Stealing Murder: A Cat Clarke 1960s Adventure (The Cat Clarke 1960s Mysteries) Read online

  Stealing Murder

  A Cat Clarke 1960s Adventure

  Beth Byers

  Contents

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Beth Byers

  Summary

  April 1961

  In the first introductory Clarke novella, you’ll meet Cat, Thea, and Albert Clarke. They tend towards the naughty. You know…a little vengeful pickpocketing. A smidgeon of well-aimed fraud. A dabbling of burglary from the deserving.

  These unexpected siblings have their eyes on the prize with their greatest heist yet. Only someone else beats them to the prize.

  In moments, Cat is on the run, Albert is in danger, and Thea has to step out of the shadows. If they don’t find Cat before the feds, they’re all going down. Time for the team to accomplish their greatest feat yet: infiltrate the feds, discover their foe, and keep their freedom.

  Chapter 1

  Cat Clarke

  I skipped up the steps, feeling the beat in my soul. I had my wristwatch as a backup for our plans, but I didn’t need it. I’d use it, of course, but I didn’t need it. All I needed was this moment, the rush of feeling, the glory of walking through the front door, up these steps, and enacting this plan.

  Excitement arched through me. I knew my cheeks were red and my eyes were bright. It was as if I was on something the way my awareness filtered around me. I could feel the eyes of my brother on me, across the street in the cab we’d stolen for the day. Thea was certainly in the library halfway down the street, watching through a window. At the moment, I was the star of the show, and I would be until I removed the Rembrandt from its frame, rolled it tightly up, and walked it from the building.

  I purchased a ticket while snapping gum and chattering, so that the girl behind the glass, Vera, laughed at my joke before adding, “We’re closing soon, miss.”

  I ignored the sound of the New York City traffic and the blaring of horns happening just at the end of the block. This street was quiet, and this little museum was tucked into a refuge of a neighborhood. The offices were starting to close and before long, it would be mostly deserted.

  Making this the perfect time to pull this heist. “Just killing time before a date. Hoping to reel in a sugar daddy, if you know what I mean.” I winked my too-large fake lashes and blew Vera a kiss.

  A moment later, I was through the door and flashing my legs, a grin, and bright eyes at the guard. I had seen him at least a dozen times and was always disturbed by that hair growing out of the mole on his chin. Let alone his size. He was a big man, almost huge, with a lascivious gaze and a tendency towards blunt rudeness. He bullied the later guard relentlessly, and I’d seen him pinch Vera’s bottom nearly every time he could get her in reach.

  From the grand foyer, I glanced around. On both sides of the foyer, Juliette’s designer had turned a series of parlors and little studies into one grand display area when the house was transformed into a museum.

  On the left were works from the Renaissance, mostly owned or stolen by the Arison family. To the right was a similar setup, but it was filled with art lent to the museum, mostly from Juliette’s friends. Mama, in fact, had sent over some of Da Vinci’s sketches of a cat that normally hung in the Paris apartment. Before she’d taken the three of us in, Mama was well on her way to being a rich woman with too many cats and a problem with vodka.

  In the foyer itself, antique tables were topped with expensive vases and statuettes.

  “Oooh, pretty,” I cooed, over a Ming vase worth more than the entire staff of this museum would earn in their lifetimes. Twirling my ponytail, I ran up the steps until I reached the landing. The famous stained-glass skylight gave me the chance to frame myself in the late afternoon light.

  I bet that I looked as though I were supernatural, my bright outfit contrasting with the white walls and white stairs. If I weren’t on a job, I’d have been uncomfortable with this ensemble. Over-the-top hair—a long, blonde wig that I fiddled with. Albert assured me that men loved long hair. He’d followed up with why, but I’d only caught the first half since I’d slapped my hands over my ears and sang Battle Hymn of the Republic to drown him out.

  Below the hairdo, I wore an over-the-top bright-colored, too tight, too short mini dress. I was tall for a woman and most of that length was in my legs, so my skirt showed what felt like acres of skin. Add in the bright pink scarf, the big gold earrings, red lipstick and lime green go-go boots, and I could cause a man to go blind.

  I paused at the top of the stairs, flipped my ponytail over my shoulder while running my fingers along its golden length. I twirled the end of the pony and shimmied my dress down a little. It hadn’t ridden up—it was too short for that—but the effect of trying kept the guard’s gaze on me.

  I had kept my fingertips to myself rather than letting them touch even one surface. It’s so much harder than you’d think to not touch anything. So much so that Albert, Thea, and I made a game of it. The thought of those games made me laugh. I smirked and glanced over my shoulder. The mole guard leaned back with a satisfied grin on his face as I twirled the end of my ponytail again.

  With my body turned so I was at my best advantage to keep mole guard’s attention, Thea stepped up to the ticket box and purchased a ticket. Her gaze was away from the girl, and her demeanor was as invisible as could be. She did fade into nothing so very well.

  As Thea opened the door and the bell rang to proclaim her presence, I sneezed, dropping my handbag. I leaned down to pick it up, knowing that the lacy panties I’d purchased for just this moment held his gaze on me while Thea moved quietly past his desk, almost melding into the wallpaper.

