Cat Coming Home (5 page)

A
FTER KILLING MARTIN
and Caroline, the driver and shooter had paused for only an instant to watch the victims’ car veer off the road, its headlights swinging crazily through the black night as it rolled onto its side and crashed into a pine tree. The shooter had tucked the .45 Colt revolver behind the seat as the driver floorboarded the pickup. They pulled to the side of the road a quarter mile on, where the driver got out, slipped into a small black sedan, and was gone, speeding away into the night. The shooter slid into the driver’s seat and moved on, knowing the narrow two-lane well enough to keep out of the ditch, knowing precisely when to make the turn into the yard of the deserted ranch house. A second turn up the old concrete driveway, and the pickup was out of sight from the country road.

How much had the old woman seen? In the flickering moonlight, before she grabbed the kids and ducked to the floor, had she gotten a look? It was only an instant that she
could have seen anything, but it was a loose end, a cause for worry. Over the subsequent months since the shooting, the question had eaten and rankled. If Maudie had seen enough for a tentative ID, what had she done about it? Gone to the cops? Or, fearing for her own life, sensibly kept her mouth shut? Was there a warrant out complete with name and description, or had she seen no more than the blinding flashes of gunfire?

That night, easing around behind the farmhouse, unlocking the machinery barn and easing the pickup inside, sliding closed the heavy door and stepping into the sleek sports car that stood next to where the pickup was always parked, the shooter had waited for more than an hour, listening for any sound from the road, lounging on the soft leather seat but not daring to play the radio even softly. Then jerking suddenly alert at the sound of the sirens.

How could anyone have called the cops? Martin and Caroline had to be dead, at that close range, or too badly wounded to make any kind of call. And as for Maudie, even if she’d had the presence of mind enough to grab a cell phone, reception out there was dicey; usually there was no way to get through.

It was unlikely anyone else had heard the crash; on the little-used back road there’d been no other cars. The scattered houses and what people called ranches were all set back away from the narrow two-lane, and there hadn’t been a light anywhere; half those houses were summer places, locked up until the weather grew hot, in June.

But someone had called the cops.

Getting out of the sports car, standing at the door listening, she hadn’t heard a sound. The barn seemed
safe enough. By the time sheriff’s deputies got around to searching the nearby yards and fields, and got warrants to search inside the houses and outbuildings, the pickup would be dead cold, sitting unused as the vacationing owner had left it weeks earlier. The heavy padlock on the sliding shed door would show only the owner’s fingerprints.

Listening to the sirens and then to the thumping of a helicopter, the shooter had slid the big door open just a crack, to look out into the night. Lights from the gathered cars a mile away were reflected up into the sky in a milky haze, more cars and a hell of a lot sooner than you’d have thought, way out here in the boonies.

The shooter had waited for a couple hours more after the police lights were gone, and the helicopter gone, before opening the door fully, starting the engine of the sports car and pulling out. Had checked, with a flashlight, the garage floor and wiped away the vague tire marks. Sliding the door closed again and locking it, the shooter had headed sedately away into the night, driving slowly and carefully along the country road, flicking the beams to high when there was no car coming, flicking them low again out of courtesy when another vehicle approached.

Passing two oncoming black-and-whites, the shooter lifted a hand from the wheel in the country way of greeting, though probably that gesture would not be seen in the dark car. And all the while swallowing back a rush of adrenaline, trying to control a heart-pounding panic. The two CHPs must be headed to the scene of the wreck, to join whatever sheriff’s units might have remained behind. Maybe looking for shell casings—but they wouldn’t find
any. That was the good thing about a revolver: the casings remained in the gun, didn’t scatter all over. Cops would be checking for tire marks, too, but quite a few cars and trucks, locals, used this road in the daytime.

A lot depended now on the old woman. Maybe she’d seen nothing in the blackness, maybe there was nothing to worry about. She’d answer the cops’ questions but have no real information to give them, then go home and mourn for her dead son. The cops would work the case for a while and then, as overloaded as the LAPD was, it would find its way among the cold files and that would be the end of it.

Except, that wasn’t the end, there was more to consider. There would be the funeral, the gathering of friends and family around the old woman, and then the disposition of Caroline’s personal possessions. That was the complication: What had Caroline done with the papers that must be retrieved before this was finished? Or did the old woman have them? If so, what had she done with them? There was no way to know what Caroline and Martin, and Maudie, might have planned between them. Sure as hell, if Caroline had been a threat while alive, she was no better dead. And the same went for Maudie, for Caroline’s soft little mother-in-law.

R
ISING FROM THE
bed of crushed petals, Kit peered out at Maudie’s front door. It was closed tight. Everyone was inside, she could hear Ryan’s voice in the kitchen. Pushing out of the bushes, she hurried around to the back, leaped in through an unglazed window of Maudie’s new studio, trotted behind Scotty, who was patching plaster, and in through the open glass slider, onto the pale linoleum.

