Gail is terrified. She gets out of there fast. But the black tomcat returns when the commotion begins in the morning, leering in through the window. He has no conscience, that one.
It could have happened that way. But still Joe wondered about Alice Manning. While Gail and Azrael were robbing the village shops, passing the money to Larry to hide and maybe using Larry as lookout, did Alice know about their operation?
When the police recovered the money and jewelry that were hidden in the spare tire well of Gail’s car, the count had been $1,500 short of the money stolen-the same amount that was taken from Charles, Ltd. Likely that was what Gail hid in her suitcase as he watched through the motel window, thinking she was Alice-or had that been Alice?
Gail would have had to do some quick changing, doubling back to the motel after she left the restaurant, then changing again after she stashed the money. But not impossible, he thought, given the time frame and the short distances.
The stolen crystal and leather items were still missing. The lab had found fibers from Frances Farrow’s leotard on Gail’s gloves that Joe had dropped on Harper’s desk-had found just what Joe thought they’d find. However, the charge, in that death, could be no more than manslaughter.
But the gun that killed Larry Cruz, though Gail apparently handled it with gloves, showed one good print, on the end of the magazine, that was unmistakably Gail’s. Now, Gail was safely locked up. Her human partner was dead.
But her feline accomplice had vanished. And of course, in Max Harper’s version of the robberies, there was no black tomcat.
“Gail worked for a locksmith in San Diego,” Harper said, sipping tea from the ridiculously small cup. “She was there five years, then worked a year for a security firm before she moved to Santa Monica, where she met Larry. Before that, she lived for a year in Panama. We’re not certain what she was doing there, but likely that has no bearing on the case.”
Doesn’t it, Joe Grey thought, smiling.
“And you didn’t get back all the money?” Jim Manning asked.
“No,” Harper said. “But we have the murder weapon. It was buried out on the cliffs.”
“That was lucky,” Alice said. “How did you find it? Did you have a tip?”
Harper looked at her gently, and said nothing.
“And you caught Gail in her car, leaving town,” Alice said. “That’s good police work.” She watched Harper expectantly, waiting for additional details.
Harper didn’t offer any. What was it about Alice Manning, Joe wondered, that put Harper off? The captain turned to Patty. “You knew Larry had a fetish for you, Patty. For your movies, for your look-alikes, and for Patty Rose memorabilia. You saw his room after we searched it, the walls papered with your photographs and old movie bills.”
Patty laughed. “Some of that stuff is worth some money today. He had a real collector’s den. I knew he had a fixation about the old movies, but I didn’t think too much about it.”
“It didn’t occur to you that he might be dangerous? Why did you hire him?”
Patty shrugged. “ Alice asked me the same. I don’t know. I didn’t think he was dangerous, just a little strange. Harmless. I guess I liked the guy.”
Joe and Dulcie exchanged an amused look. And it was not until that evening, as the cats sat on the kitchen counter watching Clyde broil a steak, that the $1,500 turned up.
They didn’t hear a thing. The steak was sizzling and a CD was playing Dixieland. When Clyde went in the living room to change the record, he saw a white envelope lying on the rug inside Joe’s cat door. A thick envelope that, when he opened it, contained a sheaf of fifty and hundred dollar bills.
Switching off the porch light, Clyde stepped outside. Neither he nor the cats saw anyone. There was no note in the envelope, only the money. There were no cat hairs stuck to the bills. Joe examined it for tooth marks but found only one tiny indentation in the corner-it could have been made by any sharp object. The scent of the envelope was such a mix of perfumes, lotions, hamburger, French fries, and maybe cat spit, that even Joe couldn’t sort it out.
“So who left it?” Clyde said, laying the envelope on the coffee table and picking up the phone to call Harper.
“Likely we’ll never know,” Joe said. “Wonder why they brought it here?”
Clyde shrugged. “The shopkeepers will be happy to have it.” He made the call, then returned to the kitchen to carve half the sirloin into rare, thin slices for Joe and Dulcie. He served them on the best china.
About the Author
Shirley Rousseau Murphy is best known for her award-winning Joe Grey cat mystery novels, but she has also written fantasies such as The Catswold Portal and the Dragonbards trilogy, as well as many books for children. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, on which the village in the Joe Grey novels is loosely based.
