Cat Coming Home (9 page)

J
ASMINE VINES COVERED
the high adobe wall that shielded the Colletto house from the street, the house’s pale sides broken by a richly fashioned wrought-iron gate that led to the sheltered garden. The three cats slipped between the curves of hammered metal into a jungle of rosebushes, low and fragrant ground cover, and lavender bushes. A roofed terrace ran the length of the house, its brick expanse graced with wicker chairs and potted geraniums. They could see, above the tiled roof, a second floor rising up, indistinct in the darkness, and to their right a driveway where Maudie’s black Lincoln was parked beneath the sheltering oaks before a double garage.

The front door was of heavy oak, hand carved in the Spanish style, secured with wrought-iron hinges and a fancy wrought-iron latch. From somewhere to their left, lights spilled out onto the terrace, and they could hear the murmur of voices and the sounds of silverware on china,
as if perhaps glass doors had been left open to the dining room. The air was sultry, the chill of the last few days having left the village until the next change in weather made itself known, the central California weather famous for its notional approach to Christmas.

Mixed with the smell of jasmine, roses, and lavender came a heady scent of roast beef that made the cats lick their whiskers. Silent as shadows they slipped along past the front door, through the garden toward the muted voices and the good smells of supper.

Where the light spilled out, wide glass sliders did indeed stand open, treating the diners to the mild evening breeze. In the dark surround, the lighted dining room seemed as magnified in importance as a stage, the play in progress as quaint as a painting from another era. The room was softly lit, with peach-colored walls and a pastel Kerman rug setting off dark, heavily carved furniture—ornate buffet, high-backed carved chairs—all rich and, in the cats’ view, pretentious. The long table was set with white linen, with gleaming white china, and thin crystal. The centerpiece of white candles cast flickering shadows across the faces of the six diners, and illuminated behind them an oversize gold-framed oil painting of red and pink roses that didn’t seem to go with the Spanish architecture. Or did it? Dulcie thought about the Spanish families who had settled in California during the hide and tallow days, how they had loved their rosebushes, importing them from Spain to plant around their grand haciendas, training their American Indian servants to care for and nurture the plants.

But the image of a grand Spanish don and a beautiful
Spanish lady at the table, as the setting seemed to demand, didn’t apply to these diners. James Colletto, seated at one end of the table, was a small, dull-looking man with short grizzled gray hair and a gray mustache, an everyday, ordinary kind of man dressed in an ill-fitting dark suit, a white shirt, and a satin tie with huge polka dots that might have come straight out of the forties. Carlene Colletto, at the other end of the table, was pudgier than her sister Maudie and seemed even softer. Her gray hair was done in precise waves that clung tight to her head. Her flowered dress and her pink, low-heeled pumps were surely holdovers, too, from the last century. Dulcie imagined her having put them away in a shoe box until they came back in style.

Maudie and Benny sat with their backs to the cats, the Collettos’ sons across from them at the far side of the table in front of the oversize painting. The youngest, Kent, looked about eighteen, a tall, lanky young man with rounded shoulders, who sat slouched in his chair as if suffering from perennially weak bones. Or perennial boredom. His shoulder-length black hair was ragged, only hastily combed. All three cats wondered why his mother had let him wear that wrinkled shirt to dinner; they could almost smell the sweat. Beneath the table his blue and white jogging shoes were dirty and worn, his jeans stained with grease. His scowl was so embedded that the cats couldn’t imagine him ever looking happy. He pointedly ignored his aunt Maudie, as if he had no use at all for her. When Carlene spoke to him, it was with an expression of helpless acceptance, and Kent’s replies were sullen. The boys’ father ignored him as if preferring to look anywhere else.

Jared Colletto was maybe twenty. He was taller than his brother, thin and wiry and straight, neatly dressed in tan chinos and a white shirt. His thin, tanned face was clean shaven, his dark brown hair freshly cut. His eyes were a light brown; when he smiled he had dimples at the corners of his mouth, and his teeth shone white and straight. At least he knew how to smile—maybe he should give his brother lessons.

