Cat Fear No Evil (6 page)

That got a laugh. He'd have to talk to Clyde; his housemate was getting careless.

Harper studied Ryan. “Did Lucinda tell you anything about him?”

“She said he'd been interested in a locket she'd bought somewhere north of Russian River. That he'd wanted to know where she got it. She said she'd picked up several pieces of really nice costume jewelry in a little shop up around Coloma. She showed me the gold locket. It was set with topazes, and had a cat's face in the center. Beautifully made, rich, heavy gold all carved in leaves and flowers.” She looked up at Kate. “It was, in fact, very like your choker. Same style, that heavy baroque look but…well, but different than baroque.”

Kate was very still.

Ryan said, “Could the pieces have come from the same place originally? Old jewelry, some of which found its way to San Francisco? Maybe from the same group, the same jeweler?”

“The appraiser thought my pieces were made in the last century,” Kate said. “He reminded me there were a lot of Italian immigrants along the coast then, and that some were fine jewelers.”

Max turned to Ryan. “Did Lucinda tell you anything else about Sammy?”

“Not that I remember,” Ryan said, pushing back her short, dark hair. Her resemblance to her uncle, Detective Garza, was most striking when she frowned, when she looked thoughtful and serious.

Rising, Harper moved out to the foyer, flipping open his cell phone. The cats could see him standing just at the head of the stairs, punching in a number. Joe counted ten digits. Maybe he was calling Lucinda and Pedric's cell phone. He tried the number twice, waiting for quite a few rings each time, then spoke briefly, apparently leaving a message, and returned to the table.

“It's midnight,” Charlie said. “Would they turn off the phone at night?”

Max said, “Maybe they leave the phone in the kitchen at night, and don't hear it?”

“Maybe they checked into a nice inn somewhere,” Wilma said, “and left the phone in the RV. They stay at an inn or motel every few nights.”

On the window seat, the kit, always jumping to the worst conclusions, moved between Joe and Dulcie, nervously kneading her claws. It took stern stares from both cats to make her settle down again. Above them the sky brightened as the clouds blew past, revealing the thin moon.

“When I mailed the preliminary drawings to them last week,” Ryan said, “they were in Eugene.” She looked at Kate. “Aren't they coming through San Francisco?”

“They are,” Kate said, “so I can show them the Cat Museum. It was nice they were here in the village the same time I was; Lucinda and I hit it right off. I'd never
known her well when I lived in the village. Just to speak to. I had no idea she was so…that we'd have so much in common. We're some forty years apart, but that doesn't matter, I feel like I've known her forever.”

As you should, Joe Grey thought, exchanging a look with Dulcie. And Wilma glanced across at the cats, knowing exactly what they were thinking: that Kate and Lucinda, because they shared special knowledge, would naturally be friends.

Those who knew the cats' secret had grown to a number that was sometimes alarming to Joe Grey. Secrecy was the only true protection he and Dulcie and Kit had against the wrong people knowing their true nature. They had learned that the hard way. Certainly, if ever the news media found out about talking cats, the fur would hit the fan big time.

Though as for their true friends, it was deeply satisfying to be surrounded by six staunch supporters, to have human allies who understood them. With Clyde and Wilma, Charlie and Kate, Lucinda and Pedric Greenlaw playing backup, as it were, they were not alone in the world.

As for the three criminal types who knew their secret, the cats tried not to think about that. If fate were truly to smile, not only convicted killer Lee Wark, but Jimmie Osborne, Kate's ex-husband, would remain behind bars in San Quentin for the rest of their natural lives. And old Greeley Urzey, if indeed he had not accompanied Azrael back to the States, would stay in Central America for the rest of
his
evil days.

Well, Joe thought, he wasn't going to ruin his supper thinking about those no-goods. The salmon mousse was far too delicious. Licking the creamy confection
from his whiskers, he would, like Scarlett, think about his enemies tomorrow. He listened to Ryan, Charlie, and Wilma make plans for an early breakfast and had almost finished his large helping of mousse when a black shadow appeared on the window seat, cast down from the moonlit skylight, a pricked ear and feline profile striking across his plate. Staring up, Joe met the blazing yellow eyes of the black tomcat; the beast's presence made Joe swallow his supper with a shocked snarl.

Beside him Dulcie hissed, crouching and looking up. And beside her the kit cringed low, staring up through the glass where the black tom poised predatory and still, intently watching them, his eyes blazing with the reflected glow of the restaurant's soft lights. In the backlight of the moon Joe could not see the beast's wicked face, only his broadly extended cheeks and flattened ears; surely a cold smile played across that evil countenance. As the three cats stared, rumbling low in their throats, the humans at the table looked up, too; and Charlie caught her breath; Wilma and Clyde half rose as if to chase the beast away, then glanced at each other and sat down again.

