Cat Breaking Free (13 page)

M
uch earlier that morning, before Ryan left her
apartment and before the Greenlaws entered the Swiss Café, Joe Grey was jerked from sleep. He'd been dozing in his tower after a little hunt. He woke to the sound of water pounding in the pipes, from the house next door—a sound for which he'd been listening, even as he slept. Chichi was up early again.

Slipping out from among the warm pillows and out of the tower, he sat down on the roof. Night was just drawing back, in the wake of a clear, silvered dawn. He gave himself a quick wash, working fastidiously on his front paws until he heard the rumbling in the pipes stop, then the faintest rustling from within the house next door, a sound no human would hear. Then, louder, an inner door closing, maybe the closet door. He waited until he heard Chichi's outer door open and close, and heard the lock turn. He listened to her walking through the grass below him, her footsteps softly swishing. Heard her hit the sidewalk in her soft shoes,
walking quickly. Only then did he follow across the shingles, peering over.

Wearing a pale blue sweat suit and what looked like good running shoes, she was headed toward the heart of the village. Joe didn't picture Chichi as a runner, certainly not a serious one. As, above him, the silvered sky brightened, he watched her cross Ocean beneath its shelter of eucalyptus trees. He hungered to follow her. But he wished, far more, that he knew how long she'd be gone.

He'd heard her leave early like this on several mornings, but until the night of the robbery he hadn't paid much attention. He thought that those times she'd been gone for at least an hour. Dropping into the pine tree on the far side of her house, he backed down, sprang into the little lemon tree, cursing the sting of its thorns, and leaped to the sill, hoping she hadn't repaired the screen.

When he examined his recent handiwork, he almost laughed out loud.

Tape? She'd put duct tape on the torn screen? Smiling, Joe took a corner of the tape in his teeth and gently pulled, peeling it back neater than skinning a gopher.

But then, pressing his paw sideways against the glass and exerting all the force he could muster, he was unable to slide it.

Where before she'd had the slider locked open a few inches with a little peg, now she had secured the window completely closed. Had shut it tight so he wouldn't come back? He felt a chill course down through his fur.

But how likely was it that Chichi knew his special talents? He was just a cat; and she didn't like cats. He
pressed his face against the glass, mashing his whiskers, to peer in.

He could just see the lock protruding. It was one of those that slid up or down along the metal frame when one closed the window, the kind that usually locked but not always. That sometimes, in these old windows, didn't work at all.

This one had caught, though. Hadn't it?

Pressing against the window, he shook and rattled the moveable section as hard as he could.

And at last, slowly, the little lock slid down the metal frame and dropped to the bottom. Now, with sufficient body pressure, he was able to slide the window back as far as the little peg, which was still in place. And in a nanosecond he was in, searching her room, his ears cocked for her approach through the overgrown yard.

Carefully, he went through every dresser drawer again, searching for the little black bag, flinching at every faintest sound. He didn't want to be caught in the closed room with her again. He told himself he was magnifying the danger, but there was something totally focused about Chichi Barbi, a singular determination that unnerved him.

He searched the closet among her few clothes and shoes, searched the top closet shelf, leaping up stubbornly forcing open three suitcases and badly bruising his paws. All were empty. The latches weren't as bad, though, as zippers, which were hell on the claws. He searched under the bed and in between the mattresses as far as his paw would reach, then as far as he could crawl without smothering. He'd hate like hell for her to catch him in that position. He searched the under-sink
bathroom cabinet, the night-table drawer, peered into the two empty wastebaskets, checked the carpet for a loose corner under which she might have loosened a board.

He found nothing, nada. He was nosing with curiosity at the back of the little television set when he heard her coming, brushing past the overgrown bushes.

Leaping to the dresser he crouched, ready to bolt. He watched her pass the window, heading for the door. As the door handle turned, he slid out through the window and shouldered the glass closed behind him.

He hardly had time to paw the tape back over the torn screen when the inside light went on. Praying she wouldn't notice that the tape was wrinkled, not smooth the way she'd left it, he dropped down to the scruffy grass.

He was crouched in the dark bushes beside the foundation of the house, poised to scorch for home, when he thought about those two empty wastebaskets. And a sure feline instinct, or maybe acquired cop sense, stopped him in his tracks.

Waiting in the bushes until he heard her cross the room to the bathroom, he beat it past her door and past the kitchen door, to the tall plastic garbage can that stood at the rear of the house.

