"But what about George Chambers," Clyde said. "Was it Fulman who stabbed Chambers?"
"No prints on the knife," Harper said. "And Chambers didn't see his attacker. There may not be enough there to make anything." Harper didn't seem to want to talk about Chambers.
Joe and Dulcie glanced at each other, wondering if Chambers had seen Fulman and Cara Ray kill Shamas? If he had not been asleep in his cabin, after all? If Harper might be protecting Chambers as the only remaining witness to the murder of Shamas Greenlaw?
"But then," Charlie asked, "did Fulman try to kill Pedric because he knew about the bag of money?"
"I'd guess the whole family knew there was stash hidden somewhere. That they just kept out of Dirken's way, that it was Dirken's call, and that they knew they'd get their cut. No, I'm guessing he tried to kill Pedric because Pedric was getting too friendly with Lucinda.
Tubman might have been afraid Pedric would clue Lucinda in on the scams they were running, and that she would come to us, turn him in.
"When Fulman attacked Pedric, he most likely thought he'd killed him."
Joe and Dulcie looked at each other and turned away smiling. Harper would never know that the one witness to that attack and Newlon's murder slept on the table only a few feet from him-a witness who would never face a jury in a court of law.
Joe, licking his shoulder, caught a glance from Clyde, a pitifully chastened look that made Joe want to roll over laughing. Clyde's misjudgment and embarrassment provided a frame of mind that, if Joe played his cards right, should be good for several weeks' worth of gourmet dinners from Jolly's, to say nothing of an improved breakfast menu.
Wilma, on the other hand, had the same smug, I-told-you-so look as the cats. She and Harper had nailed nine members of the Greenlaw clan, including Dirken, on fraud charges across the country from Molena Point to North Carolina. The fact that her old, unreformed probationer was behind bars, as well, and likely to stay there, didn't hurt her mood, either.
Wilma had terminated her investigative position at Beckwhite's, laying all future problems back in the lap of Sheril Beckwhite, and had returned to the library, along with Dulcie. Joe had to say, the moods of both were improved. Dulcie, in fact, was wildly cheerful. Whatever problem she'd had, to make her so moody, seemed to have vanished when the little tattered kit came to stay with her and Wilma-though even the pups had driven away some of Dulcie's scowls and tail-lashings.
It might be, Joe thought, that the pups had found a permanent home. At least maybe Selig had. Selig's silliness seemed a challenge to Max Harper. The pup got along very well with Harper's three horses, too, running and playing with them in the pasture.
Charlie seemed reluctant to part with Hestig. She'd said twice, that week, that she might look for a house with a yard.
Joe knew he had been staring at Charlie. She rose, reaching to stroke Dulcie. "Come on, cats. Come and walk with me."
The three cats dropped down from the table and galloped after her, racing past her as she climbed the steep hillside.
Sitting high atop Hellhag Hill like any four friends out for a walk, Charlie and the cats looked down at the little tables and umbrellas below them, where the last wedding guests lingered, all so small they looked like dolls arranged from a child's toy set. Beyond the umbrellas, out upon the sea, a billion suns winked and danced across the whitecaps.
To the north shone the rooftops of the village, muted red and pale, drawn together by the dark oaks, then the green hills rolled away toward the low mountains, their emerald curves punctuated with tree-sheltered houses, with little gardens and pale stone walls.
Among the hills, the cats could see Harper's acreage, his white house and barn and the roof of the hay shed, the fence lines as thin as threads. Three dark shapes moved slowly across the green field where Harper's gelding and two mares grazed. Two smaller, pale shapes were busy beyond them-deer foraging among the horses.
They could see, down in the village, Joe's own street, Clyde's dark roof that always needed shingles, and, across Ocean past the courthouse tower, Wilma's pale new shake roof and a glimpse of her stone chimney. They could see the red tile roofs of Beckwhite's Automotive Agency and Clyde's repair shop, marking the spot where the cats had tracked their first killer- and where they'd had to dodge bullets. They'd been mighty glad to be alive when that party ended. A lot had happened since they saw Samuel Beckwhite struck down in the alley behind Jolly's Deli.
Below Harper's home lay the old Spanish mansion with its little cemetery, and farther to the north the old folks' home. Beyond these, nearer the village, they could see where painter Janet Jeannot had died, where her studio had burned, and had been rebuilt long after Janet's killer was prosecuted.
Swift movement pulled them back to Harper's pasture. The two deer were running full out, as if something had startled them.
But they moved strangely, for deer. Too low to the ground, and no leaping.
"The pups," Charlie said. "They've broken out of their stall."
The cats pictured solid wood walls shredded, perhaps a door latch broken. Running, the pups vanished in a valley. It was only a moment until they came flying up over the rise below Hellhag Hill. Perhaps they were drawn by the music and by the human voices and laughter.
Racing up the hill, they made straight for the reception, crashing in among the tables, overturning empty champagne bottles, snatching food from the buffet. Clyde and Harper moved fast to corral them.
"What a mess they are," Charlie said, looking at Dulcie and Joe. "What made them attack Fulman like that? Confusion? Selig was terribly confused by that man-he wanted to be friends, then he growled and barked at him."
Charlie smiled. "Hestig just growled and barked. But they're good pups. They'll settle down. They'll grow up to be good dogs."
As good as a dog can be, Joe Grey thought, cutting Dulcie a glance.
"Well," Charlie said, "the pups helped save the day for Lucinda." She grinned at Joe Grey. "You cats did fine work. All those letters from Fulman's trailer. The letters, the ledger, and the shirt. And, with the pups, I know you saved Lucinda's life."
The cats did not reply. They were still shy with Charlie. No need to tell Charlie that it was the kit who had found the two crucial pieces of evidence, or that it was the kit who had identified Fulman as Newlon's killer.
Charlie might learn, one day, the talents of the tortoiseshell kit; Charlie was so open-minded for a human, so eager to understand. But she didn't need to know right away.
And the kit? Dulcie had the feeling that this bright-eyed, ragtag, bushy-tailed kitten might have huge wonders to show them all. To show her and Joe, and show those humans like Charlie-show the innocent and uncorrupted of the world, who had the courage and heart to believe.
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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