Max Harper put his hand on Charlie's arm. “It's only a cat, some cat wandering the rooftops.” He looked at her strangely. “What did you think?”

“I…I don't know. It's so big, it appeared so suddenly up there.”

The cats knew well that she was thinking the same as they; they could see her flash of shocked dismay that the black tom had returned, before she hid her true feelings and smiled at Max.

“Nerves, I guess,” she said softly. “More stressed over the show than I'd thought.”

Harper nodded. He did not look convinced. Glancing puzzled at Clyde, he hugged Charlie. She relaxed against him, smiling as if she had been flighty and silly.

Above them Azrael hadn't moved. Joe imagined him highly amused by the stir he was causing—to Joe, and to those who understood Azrael, the presence of the black tom cut through the companionable evening like claws ripping velvet. Beside Joe, Dulcie's green eyes glinted and her low growl was deep with rage, her angry rumble hiding a keen anxiety. But now that the kit's first startled fear had passed, she looked from Joe to Dulcie wide eyed, and extended a soft paw to Dulcie, a silent question. Joe watched her uneasily.

The kit had been told about Azrael; but Kit did not like to take others' word, she wanted to experience every new thing for herself. Joe glanced at Dulcie. The kit would need some talking to.

The delight of the evening, Charlie's joy in her first one-man show, and the friends' happy celebration, had, with the waiter's death, turned chill and worrisome. Now with the dark presence of the half-wild beast who called himself the death angel, Joe Grey felt his skin crawl with an ugly portent of disaster.

C
harlie's late supper party was long over, the guests
departed and by now sleeping deeply, the predawn village deserted. The time was five
A.M.
The courthouse clock had just struck, as the black tom left the roof where he had slept.

Pacing the streets through the muted glow from the shop windows, he looked up with interest at interminable arrangements of holiday confection, leather coats displayed among autumn leaves, hand-knit sweaters and bright jewelry framed by golden pumpkins—every window so full of fall excess they made a cat retch. Swaggering as he approached the windows of the Aronson Gallery, he considered with disdain the seven pieces of Charlie's work that hung facing the street, the large drawing of Joe Grey dangling a mouse from his teeth, the color print of Dulcie reclining on a paisley cushion like some 1940s girlie calendar.

These little cats were too high above themselves, they had grown far too vain with all this attention. It was time they were taken down.

At five o'clock on this dark winter morning the streets were still deserted, no lone gardener working along the sidewalk tending the shop-front flowers, not even a seagull careening and diving across the inky sky. The only living creatures in view besides Azrael himself were a couple of homeless men huddled in a doorway trying to keep warm, trying to maintain a low profile in this village where police did not encourage nonpaying overnight guests.

Azrael had slept quite comfortably on the roof of the Patio Café tucked between the steeply slanting shingles of a small penthouse and the restaurant's chimney, which had held its warmth until long past midnight. The brick-and-shingle cave, conveniently out of the wind, had been scented pleasantly with aromas from the restaurant, with the heady smell of steak and lobster and fried onions.

He hadn't slept hungry. Before he retired to the roofs he had taken a leisurely supper from the restaurant's garbage bins, probably scrounging the leavings, he thought sourly, of Charlie Harper's dinner party.

From the roof last night he had watched the party break up and emerge from the restaurant in twos and threes, Charlie and Captain Harper pausing to bid good night to Wilma and her houseguest. Very nice. Wilma had invited Charlie to an early breakfast, so that Charlie could then show Kate Osborne the duplex that Kate wanted to rent.

No one but these weird women would invite company for breakfast at six on a winter morning—all this human camaraderie made Azrael retch.

Now, swarming up an old, thick bougainvillea vine, he prowled the rooftops again. They were barely be
ginning to brighten. To the east, the first light of dawn smeared bloody fingers across the dark hills. Heading across the roofs for Wilma Getz's cottage, he shivered in the cold wind that whipped in off the sea—felt like it came straight out of the Arctic. He never would get used to the damp chill in these northern regions, he could never shake the longing to sidle up to a sunny wall or to a rooftop heat vent. This part of the continent was fine for a short visit, for a brief session of snatch-and-grab with one human partner or another, but he would never want to live here.

He had tolerated the chill when he knew that he and Greeley would soon be taking off again for warmer climes, but this trip without Greeley was another matter. Having severed relations with the old drunk, he now had no sure promise of a return to that comfortable latitude; he didn't in fact know just where he was headed.