The lid was on tight. He tried leaping atop Clyde's plastered wall and reaching down with one paw to dislodge it, but the distance was too far, he could get no purchase without falling on his head. Stretching farther, he lost his balance and dropped to the top of the lid—embarrassing himself, though there was no one to see him.

Dropping to the ground, he hung one paw in the can's plastic handle and pressed up on the lid with the other. He should have done that in the first place. The lid popped right off and felt silently to the grass.

Leaping up to perch across the mouth of the can, his hind paws on one side, his left front paw bracing him on the other, he hung down into the dim stinking world of Chichi's rotting garbage: sour grass cuttings, moldy food cans, and a sour milk carton, and he sorted through Chichi Barbi's trash like a common alley cat.

Well, hell, FBI agents did this stuff. So did DEA. If those guys could stomach the stink and indignity, so could he.

Surprisingly, the moldering grass was the worst. It stuck to him all over, clung to his sleek fur, got into his ears and in his nose and eyes. Part of Chichi's job as house sitter was to mow the tiny scrap of weedy lawn. She used a hand mower that was kept in the narrow one-car garage, which occupied the south side, between her living room and Joe's house. As he balanced, pawing and searching, he was painfully aware that he was in plain sight of Clyde's guest room window, not six feet away.

If Clyde saw his gray posterior protruding from Chichi Barbi's garbage can, he'd never hear the last of it. He sorted through food cans and wrappers, wadded tissues, run panty hose, used emery boards, empty spray bottles of various smelly cosmetics, and a dozen other items too gross to think about. Pawing through a layer of discarded papers, he retrieved a dozen store bills and cash register receipts, stuffing them into an empty peanut can. They'd absorb some oily stains but
they should still be legible. He did not find the black bag itself, and could catch no scent of metal jewelry. But in this mélange of garbage, who could smell anything? The most talented bloodhound would be challenged.

At least there wasn't too much sticky stuff, thanks to garbage disposals; not like San Francisco garbage when he was a homeless kitten. Rooting in those overflowing bins for something to eat, that had been a real mess.

Taking the peanut can in his teeth, he backed out, pausing for an instant balanced on the edge of the garbage can. He was tensed to drop down when a faint noise made him glance up, at the window of his own house.

Clyde stood at the glass, his expression a mix of amazed amusement and harsh disapproval. The next minute he burst into a belly laugh that made Joe leap away nearly dropping the can.

He heard Clyde come out the back door heading for the patio wall, as if to look over at him. Racing away around Chichi's house, gripping the metal can in his teeth, he headed for his cat door. He would never hear the end of this one.

But then as he was approaching his cat door, his nose twitched with the smell of burning bacon wafting out from the kitchen, and he smiled. Clyde's unwelcome curiosity had created a small and satisfying disaster.

Spinning in under the plastic flap, he dodged behind his clawed and be-furred easy chair, set the can down, and crouched, silent and still. While Clyde dealt with the bacon, he would just dump the receipts out on the rug and have a look.

But even as he reached a paw in, Clyde rushed into the room, flinging open the windows, turning the house
into a wind tunnel that would scatter those papers clear to hell.

Taking the can in his mouth again, he raced away behind Clyde's back through the living room and up the stairs to the master suite. The smell of burned bacon followed him up along the steps. Bolting into Clyde's study and behind the leather love seat, he dumped the papers on the carpet and began to paw through them—until Clyde went racing into the master bedroom, opening those windows, too, then headed for the study.

“Don't open the windows in here!” Joe shouted, leaping to the back of the love seat. “Stop! Don't do that!”

Clyde stared at him. He took two steps toward the love seat. Joe dropped down again behind it. Clyde knelt on the love seat, peering over the back. “What have you got? What did you take out of her garbage? What the hell did you steal this time?”

“You don't steal trash. Things that have already been thrown away are…”

“What do you have, Joe?” Clyde frowned at the wadded papers. “Bills? Cash register receipts?” Despite his attempt at anger, Clyde eyed the little collection with interest.

Resignedly, Joe spread out the little bits of paper. Together, they studied a drugstore receipt that included two disposable cameras and a spiral notebook. He pulled out a Kinko's receipt for twenty machine copies. He put aside the wrinkled phone bills. It was the receipt from Kinko's that held him. “What did she make copies of?”

“Well, I don't know, Joe. Business papers? How would I know? Just because you saw her slip into her
house the night of the jewel burglary, just because…” A knock downstairs at the front door stopped Clyde. “That'll be Ryan with the faucets.” And he headed for the stairs.