Maudie was dressed in silky beige slacks, stockings and leather sandals, and a smocky patchwork top of pastel swatches in a pattern of partridges in a pear tree, an ode to the coming Yule that made Dulcie and Kit smile. Benny, sitting beside her, was so small that the table came halfway up his chest. Apparently Carlene hadn’t thought to offer him a phone book to sit on; he was forced to eat with his elbow straight out in order to reach his plate, an awkward and surely uncomfortable exercise. He was dressed in pale jeans and a clean blue polo shirt, his dangling feet sporting clean white tennis shoes.

Carlene was saying, “… and they gave you a very nice interview, Maudie. Of course it’s only a local magazine, but still, that was very kind of them.”

“The gallery arranged it,” Maudie said, “while I was still in L.A. It’s such a beautiful magazine, so slick and bright, and they did a lovely spread. So many color photographs of my quilts. Every village shop of importance seems to advertise in it. I feel flattered to be included.”

“I’m surprised you arranged for an exhibit, with Martin barely in his grave.”

Maudie put her arm around Benny, giving him a hug as she smiled across at Carlene. “This show was scheduled
some months before … some months before Easter of this year,” she said, glancing down at Benny. “The gallery had a contact down there, he took the photographs in February.

“After the shooting, I wasn’t sure I could get the show together—or get myself together. But I knew Martin wouldn’t want me to cancel. And I knew we’d be moving up here, I knew at once, when Martin died, that we couldn’t stay in L.A.”

“Aren’t you afraid,” Carlene asked, “that if that terrible person who shot Martin—that they might see the magazine, even this little local one, and learn where you are? Aren’t you afraid this kind of publicity will draw them to you?”

Maudie looked at her sister for some time. “I wasn’t the target, Carlene. It was Martin and Caroline who were murdered.”

“But you were right there, you must have seen the killer.”

“I didn’t. It was dark. I didn’t see anything, just the flash of the gun and a white empty afterglow as I grabbed the kids and ducked down.”

“But you could have seen him. How would he know you didn’t? If you—”

“All I saw were split second flashes of gunfire.” Maudie laid down her fork. “I did not see the killer’s face, Carlene. Don’t start imagining what isn’t so.” Beside her, Benny looked very small, the child sat very still, huddled into himself. Maudie hugged him again and took his hand, but she didn’t back off from the discussion; as if, Joe Grey thought, she would not encourage him to hide from this new and ugly turn his life had taken.

“But they don’t know what you might have seen,” Carlene pressed stubbornly, with, apparently, no notion how her questions might upset the little boy beside Maudie.

Across the table, Jared gave his mother a look of disgust. “She said it was dark, Ma. Let it go.”

Next to Jared, Kent lazily stirred his mashed potatoes and gravy into mush, with the manners of a three-year-old. Carlene said automatically, “Don’t play with your food,” as she must have done for Kent’s entire life; she gave Jared a despairing look that he returned with a little smile of understanding. Maudie changed the subject, tossing the conflict back into Carlene’s lap.

“How’s Victor doing?” she asked innocently. “How much longer does he have to serve, down at Soledad?” Had the two sisters been like this all their lives, at each other with this mean one-upmanship?

At the other end of the table, James said, “It was on the local news, Maudie. You must have seen it. Victor’s being transferred out, to another prison.” He said it without emotion, his thin, sharply carved features unrevealing. James Colletto had a nose as straight as a new ruler.

“I haven’t had the TV on,” Maudie told him softly, as if embarrassed that she’d broached something more painful, even, than she’d thought. Beside her, Benny had finished his mashed potatoes. Maudie picked up the serving bowl that sat within her reach, and dished him another helping. Jared reached across the table to pass her the gravy, while James sliced more roast beef for the child. The little boy, apparently paying no attention to the adults, was shoveling in the good hot food—a real sit-down dinner, the cats thought, smiling.