But something would turn up, something always did. The longing for a place of one's own, that senseless yearning that beset most cats and most people, had never troubled him. Meanwhile, his present situation was more than tolerable. Excellent food, excellent sleeping arrangements when he chose to take advantage, and some most interesting ventures.

Staring over the gutter where the two homeless men had left their lair to check out the trash cans, Azrael understood perfectly their wanderlust: those two might be scruffy and smelly but they had the right idea. Adventure was far more important than walls and a roof. The lure of what was out there around the next bend, the challenge of whatever lay beyond the shadows, of thrills yet untasted, that was the true quality of life.

He had parted from Greeley in Panama City to look
for just such fresh vistas after a bellyful of Greeley's newly wedded bliss, a sickening surfeit of Greeley's prissy bride and her attempts to domesticate Greeley's sweet little cat. Expecting him to drape himself around the house and purr on cue—he'd had enough of that in a hurry. Walking out for the last time, he'd taken up with that blond floozie in Panama City, had found her in a local bar, spent the evening winding around her ankles and had gone right on home with her to her poky little hotel room. By the time she headed state-side again, he'd not only revealed to her his conversational talents, he'd convinced her that he was the partner of a lifetime, that she couldn't take full advantage of her light-fingered skills without him. Oh, Gail had had a lust to steal. He'd greatly admired her talents. He'd picked her out of the crowd at the bar, as sure of her nature as if he'd caught her in the act.

Traveling with Gail to the States, he'd endured the kitty carrier and the nine-hour plane ride only because of the challenges that lay ahead. In San Francisco, where Gail had a boyfriend, they'd burgled a few shops and pulled off some amusing shoplifting gigs. And he had discovered a colony of cats that deeply interested him—he'd learned a lot in the city before they hit the road again traveling south, to enjoy a few easy heists along the coast. The weather had been warm for that part of California. Settling for a while here in the village while Gail entered a contest for would-be starlets, they had hit the jewelry stores and the upscale shops smooth as butter—until the dumb broad killed a guy and got herself sent to prison.

Then he'd split again, making himself scarce. But he hadn't gone far; this wealthy part of the coast was full
of prospects. He'd remained on his own until he took up with his present associate, a partner far smoother than Gail or Greeley. Though both the blonde and the old man had been good for laughs.

His present colleague was much more talented than either of those two, a thief as cold as an Amazon boa. This partnership could, in fact, be the most interesting venture yet in his varied career. And now, concentrating his attention on Kate Osborne, he might really be onto something.

Leaping from a café balcony to the slanted roof of a bay window, he dropped down to a patio table, one of a dozen that the restaurant kept filled even in winter months. Tourists would freeze their figurative tails off to be seen eating al fresco in a sidewalk café as if they were in Europe. Thumping heavily to the brick paving, he headed up past the crowded shops, where cozy, close-set cottages took over.

Approaching Wilma Getz's small stone house, he slipped in among the masses of flowers that forested the woman's front yard beneath the oak trees. The old girl got up early; already the kitchen window was brightly lit, its glow reflecting blood-red from the bougainvillea flowers that framed the glass. The gaudy blooms stirred within the tomcat a painful longing for the hot streets of Panama.

Charlie Harper's van was not yet in sight; but Kate's car of course stood in the drive, the cream-colored Riviera silvered with dew. He found it interesting that she drove a seven-year-old vehicle. Maybe Clyde Damen kept it in running order for her. Azrael had learned a good deal last night about Kate Osborne.

Before the gallery opening, wandering in that direc
tion to have a look, he'd been sidetracked by an appealing white Angora. She had insisted on leading him on a circuitous route of hide-and-seek, sickeningly coy. Why couldn't females simply accept what was offered and forget the foreplay? When he followed her under the deck of the Bakery Café, he had recognized Kate and Wilma's voices above him and caught a snatch of their conversation.

Promptly abandoning the Angora, driving her away when she returned to him coyly rolling over, he had listened with rising interest to the conversation above him. Kate was saying something about a cat museum, then mentioned some unusual pieces of jewelry carved with cats. That had brought his ears up.

The two women were apparently enjoying a light, early dinner on their way to the gallery opening. Lashing his tail with interest, he had settled under the deck just beneath their table.