Pawing the papers back into the peanut can, Joe pushed it safely into the corner between the love seat and chair. And he followed Clyde. Twenty copies of what? It wasn't as if Chichi ran a business. And this was February, no one wrote Christmas letters in February. He could hear Clyde's voice, but not Ryan's. Hurrying down the stairs, hitting the last step, he froze.

That wasn't Ryan. It was Chichi.

Had she seen him in her room or in her garbage can, and come over to complain? Swerving into the kitchen, out of sight, he stood listening.

Sounded like Clyde had moved out onto the porch. Well, at least he hadn't let her in. Hurry up, Clyde. Blow her off, send her packing. Joe could hear her cooing sweet enough to make a cat throw up, and softly laughing in an insinuating way. Disgusted, but as fascinated as any eavesdropper, Joe trotted into the living room and peered out through the partly open front door.

J
oe could see little more than Clyde's back, and their
two pairs of feet on the porch—Clyde's old, dirty jogging shoes, and Chichi's little high-heeled sandals. She had taken time to change? He wondered what else she had put on, to vamp Clyde. Those shoes had to be cold and uncomfortable, had to hurt like hell if she walked a block in them. Her feet were very close to Clyde's—until, suddenly, Clyde backed away and turned as if to slip inside. Chichi laughed softly and moved against him again. Joe stared up indignantly as she tenderly stroked Clyde's cheek, petting him in a way that sickened the tomcat.

“Just to use your phone, Clyde? What's the matter? Just to report my phone out of order…What do you have in there that your neighbor can't see? I'll just be a minute, and I…”

“Don't you have a cell phone? Go on down to the corner and use the pay phone.” Clyde went silent as Ryan's truck pulled up.

Slipping up to the windowsill where he could see better, Joe was glad he had a front seat for this one. Chichi glanced at the big red king cab, scowling. Ryan's lumber rack was stacked with big beams and two-by-fours, ready to build the end walls and place the rafters for the Harpers' new guest room. As Ryan swung out of the truck, Chichi snuggled. Clyde backed off like he'd been burned. Joe could see Dillon and Lori in the back seat staring out, wide-eyed. He watched Ryan hold the door for Rock to leap out. The big dog always rode in the cab, never in the truck bed. Ryan said it was barbaric to subject a dog to the dangers of riding in an open truck where he could easily be thrown out in case of a wreck, and cruel to leave him in a truck for hours tied up in the beating hot sun.

Ryan came up the walk, barely hiding a grin at Clyde's predicament and at Chichi's low-cut pink sweater, her big boobs half out, and her tight black pants riding up her crotch. Under Ryan's amused glance, Chichi looked uncertain and unsure of herself. Ryan was swinging a heavy paper bag bearing the hardware store logo, and her toolbox. She pushed past Chichi, giving her a cool, green-eyed look-over, and headed through the house as if she lived there, making for the upstairs bath. Joe rumbled with purrs. He was not only getting his own personal, cat-friendly water faucet, he was witnessing an entertaining moment of defeat for Chichi Barbi that made his day. The woman looked mad enough to chew off the old faucet for Ryan—or chew Ryan's hand off. As Ryan disappeared upstairs, Clyde fended off Chichi with frustrated finality, and closed the door in her face.

Watching her stalk away, Joe could hear Ryan upstairs unscrewing the faucet. From the bottom of the stairs, Clyde shouted, “Need to turn off the water?”

“Turned it off under the basin. I'll be just a few minutes.” Ryan had installed the two upstairs basins, so Joe guessed she knew how to cut off the water. He had dropped off the sill and was heading for the kitchen when there was another knock on the door. Clyde stared at the closed door in disbelief.

Joe gave him a look that said, Don't open it. Clyde looked at him and shrugged. And the minute he foolishly cracked the door open. Chichi pushed inside.

“I never heard of a woman plumber,” she said. “She's been around here before—you must have a lot of plumbing problems.”

“If you want to report your phone out of order, go in the kitchen. Make it quick, I have to get to work.”

“You're leaving a plumber in the house alone? Aren't you…”

Clyde just looked at her. “Where is your cell phone?”

“The battery…” she said, helplessly gesturing with upturned hands. Scowling, Clyde led her into the kitchen. Following them, Joe watched Chichi slip a scrap of paper from her pocket and punch in a number, then enter a series of numbers as a tape gave her instructions. Joe hated those taped replies. Though he seldom had reason to call a number that employed that particular form of dehumanization. Your highly skilled, undercover snitch didn't waste time on taped messages. Most of Joe's calls were directly to Molena Point PD, clandestine, short, and conducted directly between himself and the law, usually the chief.

