime scene.”

  They stared at him.

  “There’s blood in the pool, and-”

  Clyde slammed down his fork. “Don’t start, Joe! The Parker house is not a crime scene. Where did you get that? We talked to the Realtor early this morning, she said we could look at it. Where do you get this stuff!”

  Joe said, “Someone died there. Detective Davis -”

  “Leave Juana Davis out of this! Wh
at the hell did you tell Davis? You think every-”

  Ryan stopped Clyde with a hand on his arm. “What, Joe? What are you saying?”

  “ Davis ran the scene this morning,” he said, licking a smear of syrup from his shoulder.

  “Tell us,” she said, again hushing Clyde.

  Scowling at Clyde, Joe gave them a blow-by-blow of the morning’s events, from the time he entered the overgrown yard of the Parker house, dragging his mice, until, crouching on the roof in the first hesitant drops of rain, he had watched Juana Davis carefully remove and bag small samples of what looked and smelled like human blood.

  When he’d finished, Ryan was quiet. Clyde was scowling, shaking his head, as if the tomcat had conjured blood and drag marks from thin air, as if Joe had made up this nutty, twisted scenario to bedevil him and, worse, to torment the officers at Molena Point PD.

  Ryan reached across the table, taking Clyde ’s hand and squeezing it hard. She looked at Joe with an admiration that warmed the tomcat clear to the tips of his claws. “You want to come with us?” she said. “Maybe Davis will let us in if she’s already worked the house. If I hide you in my tote bag and if we put on shoe protectors, maybe we can have a look.” And as Joe’s beautiful housemate rose to pick up their breakfast dishes, he gave her a smile that warmed her, in turn, clear down to her pretty toes.

  7

  WELL, HE HADN’T killed her, the woman killed herself, falling like that. She could be so damned clumsy, flinging herself away from him, stumbling or hitting something and then blaming him. Every damn time blaming him, and now she’d sure as hell done it, she’d really put him on the spot. He hadn’t slept all night, playing it over, seeing her lying there in the mud at the bottom of the empty swimming pool, going down there and realizing she was dead, and then later having to haul her out of there, drag her the whole length of the pool through the stinking mud and up the steps and nearly falling. Wondering what the hell he was going to do with her, trying to figure how he was going to get rid of the body. Why the hell did she have to be so clumsy, why did she have to do that!

  It’d happened so fast, he still couldn’t believe she’d just swung away from him and fallen. Still couldn’t believe she was dead. She’d been a pain in the ass, but they’d had a good thing going, too. And then after it happened, after trying to revive her and finally knowing she was dead, the way the damned woman had timed it, he’d had to wait hours before it was dark enough to get her out of there. Couldn’t bring her up out of the empty pool in the daylight and haul her to the car, he’d had to wait at home worrying that someone would come along and find her.

  Right at first, when he realized she was dead, he’d thought of calling the medics or the cops, but what would he say? They’d say he killed her, that he’d pushed her. They’d look at that big bruise on the side of her head and they’d think the worst. No, you get cops nosing around, who knew what else they’d find? You bring the cops into it, everything would hit the fan.

  She’d start to stiffen up soon, he didn’t know how long that would take. Would she be harder to move then? And all the time he waited he was thinking, Why the hell did she do that? Why the hell did she have to go and screw things up?

  He often worked Saturday but had come home early, around five, his last day before vacation. Had been all ready to head out and she knew she was supposed to be waiting, she knew it was important to leave before dark. She’d told him that! Had made him promise to be home early, before the neighbors all went in to supper, that the neighbors had to see them pull away. She was the one who said it was important for the neighbors to see them putting their suitcases in the car and heading out-and then she’d gone off like that.

  She’d left her suitcase by the front door, beside his, had left her purse, too, but no sign of her. With her purse right there, he knew where she’d gone. And didn’t that put him in a rage. He’d stood there for a minute swearing, calling her everything he could think of, then he’d left the house, going out through the back, hoping the neighbors wouldn’t see him. Had shut the door real quiet, had slipped through the backyards to the next street, had walked the two blocks and turned back onto his own street, to the empty Parker house. If someone had seen him, if it came up later, he’d say it was a last-minute errand while she was getting dressed to leave.

  They’d told everyone they planned to leave early, drive a few hours, pick up a burger, pull in somewhere around midnight. Their story was, drive up the coast then over to Reno for a few days to see her sister, then fly out of Reno for Miami and the Bahamas. So why the hell did she take the chance of going out at the last minute and screwing things up?

