Drinks and beer were passed, and appetizers. Everyone toasted Charlie for signing her second book contract, then the conversation turned once again to the past few weeks, to the fate of Ray Gibbs, whose trial for the murder of Ryder Wolf was scheduled to begin in six weeks.
The night after Gibbs had been taken into custody in San Francisco, Dr. Emerson had called Dallas at the station to say he'd found Nina's dental records, that he'd called John Bern, and they had a match. So that was Nina in the Pamillon grave; they did not know yet whether that had been Nina in the tree house with Carson, they were waiting for a match on the DNA.
Lindsey said, "I know the lab's backed up, but what about the two bullets Dr. Bern found in Nina's grave? Do they have anything on that?"
"They do," Dallas said. "Those were.45 slugs." The bullets that had killed Ryder were.32 slugs and the rifling matched the revolver taken off Gibbs in San Francisco.
"But," Dallas told her, "OBI found the gun that killed Carson. Found it this morning, in the woods two miles from the tree house-they spent two weeks tramping the woods with metal detectors. This morning they dug up a.45 Colt with two smudged prints beneath the cylinder." He smiled. "Where Gibbs was careless wiping down the gun."
"Gibbs's prints," Lindsey said sadly, but not surprised.
"Ballistics matched it to the slugs in Chappell," Dallas said. "This will give their DA enough to indict Gibbs for Chappell's murder. With luck, he'll do time for that, as well as for Ryder's death.
"But as for the slugs in Nina's grave, they were so badly corroded it's not likely they'll ever get a match."
Lindsey sipped her drink. "I'll always believe that Gibbs killed Nina. I don't want to think that Ryder did that-I don't like to think Gibbs will never answer for that. But at least," she said, "if he's convicted for Carson's murder and for Ryder's, then he won't go free. I saw him shoot Ryder."
She frowned at Dallas. "I know I'm only one witness. I wish whoever else saw him shoot her, the man who called you from San Jose, would come forward. Why won't he? He was a witness, too! He was responsible enough to call you, so why won't he help us now? What's he afraid of suddenly? Ray's behind bars, Ray can't hurt him. But now he doesn't want to be involved anymore? Doesn't want to make sure the killer goes to prison?"
Across the room, the witness licked a white paw. He wanted very much to see Gibbs go to prison, but there was nothing he could do. He wished there were some way he could testify. Clyde and Ryan, and Charlie and Wilma, and the Greenlaws were all preoccupied, they daren't look at him.
Once again Mike toasted Lindsey for her quick, though foolhardy, action in following Ray Gibbs and cornering him. But no one toasted Joe Grey. No one rose to celebrate the tomcat's part in Gibbs's capture.
Those, however, who knew the truth gave Joe sly looks; Charlie winked at him and Ryan gave him a "thumbs-up" that no one else saw and that made the tomcat smile.
And as everyone toasted the newlyweds for the hundredth time, Kit watched Clyde and Ryan with interest.
What was it that made these two, in all the world, so happy and so right for each other? Why were they so perfect together?
And when she looked at Charlie and Max, she was aware of the same inner closeness.
She looked at her own dear Lucinda and Pedric, and then at Joe and Dulcie, and she knew that in all these couples, the same likeness of spirit had drawn them together and held them together, close and secure in their partnership.
But what, exactly, was that bond? Love, yes, but what was love? Where did it come from and what made it last? She didn't know what to call that mysterious oneness of spirit-she only knew she had not had that with Sage. She loved Sage, but not in the same way as this.
She thought about how Sage had suddenly turned so macho when he was well again and was back on his own ground, and she smiled, hoping that one of those pretty young queens in the clowder was the right one for him, that they would find, together, that same mysterious oneness.
MUCH LATER, when the party had ended and everyone had gone, when Clyde had put out the fire and Ryan turned out the lights, Joe and Rock and Snowball followed the couple up the stairs; soon they were all tucked up in the king-size bed, Ryan and Clyde sipping a nightcap as a fire burned on the hearth, its reflections dancing along the beams above them.
"Here's to Joe Grey," Ryan said, stroking the tomcat. "Gibbs is behind bars, where he belongs-you and Lindsey sure nailed him."
"And here's to Dulcie," Joe said. "If she hadn't alerted you two, I'd be locked in some stinking cage about now-or smashed flat on the concrete, decorated with tire marks."
Ryan shivered, then laughed. "You're a disgusting tomcat." She picked him up and hugged him, deeply embarrassing him because she was wearing only a thin, low-cut nightie. His embarrassment made her laugh harder. She put him down, watched him curl up between Rock and Snowball. Clyde, finishing his drink, turned out the light and, for this one night, despite their newlywed status, he and Ryan settled down to sleep among the warm, bed-hogging menagerie.
Dozing off, Joe thought, Sleep well, Dulcie. Sleep well, Kit, and was glad to have the tortoiseshell settled in once more, hopefully content, again, with her adopted family.
BUT AT THE Greenlaw house Kit wasn't sleeping snuggled down with her humans. She sat wide awake in her tree house, alone in the moonlight, far too energized to sleep. She thought about joy. She thought about all the wonders in the world she hadn't yet seen and smelled and tasted and clawed and leaped over.
Lucinda said that joy was the deep-down power one was born with-that some folks nurtured joy and let it grow, and some folks crippled it. She thought about Sage and prayed for his happiness. And she thought that somewhere out there in the world was the right tomcat for her. Waiting for her?
She thought about that for a long time, wondering. Then suddenly, filled right up to her ears with exciting thoughts, she raced out of her tree house along the oak branch, did a wild flip onto the windowsill nearly missing it, leaped inside onto the dining room table and off again to the rug, raced three times through the house as fast as a cat can run and landed on the bed, waking Lucinda and Pedric and making them laugh and hug her. And there she curled up between her two housemates. She slept at once, dreaming of so many wonders yet to see that in sleep her dark paws kicked and raced, her fluffy tail twitched, and she let out a little mewl of delight that made Lucinda and Pedric smile-made Lucinda think, as she so often did, Joy is her nature, and that will never change. That will always be so.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank Dr. Alyce Wolford for her understanding comments. Any errors or deviations are mine.
About the Author
SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.
www.joegrey.com
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