  If he glanced her way, he’d see her graying hair, her oversized clothes that hid a fabulous figure, and the movements of an uptight, old maid. A moment later, she was out of view and I slowly stood, grinned an invitation at the guard I knew Thea would have to handle, and laughed lightly.

  Her revenge would come eventually, but what was it like if you didn’t take your chances to torment your siblings? I disappeared down the long hall of portraits of the Arison family hung with the same care as the real art.

  The moment I was out of sight, I glanced around to make sure no one else was in the hall and then I darted down the space, running on my toes, until I reached the door of the servants’ stair hidden in the woodwork. It was locked, of course, but since when did that matter?

  As I slipped into the darkness, I saw the flash of a ruby in the sunlight and flinched. That ruby choker spoke to my soul in a way that the Good Book never had.

  Albert Clarke

  They were in. I closed my eyes and crossed myself. My momma, God rest her soul, would turn over in her grave if she knew what I was up to. She’d taught me to be a good boy. She’d looked after me and read me the Bible and done what she could.

  But then she’d died and I’d been left with nothing. Scrambling to work, trying to keep away from those men who’d eyed a boy like me as though I were something they had plans for. I don’t know how many times the hair had risen on the back of my head, and I’d run for it, hiding until they moved on to some other poor kid.

  Then Mama Louisa came along, and eventually Cat, and the hair on the back of my neck didn’t rise. It should have, though. Look at me now. Look at where I was. I was in a stolen car with swapped plates, dressed like a cabbie and pretending to take my break, so I would be here if Cat or Thea needed help. I was rolling around in trouble, and I—I had to admit—was loving it.

  The problem with Cat was that she pulled us all in, and by heaven, we wanted to be pulled in. We wanted the rush of life and living and the chance to climb the side of a building and hold a rope for her to slide down. We wanted to put on a disguise and steal architectural plans and come up with a heist that challenged every skill we’d attained.

  Without Cat, Thea would have worked in one of these museums, looking after the art and planning parties, never realizing she was bored and unhappy. Of course, without Cat, we wouldn’t have Thea. Thea or me. Mama would have gone on living her life, looking for someone to love until she’d have found that someone.

  It wouldn’t have been us, though. Thea had run away from home and someone else would have found her. A good man would have sent her home, never stopping to realize what her cracked ribs, bloody lip, and swollen face would become when she was dragged back to the ‘tender’ care of her father.

  As for me? Eventually, my instincts would have kicked in too late and that would have been the start of the final chapter of my survival. Just another black, homeless kid caught up by the city and turned into dead meat.

  A fellow knocked on the window of my car, flashing me a badge. My eyes widened with horror and I couldn’t help myself from turning my gaze to the museum. The girls were inside, and it was too late to do anything but pray.

  “What are you doing here?” To my utter relief, the question wasn’t mean.

  “Just having lunch, sir. I’m off the clock until the evening rush.”

  “Too far to go home?” the man asked and then followed up with, “You usually take your breaks here?”

  I nodd
ed as he examined me.

  “Anything odd happening lately?”

  I started to shake my head and then frowned. “Something happening?”

  “Weird tip is all,” the officer said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  My heart was beating so hard I thought he’d see it trying to escape my chest. I could almost hear Cat whispering in my head.: Act like you’re supposed to be where you are and most people won’t challenge you. Act like you’re up to no good and you’re in extra trouble.

  “You want me to go, sir?”

  The man shook his head again, and then to my shock, he pulled a card from his pocket. “You see anything odd, you give my office a call, will you? It’s just the girls there, right now. But ask for Dorothy. She’s the least useless.”

  I laughed as if I wasn’t offended for the girls in his office. My sisters were far more dangerous and cleverer than me. This man was an idiot.

  I wanted to warn the girls. There was no way that the tip was connected to us. First of all, cat burglars didn’t have runaway vehicles lurking outside of museums like bank robbers.

  But what if that tip was about us?

  No, it wasn’t possible. No one knew what we were up to except for the four of us. I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in the world, but I was certain of Cat, Thea, and Mama Louisa, which meant that someone was onto us.

  Could that be the case? It didn’t make sense in the least, but the hair had risen on the back of my neck and that had me worried.

  I’d have given a lot to be able to talk to the girls right then or to call Mama. Instead, I nodded at the plainclothes policeman and reached over for the sandwich I’d only taken one bite from. Another bite down and a book put on the steering wheel, and I was back to lurking outside of the museum, a getaway driver for one of the world’s greatest cat burglars.

  Chapter 2

  Thea Clarke

  Cat was at the top of the steps, her bottom perfectly framed to show the guard, Stephen Collins, that her panties were very lacy indeed. She wouldn’t remember his name, but I would. Words were the key with me—the way to my heart and my mind. I’d never remember your name if you told it to me, but I might if you wrote it down. Or wore it on your shirt. Given the etched name tag and the massive mole, complete with hair growing out of it, I knew that good old Stephen Collins would chase me into my dreams.