  Well, she always did as she pleased, whatever spur-of-the-moment notion took her. It had been real hot the last few days, hot for the central coast in June. She liked that, liked lying naked in the hot sun. She couldn’t sunbathe naked in their own yard, the neighbors in three houses could see right down on her. She’d tried a few times to do that, and he’d really given her hell. Why the hell did she place such value on an all-over suntan? He’d told her a hundred times not to take her clothes off in public. Now look what she’d done, look where it had gotten her.

  Approaching the Parker house, he knew she’d be back by the empty pool, hidden by the overgrown bushes where she thought no one would see her. Walking up the cracked driveway he’d smelled the coconut stink of her suntan oil long before he saw her-but as he passed the empty house he jerked to a stop: an explosion from the bushes and a white cat burst out from right under his feet, stared at him, and bolted away. Some neighborhood cat scaring him nearly to death. He’d stood, chilled, his hands shaking, trying to collect himself. He never could abide cats-and he couldn’t let her see how upset he was, she had no notion how sick cats made him. The look in its eyes before it ran, the way it glared at him, wouldn’t leave him.

  He’d moved on at last, had found her back there, lying there naked as a jaybird, lying on that blue beach towel, her clothes folded up in the tote bag she carried, a bottle of suntan lotion and a bottle of water beside her. She’d looked up guiltily, and then yawned. Said she fell asleep, hadn’t meant to be gone so long. When he lit into her, she sassed him back. Said her tan was fading, and didn’t he like her to have an all-over tan? Didn’t he like her to look nice?

  “Nice for who?” he’d said, thinking about the neighborhood couples they hung out with, the guys he played golf with-the guys he sometimes wondered about.

  “Nice for you,” she’d said sharply. “Who else would I want to look nice for, baby?” And she’d reached up to him.

  “Get up and get dressed, I’m not rolling around in the dirt with you.” But then he’d laughed. “I’ll give you a roll later, in some fancy hotel with a good bottle of Scotch and maybe a mirror on the ceiling.” That made her laugh. But when he’d pointed out that the sun was going to set soon, that it sure as hell couldn’t tan her much, she’d snapped at him again, seemed like she was always snapping at him.

  “I told you I fell asleep. The cool evening air’s good for my skin.” Half the time, the woman made no sense. Except for the one thing she was good at. Then her head was clear, then she was all business.

  “Get dressed,” he’d told her. “Get up now and get dressed.”

  “It isn’t even close to dark yet.” Instead of pulling on her clothes, she’d just lain there looking up at him, and didn’t that make him mad. He’d jerked her up, madder every minute. “Get dressed and get home! I’m ready to leave now!”

  That’s when she’d started mouthing off at him. “I’m not your slave. This whole thing was my idea, my planning. I’ll get dressed when I’m ready. As for the neighbors, I’ll make sure they see us.” When she started getting shrill-that made him nervous because someone might hear her-that was when he smacked her, just a light back of his hand to shut her up, and the dumb broad had swung around and slapped at him. He’d hit her lightly to knock some sense into her, a little whack usually settled her right down. But when he whacked her,
that was when she lost her balance or maybe slipped-all of a sudden she was gone, falling backward into the pool, trying to catch herself but there was nothing to grab, and he couldn’t grab her, it all happened in a split second. He’d heard her hit the concrete with a hard thunk, and then she didn’t move. He kept telling her to get up. She didn’t move, just lay there facedown, sprawled naked in the mud, her long hair hiding her face.

  Swearing, he went around the pool and down the mud-slick steps, nearly falling, crossed the stinking mud, slipping twice, knelt down, and shook her. Her body was limp, and that was when he started getting scared. He tried to turn her over. When he lifted her head, blood started running out from beneath her hair.

  Sickened, he’d pushed her hair away to look. There was blood all over, underneath her hair, her hair soaked with it, a pool of blood that curdled into the sour mud and mixed with the mud on her face. A hell of a lot of blood, some of it running out of her ear. Behind her ear, the base of her head was already swelling and turning black and blue.

  But then, even as he knelt there, the blood had stopped running. He kept telling her to get up, he couldn’t believe she was dead. He’d thought of trying that breathing thing but it was too late. He looked up to the top of the pool, terrified someone would be standing there, but there was no one. He had to get her out of there before someone saw her, before some neighbor who might have heard them did come nosing around. He couldn’t move her until dark-it was the middle of June, it wouldn’t be dark until late.

  Now, at five thirty, folks would be getting home from tennis or golf or shopping, and the two neighborhood families with kids home from some outing, and kids racing out in the street playing catch or riding their bikes, people going out to stand in their yards talking and gossiping. And they were supposed to make a big show of heading out on vacation.