“There was a stabbing in the prison yard,” James said quietly. “Three men against one, and Victor among them. Apparently it was Victor who did the stabbing. We don’t know much more than that.” He laid his fork down. “We’re told he’ll go back to court, that he could be convicted on a new charge.” His voice was flat with resignation.

“Of course they’re blaming Victor,” Carlene said. “That’s what they’ve done all along. The cops, the judge, everyone. The night that pizza place was robbed, Victor wasn’t anywhere near it. Was he, Kent? I’d never have thought we had crooked police, right here in our little village, I never would have guessed that Max Harper …” She stopped, staring at Maudie. The cats couldn’t see Maudie’s face, but in her lap, her left hand was balled into a fist, and beneath the table her sandaled foot tapped silently on the thick rug.

“What’s wrong?” Carlene said, staring at her sister.
“You
weren’t here.
You
haven’t been reading the paper, you don’t know half what’s going on.”

Maudie’s foot continued to tap. She made no reply. Jared looked sympathetic, but he, too, remained silent. Kent smirked at Maudie in such a superior way that Dulcie and Kit wanted to claw his contemptuous face. The silence at the table went on for so long that even Benny began to squirm. Carlene let her gaze settle on the child, honing in coldly on the little boy.

“Do you like your new home, Benny? Do you have a nice room? Are you in school yet? Tell us about your new school.”

The child looked down at the table.

“Can’t you speak to your great-aunt? Tell us what
grade you’re in? Do you like your new teacher?” Carlene didn’t have the courtesy to gently draw the child out or to wait for a reply; she went after Benny like a bulldog after a little cat. Benny shifted awkwardly, looking up to his grandmother for help, as if silently begging permission to leave the table.

“Doesn’t the child talk?” Carlene asked. “Can’t you talk to me, Benny?”

Maudie took Benny’s hand, shaking her head. His eyes fixed on her, Benny settled down, only the stiffness of his thin back showing his continued discomfort. Carlene’s unkindness made the cats wonder how the Colletto boys had managed to survive in this household; it sure explained why Victor might be in prison, and Kent was so sullen. James Colletto didn’t seem strong enough, the cats thought, to counter this unfeeling woman.

“Benny hasn’t started school yet,” Maudie said, putting her arm around the child. “He’s been helping Lori Reed, the young girl who works for Ryan Flannery, up at the cottage. Benny—”

“A young girl works for a carpenter? How young?”

“Thirteen,” Benny said. “Lori—”

“But that’s dangerous, that’s against the law.”

“She has permission from the school,” Maudie said. “She works during certain class hours, and on weekends. Ryan is more than responsible, she sees that Lori’s work is safe.”

“Ryan can do anything,” Benny said as if the change of subject stirred his confidence. “Ryan saved Grandma yesterday when that truck almost hit her, she—”

“What
happened?” Carlene said, laying down her fork. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“A car swipe!” Benny said eagerly. “Ryan called it a hit-and-run, a car tried to hit Grandma, he came right at her and tried to hit her. Grandma—”

“It was nothing,” Maudie said quickly, trying to hush Benny. “It was an accident, someone looking the other way, driving too fast—”

“Nothing!” Carlene said. “A car nearly hit you, and it was nothing? What did the police say? Did they catch the driver? Crime is completely out of control in this village, the police are doing nothing. An assault on my very own sister, after all your suffering over Martin’s murder …”

“It was an accident,” Maudie repeated. “As to Martin’s death, Benny and I are getting on with life just as he would want us to do.”

Carlene sniffed with disgust. “And now David’s gone back to Atlanta and left you alone in the house with that wall torn out, so anyone can walk in …”

“The wall isn’t torn out. The glass slider is far more secure now, with the studio built around it, than it was before. Benny and I are just fine,” Maudie said, smiling down at the child. Benny looked up at her and nodded.

“I want Jared to stay with you for a while,” Carlene said, “until David sees fit to come back.” She looked pointedly at Jared. “It isn’t safe for Maudie, alone there. I’m surprised David would go on his merry way and—”