When Chichi had reported her out-of-order number she moved to the kitchen sink, draping her hand on Clyde's shoulder, and at the same time taking in every detail of the kitchen. Joe swallowed back a growl. She'd love to be left alone to snoop. The tomcat said a prayer of thanks that he'd carried the little can of her purloined bills upstairs, out of sight. “Could I have a drink of water?”

Patiently, Clyde poured Chichi a glass of tap water, pushed it at her, and stared pointedly in the direction of the front door. Joe listened to a series of small metallic clicks from above, then a short rumble as water surged back through the pipes. He was eager to try the new faucet. As Clyde took Chichi's arm and headed her out toward the front door, Ryan came down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs, the two women looked at each other like lady cats sparring for territory. Joe waited for the fur to fly, but Clyde shoved Chichi on through the living room and out the door, and locked it behind her. He leaned with his back against the door, trying to collect his temper. Ryan looked at him for a long moment, the corner of her mouth twitching.

“Come on,” Clyde said stiffly. “It's not funny. Come have a cup of coffee, help me calm my temper.”

Ryan chucked him under the chin. “Your temper? Or your libido? I can't stay for coffee, the girls are in the truck and I'm late, Scotty's waiting.” And she was gone before Clyde could point out, with sarcasm, that
Ryan
was the boss, that she made her own hours.

 

Clyde didn't see Ryan again for three days, during which time he grew increasingly irritable. “You think
she's mad? Because of Chichi, because Chichi was here?”

Joe just looked at him. They were in the kitchen having breakfast, waffles and fried ham, with kippers on the side for Joe.

“She didn't give me a chance to explain.” Clyde looked across at Joe. “If she's jealous, you think she's seeing that guy who came up to the ranch? This Roman something?” That was two days after Ryan installed the faucet. That night, Clyde paced the house for an hour, before Joe got him to settle down. “If she's not jealous, why hasn't she called?”

Joe had licked a smear of Brie off his paw, a late-night snack, as Clyde waited, fidgeting, for the phone to ring. “So call her,” the tomcat had said impatiently. “What's the big deal?” But maybe he shouldn't have laid it on so thick, shouldn't have repeated everything that Dulcie had told him about how handsome this Roman Slayter was and how stubbornly Slayter had pressed Ryan to go out with him. And maybe he shouldn't have ribbed Clyde so much about Chichi.

“Doesn't Ryan know I can't stand the woman?”

“
Call
her!”

Instead of calling, Clyde poured himself a double whiskey, and kept pacing. “What's with you,” Joe said. “Call her! There was a time when men did all the calling!” Clyde was so damn stubborn. And then two nights later as Clyde was passing Binnie's Italian on his way home from work, he saw Ryan going into the cozy restaurant with a tall, handsome fashion plate who had to be Roman Slayter.

Clyde got home mad as hornets—and found Rock in the back patio, complete with his bed, a rubber bone
and a bowl of kibble. And a cryptic message on the phone from Ryan, saying she was leaving the dog there for a little while, that she wouldn't be late, that it was all very strange and she would explain when she came to get Rock.

“I'll just bet she'll explain! She goes out with this guy like it's a big secret, can't tell me where she's going or who with, just brings Rock over here like I'm some kind of paid babysitting service!”

Joe
tried
to talk to him. “Maybe she had a reason for not telling you, maybe she was in a hurry and didn't want to take time to explain. Why don't you…”

“Why don't I
what
?” Clyde didn't pet Rock, didn't let him in the house. He shut the door in Rock's face, and fastened the cover over the big dog door, leaving Rock alone in the patio, looking hurt indeed. When Joe peered down at him through the kitchen window, Rock looked up at him, devastated. Never before had Clyde shut him out. His yellow eyes were incredibly sad, his ears down, his short tail tucked under in misery.

That wasn't like Clyde, to be mean to a dog. Clyde loved Rock. Incensed at Clyde's unfair attitude, Joe waited until Clyde had settled down in the living room with a book, then slipped out to the kitchen, slid the cover of the dog door open a few inches, and went out to snuggle down with Rock on his big, cedar-stuffed bed. Sighing, Rock laid his head over Joe, badly needing sympathy. It wasn't Rock's fault that Ryan had gone out with someone else when Clyde didn't call her, Joe thought indignantly. Nor was it Rock's fault that Clyde had let Chichi make an ass of him in front of Ryan.