  Beyond Collins, there was a man in the long space that had been the left-side parlor, staring at the Vermeer. I had never cared for Vermeer. I preferred more whimsy in my art. Vermeer made portraits that reflected what people actually looked like without mythos or blurry edges or imagination. We weren’t here for the Vermeer anyway, thankfully. I preferred to steal art that I liked. Either way, I pushed my glasses up my nose, knowing that the fellow wasn’t looking at me, but preserving the image just in case.

  It wasn’t just Cat who always seemed to notice everyone and everything around her. Work as though everything was about to go wrong, whispered Cat’s voice in my head, one of her many lessons. In my opinion, the easiest way to do what she suggested was to pretend everyone around you was another Cat. If so, that man was comfortably away from everyone who came into the room just as she might be. He could probably tell if I was carrying a weapon. He might note how old I was, but I hoped he guessed wrong because I was trying to be a middle-aged woman, and I was barely into my twenties. Cat would have seen through my costume, though, because you can’t disguise hands. She would have questioned if it was unlikely for me to be carrying a weapon since, young or old, I looked like an uptight librarian.

  I sniffed. I was, in fact, carrying a weapon. Two of them. I had a knife in a sheath on my wrist. I had only ever used it to cut mats from my dog’s hair, to remove loose threads on my clothes, and on locks that could be picked with a thin blade and a trained wrist.

  In my handbag, I had Cat’s thigh holster and tiny gun. Her dress was too short and too tight to carry half the things she needed for this job, but we’d wanted attention on her coming and going. It was me, the invisible one, that would be unaccounted for, supposing someone remembered me.

  Furtiveness is the first mistake for criminals. Far, far better to be entirely unremarkable or to show only what you want to show. I was perfect for that part of the job. I had always been unremarkable. I wandered casually with the speed of someone there to see the museum but not someone who was obsessed with art. I hopefully moved with the air of someone who visited the museum often and had favorites. Sybil Jenkins, the woman I was imitating, never failed to stop at a lesser-known portrait of Madonna and Christ Child. Every time, she crossed herself and touched her lips. Today, I did the same.

  Though Vermeer-man didn’t look at me, I kept an eye on him. He had the long line of a strong body. An athlete perhaps, I thought, as I pretended to glance at the watercolor of some beautiful and common countryside. The man’s suit was fitted to perfectly outline those shoulders of his. Rich then, I thought, given the expensive wool and bespoke tailoring. The shoes he wore cost more than an average man’s entire wardrobe.

  Dark hair, sharp, and fabulous jawline. If he had any kind of vitality, he’d be my perfect man. I could just imagine that jawline with matching, glittering dark eyes. Those would go so well with the dark hairline. A profile like that? The thick hair, the aura of power, it was certain to intoxicate me in any other circumstances.

  I moved on, hoping he didn’t see me. I fiddled with my glasses again and dabbed at my nose with a sensible handkerchief. If this potentially perfect personification of manhood were to ever see me again, he’d never know that this person passing him was me. I was good, I knew, and my version of an uptight spinster with an obsession for card catalogs, due dates, and a general disgust of men was perfect. I had never been seen through, and Mr. Vermeer would never recognize me.

  Sybil Jenkins, the librarian down the street, who was currently wearing a very similar outfit, carrying a very similar handbag, and moving with a very similar gait, might well recognize herself in me. I had, after all, followed her for days. For so long, in fact, I debated over her favorite book. My guess was Crime and Punishment. She seemed too grim for a mere Austen novel. I unashamedly loved Austen, but I couldn’t have picked a favorite. How to choose between the desperate pain of Persuasion, the vitality of Pride and Prejudice, or the perfect rendering of sisters in Sense and Sensibility? Sybil, however, wasn’t an Austen woman, and my opinion on the novels was moot when it came to determining the nature of my mark.

  I had debated her favorite food. My guess was a cabbage roll with extra salt or perhaps a soft-boiled egg, whole-wheat toast, and a banana. On the other hand, I don’t think I’d ever seen someone who made me more certain she ate unsweetened porridge every morning.

  I paused at the Madonna after crossing myself and I continued to debate whether Sybil was truly a believer or just enjoyed the performance of belief. Every single time she passed that painting, she paused and seemed to have a reaction, and a piece of me needed to know what she was thinking. If there had been a way to see inside of her mind, I’d have committed a crime to do so.

  When I mused aloud about it, Albert said I spent too much time wondering why someone behaved the way they did. He’d told me to master their movements and move on with my thoughts. He was no fun. Plus, mastering their movements was easier when I could suppose what drove them.

  The moment I rounded the corner, I put my oversized bag on my shoulder, slipped my nail file from my brassiere, and in one breath unlocked the hidden servants’ stair door to slide inside. If Mr. Vermeer were to follow after me, he might think I’d stepped into one of the lesser rooms. Perhaps the museum library where Sybil Jenkins often lingered, mouth twisted as though her profession demanded she catalog and organize the books that she wasn’t allowed to touch. I chanced a look out a crack in the door before closing it. No one was there. I had been unseen.