The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee. Maudie and Ryan sat at the table, and Benny was in Maudie’s lap leaning against her, his mouth smeared with icing. A plate of sweet rolls stood on the table, smelling of cinnamon and honey. The little boy looked paler than usual, his dark eyes still reflecting fear from Maudie’s encounter with the truck.

Maudie’s kitchen was done all in tones of cream and butterscotch. At the far end of the room, pale oak cabinets lined three sides, around a central worktable. Beyond
the wide bay windows, a lacy pepper tree framed Maudie’s view of the neighboring houses and the street.

The table stood nearest to Kit just opposite the glass slider. Ryan was still arguing gently with Maudie, trying to get her to call the police. Benny seemed uncomfortable with the exchange, fiddling with his sweet roll, tearing it into little bits. He hardly looked up when Kit padded behind Maudie’s chair, crossed to the open stairway, and leaped up to the fifth step, where Joe and Dulcie sat as still as a pair of statues, elegant porcelain effigies from some upscale antique shop. Dulcie cut her green eyes at Kit, looking disgusted at Maudie’s stubbornness. Kit looked back impatiently, burning to tell them about the invasion and the fish smell, and unable to say a word.

The open stairs faced not only the kitchen but the front entry across a wide tile floor, with the cozy living room to the left. Dulcie twitched her ears at Kit but made no other move as she listened to Ryan’s futile arguing. What was wrong with Maudie, why this reluctance?

“If the police can find the truck,” Ryan was saying, “and arrest the driver, that would get him off the streets. That might keep you safer, until you know what that was about, and the information would help your insurance company when you make the claim.”

“It was an accident,” Maudie said. “It could happen to anyone, the driver wasn’t looking. I don’t intend to make a claim, I don’t want to make trouble.”

Ryan simply looked at Maudie. She seemed about to form a careful reply when the front door opened and David hurried in, breathing hard from his uphill run, his dark sweats hanging limp and damp on his lean frame.
His crumpled cap stuck out of his jacket pocket; his short-clipped brown hair was damp with sweat. Snatching the cap, he wiped his forehead with it and ran it over his crew cut. “What happened? I was two blocks away when I heard what sounded like a wreck, and an old truck came barreling past me.”

He sat down, looking at Maudie. “Didn’t you hear it? It must have hit the Lincoln, Mom. There’s a long brown scar along the side.” He looked at Maudie and at Benny. “Are you two all right? You weren’t in the car? What the hell happened?”

Ryan said, “The driver came down the hill straight at Maudie. He swerved, he didn’t hit her. He had to be drunk or stoned. Or … or it was deliberate,” she said softly. “He went racing off, didn’t even slow down.”

“My God,” David said. “Where are the cops? How long does it take? They’re only—”

“I didn’t call them,” Maudie told him.

David looked at her. “Why not? Why the hell not, Mama?”

“Let it go,” Maudie said. In her lap, Benny began to squirm. Slipping down from his grandma’s embrace, he disappeared through the door that led from the kitchen to the garage. Pulling it closed behind him, he left it barely ajar as if not wanting to cut himself off completely from the adults, as if wanting only to escape the arguing. Or did he leave it open so he could listen to what his grandma might say, once he was out of the room?

But Maudie and David said little more, looking at each other in silence; David’s anger had pulled his face
into long, stony lines as stern as a Marine general’s. It was Maudie who looked away first, glancing out to the studio where Scotty was patching plaster. David watched his mother as if trying to think how to get through to the stubborn woman. “Mom …” he began.

Maudie turned a gentle smile on him and put her hand on his arm. “I don’t want to make waves, David. Please, just drop it.”

On the stairs, the cats glanced at each other and back at Maudie, seeing more than softness in her smile. Seeing, for just an instant, a dark spark of challenge flash out, a steely edge that both heartened and puzzled them. This lady had some backbone. Why did she keep it so hidden?

Maudie had started to speak when they heard a truck stop outside. It shifted gears and then, from the sound of it, began to back down the drive. Ryan rose to look, and the cats stretched up tall. Yes, they could see the top of a truck backing in, could see a load of windows standing upright, securely tied in place. Ryan watched Scotty and the driver for a moment, apparently decided Scotty had everything in hand, and sat down again to finish her coffee.

The dark spark had left Maudie now; she was all smiles and happiness. “It’s going to be beautiful, with the big windows, such a bright place to work, with the garden all around me.” Her laugh was so happy, but then her look turned sad. “I had such a lovely studio in L.A., with a view of the hills. But I couldn’t stay there, not after the shooting.”

David rose, muttered something about a shower, and
headed upstairs, stepping carefully around the three cats. In a few minutes they heard the shower pounding in the upstairs bath.