The dining deck was crowded, all the tables were full, the tangle of conversations assaulting his ears like the dissonant caws of a flock of unruly crows. As he sought to isolate Kate and Wilma's discussion, he was nearly overcome by the aroma of broiled salmon—one didn't get fresh salmon in Panama, the waters were too warm, although the local fish and fresh prawns were quite superior. Pushing up between the supporting timbers of the deck, peering up through the cracks between the slats, he had studied Kate. The slim, blond young woman had an air about her that deeply interested him, that set her apart from other humans, that made him want to observe her closely. She was leaning across the table speaking softly, “Of course it's foolish. Why do I relate the jewelry to such an idea? Why do I
keep imagining the jewelry linked to some impossible lost world? Except,” she said uncertainly, “McCabe's journals—the man I think was my grandfather—speak of such a world as if he believed in it. Strange remarks, Wilma. Why do I keep returning to those entries? Surely I misread them. What is it in my nature, that wants to believe such things?”

What, indeed?
Azrael had thought, observing Kate and smiling.

Having been raised in Latin America where unusual tales were believed, where wild stories had substance, where myth was a powerful part of life, the tomcat was a strong believer in matters supernatural. And why not, given his own surreal nature.

“The gold work,” Kate was saying, “is so unlike anything else I've ever seen, like nothing I've found in any book on jewelry.” But she laughed. “I take one class in the history of jewelry, ten years ago, and I know it all.”

“But you did research it,” Wilma said. “You spent hours in the city libraries.”

Kate had leaned back, sipping her tea. “I'm being so silly. Those twelve pieces, even if they're a couple of centuries old, were very likely made right here in California. And even if the jewels are paste, the appraiser
was
interested in them—as curiosities, he said.”

“Who was he? You had them appraised in San Francisco?”

“Yes. Emerson Bristol. He came highly recommended.”

The tomcat stiffened and remained still, watching Kate through the cracks.
Emerson Bristol. Well doesn't that win the gold cat dish.
And as he considered this
unlikely happenstance, some interesting pieces began to fall into place.

“I know who he is,” Wilma said. “Yes, he has an excellent reputation.”

“Bristol showed me some pictures from different periods. That, with what I remember from art school and then what I found on my own, made me see clearly what he meant. The style of my pieces is almost Art Deco, yet very different from that, much more primitive. Yet not medieval. Or baroque or Spanish, but a little of all of them. Not anything like nineteenth-century European work.”

She looked intently at Wilma. “Whoever made that jewelry had his own ideas. Maybe some lone jeweler emigrating from Europe, wanting to work alone, to do his art
his
way. I can understand that, that he did not want to follow tradition.”

She broke a French roll, dropping a few crumbs down onto Azrael's nose. “Maybe he produced a small body of work that found its way into private collections but never into any big collections or museums. And then it got scattered again when people died off, and was all but lost.”

“Did Bristol think that might be the case?”

“We didn't discuss that. He simply said he found the work different and interesting.” Kate had leaned forward again, as if looking intently at Wilma, her face hidden above the table. “Could that lone jeweler have been my ancestor? And those twelve pieces stayed within his family? Then through their attorney, they found their way to me.”

“I'm no authority,” Wilma said, “but if others found it interesting, as your appraiser did, why was it ignored
and forgotten? When the jewelry is so unique, why
didn't
some collector search it out? You said Bristol wanted to buy it?”

“He said he has a small collection of oddities. He didn't offer me much. After all, the jewels are paste.” Kate paused. “Well the gold, of course, is worth something. It's lovely, but…”

“You have the other pieces safe, not lying around your apartment?”

“They're in my bank box, because of the gold and the workmanship. Until I know what they're all about.”

“You said five other pieces, besides the barrette you gave Charlie, are designed with the images of cats?”

“Yes. But lots of designers use cats, have done, all through history.” Kate sat very still at the table. The setting sun piercing down through the slats had warmed Azrael. Kate said, “Perhaps the pieces
are
older, from some European village that was very fond of its cats. Or maybe the jewelry was made in some isolated community here, by talented immigrants who settled back in the mountains, a little enclave where cats were valued.”

She was, Azrael thought, denying the very world he sought, denying the very world from which she surely had descended. “Folk who stayed together,” she said, “a little pocket of civilization that preferred to remain off by itself.”

“But why,” Wilma said, “when the pieces are so beautifully made, weren't they set with real stones?”

“A common practice in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and even today, I guess. It didn't seem to make much difference whether the jeweler was working with real stones or imitation, the craftsman-
ship was equally fine.” Kate set down her teacup. “The most amazing part, to me, was to finally track down the legal firm that gave them to me. The firm that served my grandfather—if McCabe was my grandfather. It's changed its name twice, and it looks to me like it won't be around much longer. The one remaining attorney is ancient. I can't imagine hiring him. I understand he does mostly grunt work now.