“I read about the shooting,” Ryan said. “Of course you wanted to leave the area. I would, too. I’m sure no one can understand what an incredibly hard loss that is, what a terrible emptiness to try to endure.”

“I can’t seem to get past it,” Maudie said. “Over the eight months since Martin was shot, the pain hasn’t eased. That moment keeps coming back as if it’s just now happening. I thought, during the long sessions with the sheriff and with the L.A. police and the California Bureau of Investigation, that somehow I’d become inured, hardened to what happened, that I’d learn to live with it.

“But I haven’t,” she said softly. “They were so happy, Martin and Caroline.” She looked bleakly at Ryan. “Why was I spared, and those two young ones, who were just into a second chance for happiness … Why did they have to die?” She shook her head. “The only good thing was that the children were spared. Except that now two are orphans, and Benny as good as an orphan. How can that be fair?

“But,” Maudie said, “life isn’t fair. No one ever said life was fair.”

Ryan laid her hand over Maudie’s. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you see anything that night? Anything that would help the police?”

“How could I see the killer? If that’s what you mean,” Maudie said testily. “It was dark.” She rose, stepped to the kitchen sink, and ran a glass of water.

Ryan said, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t upset me, I seem to be in a permanent state of upset.” She returned to the table, sipping her water. “Benny and I are having dinner with my sister’s family tonight, that will be a nice outing. Carlene and her husband and their two boys. I’ve hardly had time to visit with her since I arrived. They’re just up at the top of the hill,” she said, “only about ten blocks. It’s that adobe house with the deep veranda, the high wall and jasmine vines in front.”

“I know the place,” Ryan said. “It’s lovely. Your sister is Carlene Colletto? I did a remodel on their kitchen a few years ago.”

“Of course.” Maudie nodded. “Carlene loves her kitchen, it’s so bright with that old dark wall now open to the garden.”

On the stairs, Dulcie’s ears were pricked, and the tip of her tail began to twitch. Fidgeting, she gave Joe a wild look, leaped off the steps, and disappeared into the garage. Just as swiftly, Kit followed her. Joe stayed where he was. He knew Kit was wired, but what had put the wind up Dulcie’s tail? What was so interesting about Maudie’s sister, that she and Kit needed to talk about it? And how did they think they could whisper between themselves in the garage, without Benny hearing them? He was puzzling over female cats’ erratic behavior when David came down the stairs. He was barefoot, smelling of soap and shampoo, wearing chinos and a clean white T-shirt. He gave Ryan a smile, stepped to the counter to pour a cup of coffee, then picked up the folded newspaper and stood reading the sports page.

At the table, Ryan was saying, “Don’t the Colletto boys work here in the village?”

“Jared does,” Maudie said. “He was working part-time for a moving service, but I think he changed jobs. I know he takes accounting classes at the college. I think Kent works somewhere up the coast a few miles.”

“Jared’s a nice young man,” Ryan said. “I don’t know Kent well, but Jared’s helped some of my clients move into their new homes.”

Maudie smiled. “I’m hoping, when the studio’s completed, he’ll help me move my things in. David will be gone, he flies out today,” she said, glancing across at her son. “I’m anxious to get my quilting equipment set up, get everything put away so I can prepare for an upcoming exhibit.”

“At the Humphrey,” Ryan said. “That’s a really nice gallery. Will there be a reception?”

“Just after New Year’s,” Maudie said, seeming pleased that Ryan knew about the show. “You’re on my mailing list.”

“We should be finished with the studio by this weekend. The cabinets are all in place, we’ll have the windows in today, trim them tomorrow, lay the floor, and then a few last-minute details. If Jared can’t help you move in, we’ll find someone.”

“Kent might be able to,” Maudie said, “but he works odd hours.” She gave Ryan a direct look. “I’m sure you know that the boys’ oldest brother is in prison.”

Ryan nodded, but said nothing.

“There’s no point hiding it,” Maudie said, “in such a small village where everyone knows everyone’s business. And of course, with your family in law enforcement you hear these things.”

“Maybe Victor isn’t truly a bad young man,” Ryan said. “Maybe just impetuous, slow to grow up?”

The older woman sighed. “Children can turn out so differently. Victor on the wrong side of the law, and Kent no angel, but Jared doing just fine. I guess Allen and I were lucky, to have raised two good boys.” She was silent, glancing out to the new studio where the delivery driver, apparently finished unloading, was handing Scotty an invoice.

“I’d best get to work,” Ryan said, rising and picking up her gloves. When she had gone, David returned to the table, and spread out the paper. On the stairs, Joe Grey waited, torn between listening to Maudie and David and heading for the garage to see what had so energized Dulcie and Kit, his curiosity pulling at him like two rabbits escaping in opposite directions.